

2012

the Secret Teachings

of the

Next Door Neighbour

by Frauke and Simon Lewer

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Frauke and Simon Lewer

Prologue

'If anyone can do this, it is you,' he said, his clear, grey eyes locked into hers.

Pushing his chair back, he rose and extended a wrinkled yet immaculately clean and well-manicured hand over the polished desk towards her. Within its grasp he held a small silk wrapped package. She too reached out and for the briefest moment the tiny bundle was held suspended in time, supported by both the old and the young together.

'After all these years, I find it hard to believe that the time has finally arrived,' he said slowly, his rich voice resonating around the oak paneled, library walls, 'but now, I realize, the hardest part of all is yet to come.'

She acknowledged his words with a slight nod of her head and with only a hint of her native Parisian accent detectable replied,

'I will do my very best to ensure its safe arrival.'

She glanced down at the package, feeling suddenly overawed by the magnitude of her task. After all the years of training she'd come to believe that she was ready, but now, actually holding it in her hand, she wasn't quite so sure.

The elderly man smiled, the myriad lines around his eyes creasing as he replied with sincerity,

'I know you will.'

Paul: December 15th

As the tube train rattled into Oxford Circus Station, Paul glumly watched himself reflected in the carriage windows streaking by, thinking how tired, grey and middle-aged he looked. He knew he should be feeling happy, after all, he had the whole of the week running up to Christmas off work. And with the kids going to Julie's folks he had a clear ten days to himself. But instead of happiness, Paul felt nothing but a kind of blank gloom.

The tube stopped and Paul, clutching his plastic bags waited in the throng to get on. His chances of getting a seat in this crush, he thought, looked pretty unlikely.

He squeezed on, wedged his bags firmly between his feet and took hold of a stainless steel pole. The doors closed with a hiss and the tube jolted into motion.

There was nothing worse than Christmas shopping, especially when you'd braved the crowded pavements and overheated shops and still hadn't found what you'd gone for.

Chris was easy, 9 year old boys were. He'd bought him an Arsenal sports bag, knowing he'd be chuffed to bits with it, before spending a fruitless couple of hours picking up and putting down all kinds of junk, wondering what the hell to get Tara and Julie.

For God's sake, he thought, he didn't want to encourage Tara's macabre sense of teenage fashion by getting her death's head jewelry, or black make-up, even if it was what she'd like. The problem, he knew, was that anything that he liked, Tara on principle would look at with scorn.

The train rumbled on through the darkness with its cargo of blank-faced passengers, jolting in time to the rhythm of the tracks. As for Julie, Paul thought bitterly, the way she was fleecing him for money now he just didn't feel like getting her anything. He was already paying all of Tara's school fees, half the mortgage on the extension and most gutting of all, the monthly payments on his Land Rover that he'd left with her. Still, he'd have to get her something, even if it was only to show the kids that they still had some kind of family unity. It'd have to be something cheap, that's all, he concluded.

Jesus, he could probably pick up some pebbles in the park for her to arrange in her "feng bloody shui" corner.

Paul had to consciously stop himself and think of something else. It was all too easy to fall into anger and resentment whenever he thought of Julie and he knew it didn't get him anything but a splitting headache.

Now Elodie, at least Elodie was easy. Paul reached a hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out the plush velvet box, flicking its lid open. He'd spent more money on her than he probably would on the whole of his family, he thought guiltily. But it was classy and it would suit her. The tiny gold heart shone lustrously, nestled in its velvet bed, the minute diamond set in the right hand side seeming to wink cheekily up at him.

Just the thought of Elodie lit a spark of excitement somewhere deep inside him, brightening the cloud of gloom he seemed to have been under since moving to London.

Well, if the way to a woman's heart really was expensive jewelry, he thought smiling, this was definitely the clincher. He snapped the box closed and patted it carefully back into his pocket as the lights and crowded platform of Warren Street Station streaked past the window and the train slowed.

A handful of passengers rose to get off and before the tube had fully stopped and the doors opened Paul had made a determined line for the nearest empty seat and dropped himself into it with a sigh of satisfaction.

Back in the tunnel again, Paul let his gaze wander idly over the faces of the passengers opposite him.

What was it about London, he wondered, that reduced everyone who lived here to the same miserable, drab grayness?

He caught sight of his own reflection and despite the blurred effect from the double glazing he could see he was just the same as the rest of them.

God, I'm getting old, he thought dismally, staring back into his own tired, grey eyes.

When Jeremy, from work, had offered him the flat in London at such a reasonable rent, he'd convinced himself that a trial separation might be good for them. There was sound financial logic in it. It would save him the expensive commute and meant he could leave Julie the car but inside himself he'd been excited, thinking London would give him the new lease of life he'd been looking for.

He'd seen it as a chance to reinvent himself as someone new, find some new friends and make up for the lost time of the last 15 years. But looking at it now, honestly, in the bright neon light of the tube carriage, he could see things for what they really were and he knew he'd been deluding himself. He was just a weary, nearly 40 year old watching his marriage slipping slowly but surely down the drain.

How was a "trial separation" ever going to help, or do anything for that matter, other than make the widening gap between them ever bigger?

It had about as much logic as Julie's daft idea that getting a dog would make them a more complete family.

Ha! The least said about that, the better.

And the flat, he had to face it, was crap for the kids when they came to stay every second weekend. All Tara wanted to do was spend the day in bed with her laptop on facebook, while Chris was bouncing off the walls, needing some exercise. He could never please them both and he'd started to dread his weekends of parenting, forced to drag them unwillingly on expensive, joyless outings round London, to museums, ice-skating and McDonalds.

Paul again shook himself out of his depressing thought pattern, remembering his resolve to stay positive. At least he'd managed to quit the fags and the beer. It had been made easier, he admitted, because he didn't have anyone to drink with here, but even so, it was an achievement. And he'd lost some weight recently. There was still a bit of a podge but half of what it had been three months ago.

He remembered how Julie used to nag him to exercise and keep fit and it had always seemed so hard, such an uphill effort but now, he reflected, since meeting Elodie, he'd found new motivation and even started to enjoy his sweat-soaked after work games of squash with Martin.

The tube rattled out of the grimy darkness of the tunnel onto the shining new tiles of Euston station. The platform was filled with people crowding round the doors to squeeze into the already hopelessly cramped space. The other passengers shuffled over, filling the aisles between the seats. The air was hot and stale as the doors closed around them and they jolted off again.

A smartly dressed, balding man sitting on Paul's left unfolded a paper, holding it out like a shield between himself and the mass of other passengers.

Paul, for lack of anything better to do peered over his shoulder, letting his eyes scan up and down the columns, reading just the headlines.

"Recession's grip deepens."

"Mortgage rates rise by 2.3%."

"2012 shows highest unemployment and homeless figures ever."

Yeah, Paul thought, same old stuff. It depressed him to know that all there was to read was a relentless barrage of bad news.

His neighbour turned the page giving Paul the shortest of pointed glances as he did so.

Paul ignored him and continued scanning.

"5 billion Euro mobile phone contract in Ukraine."

"Drug search go ahead in city centers."

Well, that at least was a good thing if it kept the pushers off the streets. Paul thought protectively of Tara, staying out to all hours, up to God only knew what.

He craned his neck to try and read the small print of the article but the carriage was bumping too much and at this angle the lines of letters dissolved into incoherent mush. He turned his attention to the opposite page where a collection of ragged clothed youths were photographed under the heading.

"Stonehenge exclusion zone to go ahead."

"As more festival goers then ever are expected this year, Wiltshire constabulary have enforced a 10 mile exclusion zone. Chief Inspector Cluney made a statement ..."

That was the problem in a nutshell, Paul thought, the youth didn't care about the state of the country, the economy or progress, preferring to waste taxpayers money and precious police time. It was no wonder everything was going down the drain!

The man next to him shot Paul another look as he shook the creases from his paper and Paul gave up trying to read, shifting his attention to the neutral space of the advert panels above the windows.

At King's Cross the crush eased off a bit as people poured out onto the platform, only half as many getting on. Paul watched with distaste as a down and out tramp staggered into the compartment, the other passengers instinctively making space for him and averting their eye contact. It was hard to pinpoint his age, though he probably wasn't much older than Paul, his lower face covered in a dirty, grey stubble with unhealthy, prominent veins standing out bluish-purple on his cheeks. He was wearing a filthy donkey jacket and his hands inside threadbare fingerless gloves, clutched a can of super strength lager.

But what Paul found most offensive was his smell, a powerful, odious mixture of alcohol, dried sweat and stale urine.

It was disgusting, Paul thought, how people could have so little self-respect. They should create some kind of scheme where homeless people had to do community work, give something back to society in exchange for food and shelter. What these homeless people didn't understand, Paul concluded, was that life's hard for everyone. Sure, homeless people came from all walks of life but you couldn't just give up and let yourself go when things got tough. You had to knuckle down and deal with it. He'd paid his own way through university, trained himself up and through perseverance and hard graft, here he was, junior partner at Hodgson, Burke and Burnett Accountancy Ltd. Maybe he wasn't earning a fortune but at least he was paying his way through life and keeping his integrity.

That's what really galled him about Tara. Why couldn't she understand that he was working his butt off to give her the opportunity to succeed, to come out on top, that he hadn't had. If Julie could just find it in herself to support him together he was sure they could make Tara see some sense.

Paul sighed, that was the heart of the problem really. How could they be effective parents when they couldn't agree on anything? Somewhere, he mused, there must have been a moment when things started going wrong. A moment, perhaps, if he'd been paying attention he could have stopped this whole bloody mess from happening. Was it when Julie had first started getting into all that new-age nonsense? taking on the crackpot ideas of her new friends? Maybe that was his fault really, spending most of his weekends in the pub with the 4x4 club, instead of the family walks and outings that Julie had wanted.

Looking at things honestly, Paul's off-roading and beer drinking weekends had really been a way of escaping the stresses and pressures of family life.

Or had it been way back when Tara started private school, when the finances had got tighter and he'd started taking all that overtime?

God! Maybe their problems went much farther back than either of them would be happy to admit.

Was Julie's pregnancy with Chris just a pathetic attempt to rekindle the love that had once been so real?

It was hard to know, Paul thought, maybe all this analysis was nothing but a waste of time, a mental regurgitation of the same old stuff. One thing was for sure though, things had just gone steadily from bad to worse between them and what with the dog and the engine on Julie's volvo blowing, the proverbial camel finally collapsed.

The tube had stopped and doors opened at Highbury and Islington. Paul hadn't even noticed, his train of thought entirely engrossing him.

Thankfully the tramp stumbled out onto the platform taking his stench and a stream of other passengers with him so that there were several empty seats now.

As the tube set off down the last and longest of the tunnels on his journey, Paul let his mind wander, as it so often did, back to Elodie.

Jeremy had introduced them over dinner when he'd handed Paul the keys and it had pretty much become a fortnightly tradition they'd kept up over the last three months.

God, she was cute! Not that, like Julie, she didn't have some pretty weird ideas. But there was a huge difference between them. Where Julie would try to ram her self-help, pseudo-psychology down his throat, insisting she was always right, Elodie would just smile that pretty smile and drop the subject when he objected. The thing with Elodie was, she listened, without any of Julie's judgement, manipulation and nagging.

Elodie seemed to care in a way that really helped him to talk and open up.

The tube jolted on its tracks and Paul felt a twinge of guilt. It wasn't fair, he knew, to compare her to his 41 year old wife he'd shared a house and children with.

Still, she made him feel good, younger and more alive.

He wondered what she'd cook this evening, no doubt it'd be some cranky vegetarian recipe but that didn't matter.

What did matter was that she'd invited him again, which meant she did like him, possibly even fancy him.

Paul smiled at his blurred reflection across the carriage, imagining waking up with her on Christmas morning, her gorgeous body nestled around his, the necklace in his pocket sparkling up from her graceful neck.

Finsbury Park station rattled into view and Paul's fantasies evaporated as he remembered she'd told him she was off to France for Christmas. He picked up his gaudy collection of carrier bags, stepped out of the tube and started to climb the dirty, grey steps up to the traffic choked, evening streets above.

The Commander: December 15th

Four figures stood grouped around a circular marble table, rimmed with a heavy band of lustrous gold.

Its shiny surface was completely bare yet several inches above it hovered a holographic, three-dimensional image of planet Earth, rotating slowly on its axis.

Looking closely, the white spirals of cloud could be seen in motion, swirling over the ochre and green continents.

Above the hologram, over the heads of the standing figures, vast, fluted stone pillars stretched up and up, supporting a high, domed ceiling, from which a soft, artificial white light diffused down into the windowless room.

Three of the men were dressed in expensive grey suits, mirrored sunglasses resting on their slicked back grey hair. They were grouped facing the fourth man across the table who, from his powerful stance and exceptional height was evidently their superior.

'We know they are preparing to move it out of England,' said one of the suited men.

Their Commander's gaze rotated slowly to a bank of surround screens that took up three sides of the room. He scanned the tight patterns of energy waves, continuously moving over the screens for a long moment before he replied,

'Do we have the vibrational anomalies pinpointed?'

'Yes sir.'

'Good.'

The Commander took two powerful strides towards the central table, his steps ringing out on the black and white chessboard floor.

He reached a long angular hand towards a concealed console built into the rim of the table and pressed a button, instantly the hologram began to change. Without actually growing in size, the image magnified, rapidly zooming in, closer and closer, till the partially obscured outline of the British isles could be seen.

The Commander's pale skinned face stared intently at the image.

'Show anomalies,' he said clearly and instantly three highlighted, electronic dots were superimposed over the first image. He turned his attention back to the waiting, suited men and scanned them slowly.

'The moment has come,' his voice, though firm, lacked any emotion, 'Bring them in.'

The men nodded assent and sliding their shades over their eyes, turned to leave the room.

Paul: December 15th

Once home, Paul decided to wash the grime of central London off himself with a long hot shower. That, he had to admit, was a nice thing about living alone, there was always enough hot water in the boiler.

Wiping the condensation from the bathroom mirror as he stepped out of the shower, Paul gave his body a few moments dedicated appraisal.

It really wasn't too bad for a nearly 40 year old, he thought. With a touch of pride he puffed out his chest and pulled his stomach in slightly to show his abs to better effect. What would Julie say to that? Well, she had definitely been right, he had been heading down flab road to paunchville only three or four months ago and now, after his regime of morning jogging and after work squash, the effort was definitely paying off. It was a shame that jogging was quite so arduous. He was never going to really enjoy it.

He turned to get a side view, folding his arm across his chest and flexing his biceps.

Yep, he thought with satisfaction, I'm not altogether un-fanciable and maybe, just maybe, tonight could be the night!

Paul started to dry himself slowly and methodically. Looking at things logically, he thought, she didn't have a boyfriend and it was a well know fact that a lot of girls were attracted to older men.

He wrapped the towel round his waist and reached for the bottle of deodorant above the sink.

The fact that she'd never yet made any physical move towards him, apart from the brief, glancing cheek kiss he received each time they met, didn't mean anything. She was a well-brought up girl, taking things slowly. It might even be a French thing, he thought, rolling the deodorant around his armpits.

He started to get dressed, choosing his clothes carefully from the bedroom cupboard.

He'd never met anyone as gorgeous as Elodie before, he was sure of it. From those long legs to those pert breasts, to her deep, melting eyes, she was about as perfect looking as a woman could possibly be. Of course, Julie had been a knockout in her day but that was before childbirth and time had taken its toll.

He couldn't deny that her reticence, bordering on secrecy unsettled him and the things he had managed to find out didn't quite add up. For example, he knew she was studying in London but what kind of course included yoga, meditation and martial arts? Definitely none he'd ever heard of. He pondered his choice of shirts, finally plumping for the pink and white pinstripe he reserved for special occasions.

How she made ends meet wasn't too clear either. She wore designer clothes and they didn't come cheap, he knew that, and what student could afford to get around London by taxi?

Well he had to suppose, Daddy back in Paris must be footing the bill.

Paul chose a beige v-neck sweater from the drawer, his thoughts wandering as he pulled it over his head. As long as Tara didn't expect that kind of treatment because she wasn't going to get it ... Mind you, he continued with a touch of bitterness, she wasn't even interested in studying. She was more likely to end up in a squat with some shaven headed lay-about of a boyfriend and he definitely wasn't going to help her financially then ...

Paul frowned at himself in the full length mirror. If only Tara had Elodie's drive, her self-motivation. His thoughts jarred. What was he doing comparing Elodie to Tara? Well, he supposed, they were definitely closer in age than Elodie and Julie.

His relationship with Elodie was confusing, did he want to be her lover or her father for Chrissakes?

Paul took a deep breath to clear his mind and checked his watch. It was nearly time to go over. He fetched a bottle of wine and the gift he'd bought that afternoon. He took it out of its velvet box and dropped it in his pocket. It would be handier like that if the right moment came to slip it round her elegant neck.

Paul checked his reflection again, practicing his smile. He wanted to look friendly but not over-keen. He mustn't look desperate. There had to be an element of distance, of cool.

'Hey Elodie, how you doing?' he said to the mirror, trying the smile. No, maybe not, he decided he should just relax and be himself.

He left his flat, stepping out onto the cramped landing between their two doors, took another calming breath and knocked. It was ridiculous at his age, feeling like a stuttering, nervous adolescent.

'Come in, I'm in the kitchen ...' Elodie called, and Paul pushed open the door, clutching his bottle of wine and made his way down the tidy corridor.

Elodie's flat exactly mirrored his in size and layout but looked out on the street, whereas his had the view of the overgrown, neglected garden but it was amazing how different they were.

Paul liked to think of himself as a reasonably orderly, tidy person but there was something about the crisp cleanliness of Elodie's flat that made his seem like a tip.

The kitchen was full of sizzling sounds and fragrant steam and Elodie was bent over the cooker, her shiny hair rolling lustrously over her neck and shoulders.

She turned as she heard him enter, her smile making those irresistible dimples that he'd grown to love and kissed him on both cheeks.

Paul breathed in the delicate smell of her, feeling the softness of her cheeks as they brushed against his and felt himself blushing slightly.

He turned to the large, cast-iron wok on the cooker to hide his embarrassment and sniffed at the contents.

'Hmmm, another nutritious, meat-free, organic delight then?'

'But of course,' Elodie smiled, ignoring his light hearted jibe, 'I eat only the best.'

Paul helped himself to a chair, pulling it away from the table and sat down.

'You don't know what you're missing ... bacon sarnies dripping grease,' he mimed biting into an invisible sandwich, before continuing, 'don't get me wrong, there's no harm in a bit of salad as long as there's a big, juicy slab of steak laying on it.'

Elodie's laugh was drowned by a sudden sizzle from the wok as she shook a bottle of soya sauce over the vegetables.

'I have to disagree,' she replied, 'for me, organic tofu is better any time.'

Paul leaned forward, settling happily into their usual conversational pattern,

'Organic food is just a con as far as I can see,' he stated, 'same stuff, just twice the price.'

Elodie stirred the food rapidly around before turning off the gas and replying, 'I prefer my food without chemical residues.'

Paul was settling into his stride now,

'Yeah, that's all well and good but what about the starving millions in the third world? You can't tell them not to use pesticides if there's a swarm of locusts on the way. Anyway, there is no nutritional difference between normal food and organic - it was in the paper last week ... '

Elodie brought the wok to the table trailing steam behind it.

'Well, you can't always believe what the media tells you Paul.'

Paul loved Elodie's voice, it was so rich and lyrical and he could love it, even when he couldn't agree with what she said.

'When it's a respected journalist writing for a reputable paper you can,' he said pompously.

Elodie raised her eyebrows. He liked her eyebrows too, the way she could look confrontational yet retain a sense of humor.

Paul reached for the wine bottle and corkscrew.

'Come on Elodie, not this one again, the news is there to inform us, that's the purpose of it. What would they gain by misleading us? In my opinion, anyone who believes there's some big conspiracy going on trying to hide the truth from us is just looking for a scapegoat to blame for their own problems.' He screwed the corkscrew in and then tugged on it, the cork came out with a satisfying "pop". He proffered the bottle but Elodie shook her head.

'Still off the hard stuff?' he teased.

'You know I don't drink.'

'What, not even at Christmas?' he queried.

What was the point of all her clean living, organic food, water and herb teas? Paul thought.

Why would she want to permanently deprive herself?

'No, I like to keep my mind clear. Do help yourself,' she said, handing him the ladle.

Paul smiled at her,

'Well, I have to admit it does smell delicious Elodie. But much better with a glass of wine. As far as I'm concerned, the foggier the mind the better,' he joked, whilst ladling food onto both their plates.

'Maybe if your mind was less active you would have no need to escape from or sedate your thoughts.'

'Elodie,' Paul felt slightly affronted, replying condescendingly, 'when you get to my age, things aren't quite as simple as they might appear. I mean, if my life wasn't so chock full of problems, sure I wouldn't have to think about them ... '

'I find when I have problems,' said Elodie, contemplating a floret of Broccoli, 'I make space in my thoughts so that solutions can appear. Meditation is very useful.'

Paul took a long sip of wine and dabbed his mouth with a napkin before continuing

'Be realistic Elodie, when you've got problems you've got to think about them. If anyone's the escapist it's you - you can't meditate problems away. It just isn't realistic.'

'You might be surprised,' Elodie paused to spear a carrot stick onto her fork and Paul interrupted.

'Yeah, I would be ...' he chuckled, 'if it worked and I had the time.'

'You have never even tried have you? You just think it doesn't work,' she chided.

'Elodie, I don't have to try to know that it doesn't work. If it worked, everybody would be doing it. I'm a logical, practical bloke and I'm -'

'Paul, you can't dismiss it because you have never done it. It is something you have to feel,' she looked at him with mild exasperation.

His mouth was too full to speak. Their eyes connected unimpeded by the distraction of words.

God she was gorgeous! Maybe this was the moment for the necklace, would she melt into his arms, lips parted?

Come on Paul, he thought, not now, we're eating. Anyway, what was he thinking, she was only twenty three for God's sake!'

Jesus, what would Julie and the kids think? He quickly blinked and broke the contact.

Elodie, still watching him, smiled knowingly,

'Mais oui, it's pretty chaotic in there.'

Paul reddened, hoping she hadn't guessed his thoughts and poured himself more wine to hide his confusion.

Elodie tactfully changed the subject,

'So, will you be with your children this Christmas?'

'Let's not do my problems tonight, just for once eh?'

He gestured toward her with his glass,

'What about you, mystery girl? What are you doing for Christmas?'

'Well,' Elodie paused to choose her words, 'I have something to do at Solstice but after that, I hope to spend Christmas with my family.'

'Solstice, isn't that in the summer?' he asked confused.

'For someone who claims to be educated you don't know very much. There are two solstices, at opposite ends of the year. Are you sure you went to school?' she teased.

'Yes I did. I know all about pagans. They dance around Stonehenge in white robes.'

'If only it was as easy as that ... ' she sighed

Her mobile rang, cutting off the end of her sentence

'I thought you didn't agree with mobile phones?' jibed Paul.

Elodie winked as she got up to get it, saying,

'It's satellite ... excuse me a moment.' She picked it up and walked out of the kitchen, closing the door behind herself. Paul could still hear her, her voice changing from calm to urgent.

'Allo?'

'Of course.'

'Are you sure?'

'Ok I'm going ...'

She came back into the room, her complexion pale, a look of seriousness and worry in her eyes that he'd never seen before.

'I must go Paul, I'm sorry.'

'What?'

The sound of slamming car doors carried up from the road below. Elodie walked swiftly to the window and looked out.

'Merde!' she breathed.

On the street, two tall men wearing dark grey suits were standing next to a shiny black Range Rover. Police cars were drawing to a stop alongside. As Elodie looked down, the two men snapped their heads up to stare directly at her. She turned, fear and consternation in her eyes. Paul put his glass down concerned.

'Elodie,' he said, pushing his chair back and starting to rise.

'What is going on? Are you all right?' He hesitated, 'Can I help?'

She took two steps and stopped in front of him. Placing her hand on his shoulder, she looked deep into his eyes, her gaze seeming to reach to the core of his being.

'Yes, you can,' she said, pulling from her trouser pocket a silk wrapped bundle which she held out to him without breaking her eye contact.

'Please, take this. Look after it for me.'

Stupefied, he reached out, accepting the package. She held his hand for a moment before she let go and Paul saw a shadow of pain or doubt ripple over her face.

'Keep this closed until they have gone,' she commanded.

Their eyes still locked together, Paul realized that whatever this was, it meant a huge amount to Elodie.

But before he could think what to say, she started pushing him towards the door.

'This is more important than you can possibly know,' she added urgently under her breath.

In the hall she grabbed her handbag, reached in and pulled her address book out. She quickly flipped through it and ripped out a page. Then pointing she said,

'Please Paul, take it to this address. Give it to my mother. She will pay you for everything.'

Paul tried to look down to read the paper but Elodie was pushing him out of her door until they were standing on the landing between their flats.

They heard a repeated thudding from downstairs. The front door with it's ancient locks was being kicked down. Elodie looked at Paul again, her eyes burning intensely. There was no space to fall into them now, they were hard and focused. The crash of breaking glass could be heard below.

'I must go, I will see you soon,' she breathed, touching his hand one last time.

Heavy footsteps were approaching, powering up the narrow staircase.

'Elodie?,'

'Get in and shut the door,' she whispered urgently and before Paul had time to respond she ran up the last flight of stairs, stopping underneath the loft hatch where she crouched for the minutest moment before leaping vertically upwards, her fingers pushing the panel up and clutching onto the edge of the opening. In one smooth movement Elodie disappeared through the hatch and was gone.

Paul stood dazed and confused, the taste of food and wine lingering in his mouth, a torn page of an address book and a silk wrapped package clutched in his hands. If it wasn't for the sound of trampling feet on the stairs, he could have thought that he had imagined this. This was not how his evening with Elodie should end.

A sudden panic came over him. Quickly he turned the door handle and slipped into his flat, closing and locking the door behind him. His heart was pounding. Not quite sure why he was doing it, he searched frantically for a hiding place, aware all the time of the approaching footsteps. Seeing his squash shoes by the door, he shoved Elodie's package and address into them.

Elodie had told him to get in but shouldn't he go out and confront whoever it was? But what kind of person kicked down a front door to get in? Maybe he should call the police? Paul pulled his phone from his pocket and looked through the peephole in his door.

Oh my God! The landing was crowded with police!

Shit, what kind of trouble was Elodie in?

With another splintering crunch, Paul watched as one of the men powerfully drove the heal of his boot into her door lock. His eyes firmly glued to the spy hole, Paul watched, both fascinated and horrified as the police rushed into Elodie's flat, leaving the hallway empty except for one exceptionally tall man in a steel grey suit. There was something more than the optic distortion of the peephole glass that made the man appear odd, out of proportion. It wasn't just his size but something indefinable that sent a shot of queasy fear deep into Paul's gut.

In an instant, the man's head snapped round and stared straight at Paul's peephole, his neck extended, head protruding forward.

Although Paul couldn't actually see the man's eyes behind his mirrored shades he recoiled from the stare and involuntarily stepped back, his heart pounding harder, his mouth dry and knees weak.

A sharp knock sounded on his door. Paul's mind disintegrated into a mess of incoherent fear.

Shit, what does he want? I haven't done anything. Shit! Get a grip. Act normal.

'Open up! Police!'

Paul, taking several deep breaths reached up to unlock the door. The man barged past him in a blur of grey, giving him barely enough time to step out of the way. Across the hall, another grey suited man, disconcertingly similar to the first, stepped out past the splintered wreckage of Elodie's door. Paul watched mesmerized as he too brushed past and strode into his flat, again flattening him against the wall.

It took a moment for Paul's thoughts to catch up,

'Hang on,' he stuttered, 'You can't just ... have you got a search warrant?'

He stumbled after them into the living room.

Who did these guys think they were? It didn't matter if they were CIA or MI5 or any other sort of government bloody Agent, it still didn't give them the right to barge into his flat without a warrant. He knew his rights.

As soon as he walked into the room one of the men turned abruptly to him.

'Sit!' he ordered, in a clipped hiss of a voice.

Paul's moment of bravado left him and he found himself compelled to obey and like a small child he sank onto the sofa.

'What do you know of Miss Elodie Sauveterre-Dubois?'

The voice was emotionless, accent-less, as forgettable as the grey he was dressed in and yet it was laden with a potent sense of domination. The words, Paul thought, contained a compressed power, a weight that could crush you. He floundered around looking for an appropriate answer but the tramping of police boots outside perforated his thoughts and added to the confusion in his mind.

'Well, err ... she's French, erm ... she lives next door, pretty girl ...'

Paul's sentence drifted feebly to a standstill as the second Agent approached him slowly until his face was just a foot from Paul's.

'Have you seen her this evening?'

Paul shrank backwards into the cushions and for some unknown reason spluttered,

'Errrm ... No."

Before the words had finished coming out of his mouth a grey sleeved arm shot out and grabbed Paul about the throat in a steel like grip, flattening him into the cushions.

'Yes, yes,' he choked and the hand relaxed slightly but didn't withdraw. Paul tried to summon a bit of outraged dignity, 'Yeah, I did. She's my neighbour, she invited me, there's nothing illegal about eating dinner for Gods sake!'

The Agent withdrew his hand from Paul's neck. Without physically moving the Agents seemed to be closing in on Paul, the intensity of their presence pressing him physically deeper into the cushions. Both deadpan faces were turned towards him, their focus as intense as a laser burning into the depths of Paul's mind.

'What has she told you?'

Paul scanned through the numerous conversations he'd had with Elodie, a chaos of disconnected words tumbling around his brain as he tried desperately to compose a coherent sentence.

What could he tell them? They'd talked of vegetarianism and religion and art and his kids and Julie but whoever these guys were, he didn't think they wanted to hear about his relationship issues.

The nearest Agent's upper lip twitched slightly into a half-sneer as he straightened up to his full imposing height. Paul shivered, a feeling of invasion overwhelming him as if his mind was an open book for the Agents to rifle through.

A uniformed officer entered the room,

'She's not here, Sir.'

The second Agent's voice cut across Paul's thoughts, his massive bulk silhouetted against the orange glow from the street lights.

'Where has she gone?'

In his mind's eye, Paul saw Elodie disappearing through the loft hatch. Instantly the Agents tilted their heads towards the ceiling. Paul felt spooked, was he seeing things? Was he making this up? Did they know what he was thinking?

The Agent spoke without shifting his focus from Paul.

'Cordon off the area ... and check the roof.'

'Yes, Sir,' said the officer, who turned on his heels and started shouting orders as he was half way back down the corridor.

The first Agent sniffed derisively,

'He knows nothing.'

The Agents cast a last look around Paul's room and then simultaneously turned to leave. Paul rose, a breath of relief washing over him now that their menacing focus was withdrawn. He stumbled to the living room doorway. He needed to see them leave, to know they were gone. Shakily he held onto the door frame and watched the Agent's suited figures retreating down the corridor.

As the second Agent reached the open front door he slowed and stopped. In an instant, and Paul didn't know how he'd done it, the Agent was facing him again. He spoke slowly, his voice heavily laden with menacing ballast,

'What do you know about Alesia?'

Paul was confused, Alecia?

What?

Was this a joke?

No, this man didn't joke.

Alecia?

The only thing that came to mind was Alicia, who he went out with in 5th year ...

The Agent continued to speak, the words now seeming to hold him by the throat,

'If you have deceived me ...'

The Agent turned slowly this time, the unfinished threat hanging like a gallows rope in the hallway.

Paul waited for what seemed an age before he shakily crossed the corridor and closed the door. He let out a huge breath of relief as he found himself slowly sinking down against the door frame.

Jesus, who were those guys? They definitely weren't ordinary police and even secret government Agents weren't that scary were they? He couldn't put his finger on what it was about them but they gave him a chill like nothing he'd ever experienced before.

Paul heard the distant bang of closing car doors on the street, followed by a succession of engines firing up.

Even though it had only happened moments ago, the whole episode was starting to feel unreal. Paul wasn't someone who was normally scared of authority. After all, he was a respectable, taxpaying citizen. He didn't do anything illegal and had no need to fear the law. He wasn't a coward either but just thinking about those Agents, remembering that brutal grip on his throat gave him a cold shiver.

'Jesus, Paul, get a grip!' he said out loud and pulled himself awkwardly to his feet. What he needed now was a drink.

He poured himself a generous glass of Scotch from the bottle in the kitchen cupboard and gulped it swiftly, feeling the familiar burn in his mouth and throat. Grimacing, he poured another and cradling the glass for comfort Paul walked back into his living room. There was no trace of the men now but somehow it felt as if they'd contaminated his home with their presence. He turned quickly and walked down the corridor to his front door, gingerly checking the spy-hole. The hallway was deserted. Elodie's door hung crookedly from its top hinge, the wood around the lock splintered. It had definitely been real. He opened the door with caution, looked to both sides and crossed into Elodie's flat.

Paul's mouth dropped involuntarily open, shocked at the state of the place. The normally tidy corridor was strewn with Elodie's belongings. Her coats, shoes and books, had been scattered and trodden into the floor and a light coating of downy feathers trailed out from the bedroom door. In the kitchen the cupboard and drawers had been ransacked and their contents strewn about. Rice and lentils crunched under his feet as he walked around the table. The pan of crispy tofu cubes and vivid green broccoli, Paul's wine and Elodie's water sat amidst the wreckage like a surreal still-life.

A shiver ran down his spine and he turned and walked to the living room where similar destruction met his eyes. The settee had been slashed, the foam insides gaping like flesh wounds. Her tidy life lay in shredded piles of feathers and foam.

What could Elodie have done to deserve this, he wondered?

Was she a terrorist? Or a thief? Perhaps a drug smuggler?

He couldn't imagine it but then he didn't actually know that much about her or her life.

But no, he just couldn't see it.

She didn't ... She couldn't ... Elodie just wasn't like that.

He turned back into the corridor and walked past her bedroom. Her clothes lay strewn about the floor, her wardrobe thrown onto its front and her mattress, like the settee next door, was laced with slash marks.

Well, whatever she'd done, they were definitely looking for something they thought she'd got.

Suddenly Paul froze on the spot, remembering vividly the parcel Elodie had given him, seconds before the raid.

Oh my God! The thought hit him like a thunderbolt.

He had what they wanted!

He knew it with a certainty, with absolute conviction. Paul hurried back into his own flat and locked the door behind him.

He picked up his squash shoe and shook out the crumpled package and the torn out page from the address book that Elodie had given him. He squeezed it, feeling a hard lump in the middle.

What could she have given him that those Agents wanted so badly?

Whatever it was lay wrapped in a silk handkerchief in the palm of his hand.

Delicately, Paul unfolded the corners of the patterned silk to reveal a small egg-shaped crystal. He turned it gently, bemused, between his finger and thumb.

A crystal?

A small crystal?

He held it up to the light. It was opaque with tiny filaments running through it and no bigger than a quail's egg.

How could this be what they had been looking for?

It certainly didn't seem that valuable. He didn't know much about these things but he was sure it wasn't a diamond. Anyway, you'd hardly send in the heavies for a jewel, even if it was a diamond. In fact, he thought, rolling it in his fingers, it looked like nothing more than a piece of quartz

No, it just wasn't possible.

Whatever those Agent were after, Elodie must still have it and this ... his eyes returned to the tiny crystal, it had to be a family heirloom, something she was emotionally attached to ...

He turned his attention to the torn page and slowly read the address written in a neat, flowery hand,

Mme Sauveterre-Dubois

23 Avenue de Balzac

Ile St Louis

Paris 75012

Paris!

Did she really expect him to go all the way to Paris?

Could he send it?

Paul remembered the intensity of Elodie's expression as she'd given him the package.

She really did want it taken personally.

The name, 'Sauveterre-Dubois,' wasn't that the name the Agent had called Elodie?

It was hard to remember now, it had all happened so fast but he knew with absolute certainty that Elodie wasn't coming back.

Paul felt a moments self-pity as he thought of the necklace in his pocket that he hadn't had time to give her. His romantic intentions had been well and truly trampled on.

He clicked his computer to life and tapped the address into Google maps. A street map of Paris popped up on his screen pinpointing the location on the edge of a small island in the Seine, the old heart of the city.

Paul sat down in his swivel chair and tapped 'Eurostar Paris' into the search box. When the window popped up he tapped in tomorrow's date. He felt as if he was on auto pilot, his hands clicking and tapping the necessary keys, whilst his mind was bubbling over with the events of the evening. He reached for his wallet, pulled out his master card and tapped the 16 digit code into the box.

What had Elodie done?

Why had she asked him to deliver this crystal?

Who were those guys?

And what had they been looking for?

With one last click, his train was booked.

Elodie: 15th December

Elodie closed the cast-iron skylight behind herself, her senses heightened with adrenaline and her heart thumping in her ears. She looked around, the street lights were casting an orange glow on the road beneath her leaving the slated rooftops in shadow.

She closed her eyes and took three deep breaths to centre and calm herself, drawing the cold air into her lungs and letting the refreshing oxygen swamp her blood stream.

On the third out breath she opened her eyes. In moments like this it was essential to stay centered and was worth the few seconds it took.

She knew she could do this, as long as she could hold her focus.

She rose into a crouching position and ran, her trainers gripping well on the smooth slates, to the edge of the roof.

Elodie leapt across the alleyway, landing neatly on all fours on the next roof. Three houses later, she had settled into the rhythm of running 10 steps up to the ridge, a cautious 10 steps down and a leap over the alleyway to the next house. She felt totally alert, her senses enhanced by the danger of the moment.

She'd always know that this might happen but still it had come as a shock. She was grateful she'd had the foresight to figure out the escape routes. She only had to hope the Agents would underestimate her.

Had she been right to trust the flash of intuition giving the crystal to Paul?

However they'd traced her she didn't know but could only presume they'd upgraded their technology. Until she'd figured it out the crystal was best in the possession of someone who didn't know, someone like Paul.

Now was not the moment to think, she reminded herself but to breath and move as she'd been taught. She listened keenly for any sounds of pursuit but all she heard was the steady hum of traffic on the main road and unhurried footsteps on the pavement below.

She knew that if she could just make it to the end of the terrace and down onto the street below then she could soon lose herself in the busy evening crowds of the main road.

There her thoughts would not be so easily traced.

She saw the wrought iron fire escape, winding down from the last house to its scrap of a back garden. In a few steps she was standing on the edge of the roof. She turned and dropped, dangling for a moment by her fingertips from the cast iron guttering, before landing, in a cat like crouch, lightly on the top platform.

She took the steps four at a time, vaulting round the corners on the banister rail, descending as fast as she could towards the gloom of the gardens below. All the while her eyes scanned the darkness, searching the shadows for movement.

Nothing.

She'd have to find a way to get word to her parents and the rest of the Society. Above all the other nine should not converge in Paris as planned. But all that could wait. She cut her thought. Now was the time to breathe, run and stay focused.

She saw the alleyway at the end of the garden leading to an adjacent street. Elodie tore across the darkness toward it, vaulting neatly over the wooden fence.

Once covered from view she gave herself a few seconds to calm her pulse before creeping cautiously to the end of the alley and checking left and right.

Only the lights of televisions flickered behind closed curtains and the streetlights hummed quietly onto the rows of parked cars. She saw the silhouette of a cat ahead, silently slinking across the street.

Go Elodie, she urged herself and sprinted toward the main road.

If she could just get there and lose herself in the crowds ...

Her feet pounded the pavement as she pushed herself forward. Every second counted.

Only 30 meters, 20 meters, 10 meters and still there was no sound of pursuit. With a last push she threw herself round the corner onto the main road.

A bus rumbled past in the stream of traffic and groups of people filled the pavements on their way out for the evening. Elodie slowed her pace to blend in, finally allowing herself the space to process the thoughts that had been piling up in her mind.

What had happened?

How had they found her?

It could not have been through her thoughts. She was always impeccably careful.

It couldn't be a coincidence that all three dimension jumpers were raided at the same time?

A sentence said to her by her teacher many years ago tumbled to the forefront of her mind.

"Your energy field will shine like a beacon ..."

Of course! That had to be it!

They had gone beyond thought tracking. They must be reading our energy fields, isolating us by the one thing that sets us all apart. Elodie squeezed her way through the crowd waiting at the bus stop, thinking hard.

What could she do?

Somehow she must disguise herself, cloak her energy field.

An idea came to her. She doubled back, passing the steel shutters of a closed news-agent and a busy brightly lit off-license and headed through the doors of a late-night chemist. Two could play at this game, she wasn't out of the running yet.

Minutes later she came out of the shop, clutching a small, brown bottle. She twisted the plastic lid off and tilted it back to her lips, letting the sickly, sweet liquid slide down her throat and grimaced, knowing that her clean lifestyle would give her a minimum of tolerance to the codeine solution.

Casting another quick look around and tucking her head down she set off, mentally replaying the scene in her flat.

Mon Dieu! What have I done? she thought.

A wave of nausea rose from her stomach. She forced herself to breathe deep. There was no use in worrying, what was done was done. She knew that in her heart it had felt right and wasn't that what she'd always been taught, to trust her heart?

Now, it seemed, was the moment when all the teachings would be put to the test.

But above all, she needed to get back to mainland Europe as quickly and efficiently as possible.

She downed the last of the bottle and tossed it into a bin as the edges of her mind started to fog over.

Paul: December 16th.

Paul strode briskly up the platform, the structural magnificence of St Pancras international arched above him. A muffled voice echoed incomprehensibly from loudspeakers bolted high up on the steel struts where rows of scruffy pigeons perched huddled, ruffling their feathers.

Paul buttoned his jacket with one hand against the icy wind that was funneling down the platform, thankful for the thickness and quality of the tweed. He checked the numbers on each carriage of the sleek, streamlined train, searching for the reservation number he had on the computer printout in his hand.

Typical, he thought, it would be the last bloody carriage of the lot, as finally arriving, he pressed the button to open the doors and stepped in out of the biting wind.

He stowed his worn, leather suitcase on the luggage rack and flopped down with a sigh of relief. The train was almost empty, a scattering of respectable looking businessmen, busy with their laptops, were the only other passengers.

Good, Paul thought, settling back into the comfort of the seat. He didn't feel like making conversation with strangers today and was content to stare out of the window as the train slid slowly out of the station, past the graffiti covered bridges and scrappy back yards of London.

The Eurostar smoothly gathered speed and within minutes the repetitive rows of semis, the school football pitches and industrial estates of suburbia petered out into the Kentish countryside. Large ploughed fields, interspersed with small patches of woodland shot past his view, punctuated by tidy villages and the occasional expensive farmhouse.

It wasn't until the train plunged into the darkness of the chunnel that the reality of what Paul was doing suddenly hit him. He sat up straight in his seat, shocked at his own impulsive behavior. If anyone was sensible and rational in their decisions, Paul liked to think it was him. Yet here he was, sat on the Eurostar, on his way to Paris, delivering a trinket for a possible criminal.

What exactly had he been thinking as he booked the ticket, packed a change of clothes and set off this morning?

It was pathetic that he'd go all the way to Paris, running errands for her. Had he really thought that would get her into his bed, or was he just helpful, or nosey?

What was he doing anyway fantasizing about a woman nearly twenty years younger than himself?

Paul felt a flush of shame rising up his neck and onto his cleanly shaven face. He knew he could never tell Julie about this trip. He'd certainly never done anything so spontaneous, so irrational or so romantic for her in all their 17 years of marriage.

As the train powered on relentlessly through the darkness of the tunnel, Paul's mind reflected on the situation more deeply, seeing his own delusions with a sense of embarrassment.

Elodie wasn't going to be there in Paris to meet him, let alone to fall into his arms. She couldn't be, she was on the run and wanted and not just by your ordinary police either. Whatever kind of police those guys were, they definitely weren't to be messed with. What if he was wrong and the innocuous looking trinket in his pocket was the thing they were searching for? If that was the case, looking at it from their perspective, he was definitely messing with them.

Again the memory of that steely grip on his neck, that expressionless face so close to his own, burst back into his mind and he felt his chest involuntarily contract, his breath coming faster and shallower.

'Jesus Christ,' he muttered, a sense of panic rapidly flooding through him.

What if they came back to his flat, asked him where he'd been?

Could they have followed him?

He peered around the headrest of the seat nervously, checking the other passengers further up the carriage. As far as he could see, they remained oblivious to him, absorbed in their laptops or newspapers.

Paul forced himself to breathe. This was ridiculous, come on Paul, get a grip. Maybe a cup of tea and a bite to eat was what he needed, something to distract him and calm his nerves.

Paul got up and steadying himself on the back of his chair, set off shakily down the carriage towards the buffet car, checking every passenger he passed, half expecting at every moment to find himself face to face with that grey-suited, menacing presence.

The buffet car was nearly empty and Paul pondered indecisively for a moment in front of the array of plastic-wrapped sandwiches, croissants and panninis.

He ordered a cup of tea and an egg and cress sandwich encased in a see-through triangular box, hoping that his absorption in the mundane would give his rush of fear time to dissipate.

Paul made his way back to his seat, carefully balancing the scalding hot, plastic cup of tea. He sat down and bit into the creamy softness of his sandwich, wanting, for now, not to think about why he was on this train, hurtling at 250 mph under the channel towards France. But it was no good, his mind was chewing hard on the strange events he'd inadvertently involved himself in. He slipped his hand into his pocket to pull out the silk-wrapped stone that had propelled him on this impetuous journey. The silver necklace with the heart-shaped pendant Paul had bought for Elodie only yesterday, was entangled in the silk and the two came out into his hand together.

Paul smiled ruefully at the two trinkets nestled in the palm of his hand. He couldn't help but be struck by the symbolism. It was his infatuation for Elodie that had brought him here, halfway across the channel, wrapped up, like the necklace, in a mystery that he neither knew nor understood anything about.

What had a nice girl like Elodie possibly done to bring her into such serious trouble, he wondered?

He just couldn't imagine.

Maybe he'd never know.

If only he'd found out a bit more about her in their evenings together.

He'd sat there like an idiot talking about himself for hours on end and learnt nothing at all about her.

Well, he'd drop the stone off at the address she'd given him, with the necklace as well, just to let her know how he felt about her.

Paul disentangled the necklace carefully and put it back in his pocket, unwrapping the stone and rolling it slowly between his finger and thumb. It was surprisingly heavy for its size but otherwise unremarkable, reminding him more of Julie's dowsing 'pendle-thingy' than anything else. Paul carefully rewrapped it and put it back in his pocket. It was strange, he thought, but this odd little stone was all that connected him to Elodie and the romance that could have happened between them. Once he had delivered it, his link with her was gone. He might never see her again, he didn't even have a photo.

Paul sighed, swallowing back his moment of sadness.

So, down to practicalities ... He'd drop the stone off and then what? Find a nice hotel in the city centre and have a decent meal with a few glasses of vin rouge, Paul thought, warming to the idea. He'd enjoy himself, finish his Christmas shopping, sit in cafes and relax for a couple of days. It would do him good. He deserved it.

His mind slipped back to the weekend he and Julie had spent in Paris, way back, before Tara was born. Despite the time lapse, the memories came back to him vividly. They'd walked miles, hand in hand through the avenues and parks, immersed in the smells of spring, fresh coffee and warm croissants. The first delicate pale, green leaves were on the plane trees and the window boxes were a riot of colour. He remembered eating strawberries on the Seine, and Julie's face laughing into his.

God it had been beautiful!

Suddenly the train burst out of the tunnel revealing a wide open, almost treeless landscape under heavy grey skies, threatening rain.

Paul's rosy memories vanished as he realized it was hardly going to be like that this time. For a start he was on his own. And secondly, it was winter.

He sighed deeply, watching the bleak countryside racing by.

What had happened to all that love he and Julie had once had?

Where had it gone?

Eroded bit by bit, year by year by the pressures of kids and mortgages and jobs.

Paul washed the last of the now tepid tea down, grimacing.

God, life was depressing, he thought, as he stared morosely out of the window. He'd done everything right. He'd studied hard, passed exams, got married, had kids got a mortgage. But where had it really got him? He'd recently got the car of his dreams, the expensive cream settee and the wide screen ... Hadn't he dutifully followed society's accepted recipe for happiness and success? True love and happiness were hard things to find and even harder to hold onto. Still, you had to make the best of things, that's all you could do.

It wasn't long before the countryside gave way to industrial sprawl, flashing through the outskirts of Paris till finally the train slowed down, smoothly rolling into the defined outlines of the Gare du Nord.

The Eurostar eased to a standstill. Paul shivered in the blast of cold wind let in by the opening doors and stepped out onto the platform. He followed the thin crowd of passengers letting himself be led along. And it wasn't until he was through customs and found himself on a moving staircase going down into the main station that he realized that he really was abroad.

Paris!

It smelt and sounded so different from an english station.

As the staircase slowly descended, Paul surveyed the massive hall set out below him. He noticed there were a surprising amount of homeless people, dejectedly slumped around the walls of the station asleep or half-heartedly begging.

His eyes moved up to the huge, glazed archway in front of him. It was an impressive bit of architecture.

Below it, over the heads of the mass of milling people, Paul saw a red 'tabac' sign over a tiny shop and once off the escalator he wound his way toward it.

He chose a cheap street map of Paris from the rack and a bar of french chocolate and joined the queue to pay.

A revolving newspaper stand caught his eye and he turned it idly past the Paris match, le Figaro, and a New York Herald, until his eye was abruptly arrested by a black and white photo.

Paul caught his breath. It couldn't be?

He peered closer at the pattern of pixelated dots.

There was absolutely no doubt about it. It may not have been her most flattering photo but it was definitely Elodie, the beautiful flowing hair, the full lips and those almond eyes.

Paul's eyes flashed across the headline,

"French terrorist evades Police in London raid."

He was stunned. He tried to scan the rest of the column but his eyes kept returning to her face, the word "terrorist" ricocheting around inside his mind.

When he realized that he was at the head of the queue he prized his eyes from the paper putting it with the map and chocolate onto the counter.

He couldn't believe it!

Elodie, a terrorist!

She didn't seem the type ... but could he have misjudged her he wondered handing over a 10 Euro note and taking his change.

His mind was reeling as his eyes jumped between the picture and the headline. Had he been so hopelessly infatuated that he'd failed to spot the obvious?

Of course not. She was Elodie, lovely Elodie. She was a vegetarian, she practiced yoga for God's sake.

He moved away from the tabac thinking hard.

Should he deliver the crystal?

For all he knew the address she'd given him could be a terrorist headquarters.

Those Agents might have the place staked out and they were the last people he wanted to meet again. Paul turned around gazing distractedly across the throng of people towards the main entrance, trying to make a decision, when he saw something that made his heart miss a beat. Their slicked back grey hair and mirrored shades clearly visible above the heads of the crowded hallway, Paul saw three Agents enter the station, half a dozen uniformed gendarmes at their heels. Once inside the station, Paul saw them freeze for a moment, before all three heads swiveled slowly to look in his direction. The police spread out, covering each of the many exits as one of the Agents detached himself, striding purposefully towards Paul.

He could hear the Agents last words to him echoing in his mind, "If you have deceived me..."

Wasn't that exactly what he had done?

He watched panic stricken, rooted to the spot as the Agent steadily approached him.

What should he do? Run? Where to?

He felt a hand firmly grip his elbow and he span round to find a shrunken old bag-lady.

'Paul, you need my help,' she said, in clear english looking up at him.

Surely he'd misheard, she couldn't possibly have known his name. He took her in at a glance, from her worn out trainers, laddered tights and cheap raincoat, to her ragged brown skirt and filthy, matted hair.

He turned away from her, back toward the Agent, who was still steadily advancing through the throng.

Paul watched, transfixed with fear, the bag lady still gripping his sleeve.

'He's coming for you Paul,' she said.

'I know!' he said, his heart pounding rapidly, his thoughts breaking into a fractal mess.

What could he do?

'Give me your phone ...' she said.

What? Was she mad?

There was no way he was giving his three hundred quid phone to an old homeless woman.

He didn't need this right now! He shook his arm free of her and turning back saw that the Agent was still steadily advancing, only separated from him by a milling crowd of tourists.

'Now!' she commanded, with a hypnotic power to her voice.

Paul hesitated.

'Now,' repeated the bag-lady, and Paul obeyed, reaching mechanically into his jacket pocket to bring out his phone but stalled, still unwilling to give it to her. As the panic gripped his body Paul found his mind jammed, unable to process what was happening.

A hiss of exasperation escaped from the tramp's lips and with surprising power she grabbed hold of Paul's shoulder and seizing a handful of jacket and shirt and pulled him backwards.

It felt like a long backwards and Paul stumbled, tripping over his own feet. His senses of sight and hearing were suddenly distorted, the arched windows and the crowds appearing through an opaque veil.

'Take off your jacket,' said the tramp and Paul stunned, obeyed again.

The Agent stopped two or three paces in front of them and slowly raised his sunglasses to his forehead. Paul found himself looking with horror directly into a pair of emotionless, soulless, almost reptilian eyes. It took a moment for him to realize that although they appeared to be looking at each other, the Agent could not see him.

He, Paul, was invisible!

As the Agent's eyes continued to search from left to right across Paul, the bag-lady wrenched Paul's phone from his inside jacket pocket.

'It's a tracking device!' she said, skimming it low and hard through the legs of the crowd. The Agent's head instantly whipped round, following the trajectory of the phone. It came to a sudden stop under the wheels of a baggage trolley and Paul watched dumbfounded as a second later it crunched and shattered under its wheel. The Agent snapped his glasses down, covering his eyes and in ten swift paces he was bending down to examine the remains of Paul's mangled phone.

He stood up slowly, the phone dangling from his hand.

'We have lost him but he can't be far,' he said slowly. 'Monitor the thought patterns of everyone leaving the station. I want him apprehended without delay.'

The Agent's words registered crisply in Paul's mind, contrasting with the distorted and muffled sounds of the station, swirling around him.

'You have the crystal safe?' came the voice of the bag lady.

When he nodded his assent she dropped his jacket on the floor, simultaneously swiping a neatly folded overcoat from a passing suitcase, which she handed to Paul.

'Put it on, I can get you out of here,' she said, starting to pull him toward the exit.

Paul obeyed, feeling his freewill had been temporarily suspended and let the bag lady drag him purposefully forward across the unreal, foggy mist that had enveloped the tiled expanse of hallway. As he was pulled past the passengers, benches and laden baggage trollies, Paul was unsure whether it was the world around him that had become illusory and insubstantial or whether it was in fact him who was somehow lacking physical solidity. His world had become dreamlike and ethereal and he was nothing more than a passive observer, strangely unable to assert any control.

What the hell was going on?

He tried to form words, forcing his mouth and mind to co-ordinate,

'What are you doing to me?'

'Obviously,' came a strained reply, 'helping you. I can only keep you in this space for a short time,' she paused, 'they can still track your emotional vibration. To get past them you must change your thoughts.'

Paul, could just make out the approaching doors, a line of uniformed figures were swimming and shimmering in the ripples of light coming through the entrance. Ahead he could see two Agents, one on either side of the doors. Although Paul couldn't bring them into focus, their blurred outlines shot a new bolt of fear through him.

'They can read your fear, they are looking for it ...'

Paul didn't understand.

'What do you mean?'

As he spoke their impassive faces swiveled in his direction.

The woman spoke again, urgently,

'Choose another emotion.'

Paul's mind still couldn't comprehend what she wanted.

'How?'

With a sudden, vicious swing, she kicked Paul hard on the shin. He was shocked and clutched at the bolt of fiery pain that his shin had become, hopping as the bag lady dragged him relentlessly forwards.

'Ow! What did you do that for?' his fear suddenly and powerfully replaced by a surge of indignation.

The Agents heads scanned past Paul and resumed staring intently into the hub of the station.

'Anger will do,' she said, as she maneuvered him deftly through the doorway out into the open street beyond. Paul was propelled forward amongst the crowd to the other side of the road, where a wide tree-lined avenue led away through the cold drizzle to the traffic-choked streets of Paris.

As they reached the opposite pavement, the woman's guiding hand suddenly released him and his next step carried him back into fully conscious, ordinary reality. The hazy mist vanished, sharp definition springing back to the world around him as if he'd just stepped out of a dream. Instantly Paul was himself again, disorientated but fully present and alert.

Paul looked down at himself, his hands protruding from the sleeves of an unfamiliar, heavy, black overcoat, his fingers still clutching the map and chocolate he had bought.

Not only had the bag-lady vanished, Paul realized with an unpleasant jolt but so had his suitcase, jacket and worst of all, his passport and wallet!

He tried to replay in his mind the events that had just occurred in the station.

Had he been the victim of a particularly cunning robbery?

Or was he suffering from hallucinations?

Or both?

Whatever had just happened needed explaining but right now, his number one priority was to get his possessions back and return this coat to its owner.

Having made up his mind, Paul turned determinedly back towards the station entrance, only to freeze a second later, struck by a bolt of fear. There, directly beneath the huge clock, standing between the colossal stone pillars stood an Agent, unmistakably holding Paul's tweed jacket in one hand and the mangled remains of a mobile phone in the other.

The Agent stepped forward into the wet street, scanning from left to right. Paul reacted instinctively, ducking behind the broad trunk of a plane tree.

He was trembling all over, held in the grip of a fear stronger than he'd ever known.

Before his frazzled mind had had time to make a decision, Paul's body and instinct took over and he found himself running hard down the Boulevard away from the Agent and into Paris.

He ran for a few frantic minutes, too scared even to look back for signs of pursuit, intent only on getting as far from the station as possible. His lungs were screaming for a rest. He ducked into a side street and slammed himself against a wall, his whole body shaking now with fear and adrenaline.

For a minute all he could do was breathe great racking gulps of air into his lungs.

He had to get a grip, calm down and think. He was acting like a lunatic!

Twenty paces down, across the street, Paul saw the garish neon front of a cafe. The lights were on, a pop tune drifting out on to the road and a huddle of people stood outside under an awning smoking cigarettes and chatting.

In the darkening afternoon light the place had a welcome feeling about it and Paul was drawn across the puddled tarmac towards it.

That's it! He'd have a beer and think things through. He was a rational intelligent man after all and there had to be an explanation.

Paul walked over the sawdust strewn tiled floor, through the comforting babble of conversation up to the bar and ordered a glass of beer. Luckily he'd put his change from the station shop in his trouser pocket, a habit, he thought irrelevantly, that had always annoyed Julie because the coins would fall out and rattled around in the washing machine.

He paid and sat down in the corner opposite a huge, flat screen television and ignoring the images of half-naked women pouting into microphones, Paul tried to put his thoughts in order. The sweat on his back was clammy and his shirt clung to him uncomfortably. He hung the stolen overcoat on the back of his chair.

The events in the station were just so damn surreal.

What exactly had that bag-lady done to him?

Invisibility was pure fantasy wasn't it?

Either, Paul realized, he'd have to conclude that she was some kind of magician or that he was seriously losing the plot. The problem was, neither of these two possibilities were acceptable.

She'd asked about the crystal, he remembered.

How on earth could she know about that?

But then, there were even stranger things that needed considering. For example, could anyone actually have eyes like that Agent and what was it they'd said about "monitoring thought patterns"?

It was all much too weird. Could it have been a fit, or some kind of nervous attack? But then he remembered that invasive feeling he'd experienced with the Agents in his flat. He'd felt mentally violated as if they were helping themselves to his thoughts.

Paul took a deep gulp of fizzy, french lager and wiped the foam from his mouth. There just wasn't a sensible, all-encompassing explanation for the events he'd just experienced, Paul decided, but he'd still have to make a decision about what to do now.

After another few sips of the cold refreshing beer, Paul made his mind up. The best thing to do, he thought, was drop the stone and the incriminating address in the nearest bin and go back to the station straight away, explaining he'd had a nervous seizure or something.

After all, what had he really done wrong?

Once the crystal was dumped, nothing, if you didn't count the theft of an overcoat. He'd come here on a shopping trip and they'd just have to believe him and return his things.

It didn't matter about the phone, he could claim on the insurance as soon as he got home.

Paul looked up as the pop song abruptly ended, making way for a News flash. The words "TELE INFO" filled the screen and Paul raised his glass to drink the last of the beer. He stopped, paralyzed, his glass midway to his mouth as he saw his magnified picture staring back at him across the busy cafe with the words, "TERRORISTE ALERTE" emblazoned in red letters beneath his mug shot.

He tried to focus on what the presenter was saying, understanding only odd words in his state of shock.

"Gendarmerie" "Paul Sutherland" ... "Gare du Nord" and there it was again, that word, "Terroriste."

Seized by another gut reaction, Paul grabbed his new overcoat, turning the collar up to shield his face from view and stumbled back out onto the anonymity of the Parisian streets.

Elodie: December 16th

At that moment, in the heart of Amsterdam, Elodie smiled, relaxing for the first time in hours.

Even though she wasn't fluent in Dutch, the meaning of the news flash on the television at the other end of the room was clear. She span her barstool round and watched riveted, as images of herself and Paul filled the screen. She concentrated, listening hard to the news reader's rapid Dutch, informing her that Paul had avoided capture in Paris and was now, like her, a wanted Terrorist.

She was right to have trusted him, she thought smugly, aware that the intuitive gamble she'd taken in giving him the crystal had so far worked in her favor.

But how did he do it? she wondered.

If there were Agents there, he must have had help but from whom?

She frowned, her own questions perplexing her, until with a sigh she gave them up. For now, there was no way of knowing. All that mattered was that as long as Paul was free, they still had a chance, however slim.

The young, blond barman slouched lazily towards her to take her order, seeing not the faintest resemblance between the elegant, well-dressed, shiny haired version of Elodie presented on the screen and this scruffy student with her spiky, red hair, heavy eye make-up and oversized leather jacket.

Elodie knew she had disguised herself well as she smiled up at the barman,

'Guten dag, d'you speak English?' she asked

'Sure thing,' he replied in an american drawl, grinning back at her, 'what can I getcha?'

'A black coffee please, and ...'

She picked up a plastic-coated menu from the bar and ran her eye over the choice of cannabis samples.

'Errr,' she hesitated, 'what do you recommend?'

The barman leaned forward on the counter towards her.

'That depends what kinda hit you're after, ... you wanna nice, giggly high, we got some great Thai weed, some Durban poison, or some wowi Malawi,' he paused, noting her lack of reaction, 'or, if you wanna get really monged, you know what I mean,' he gestured with a thumb towards a couple Elodie had not previously noticed, slumped in a corner on a sofa, a tubular, plastic water pipe on the table between them, 'we got some opiated, Nepalese temple balls, that's some shit!' he grinned.

'Yes that sounds good,' Elodie replied, as the barman ambled over to the Espresso machine.

Yes, the fact that Paul had got the crystal safely to Paris was certainly good news but was he walking into a trap? Elodie questioned. There was no way of knowing, she sighed, but at least she had let her contact know of the events in England and she could only hope that he'd succeeded in passing the message on. As much as she longed for some information, she knew she couldn't risk a phone-call, the lines to the society being almost certainly tapped.

The barman returned, putting her coffee and a small see-through bag of hashish in front of her on the bar.

Elodie opened her canvas rucksack and peeled off a 50 Euro note from the bundle to pay.

She had acted wisely and swiftly securing herself the money and false identity card she would need to put the plan that was gradually formulating in her mind into action.

She started to make herself a joint, carefully sticking three cigarette papers together.

Coming to Amsterdam had been wise too. The Agents would be looking for her in Paris and Burgundy, so she must act from a safe distance until the last crucial minute.

Elodie carefully crumbled the hash evenly onto the shredded tobacco, licked the papers and rolled it all into a neat, conical tube.

She looked out the window onto the gaudily illuminated sex shops and bars of Warmoesstraat. The evening was closing in and there was a promise of rain in the heavy, dark clouds rolling across the sky.

Elodie lit up, inhaling the fragrant smoke cautiously into her lungs to avoid coughing, and then exhaling a thin, blue plume up to the ceiling.

She smiled to herself again, remembering her brother's smoke filled bedroom all those years ago.

If only Mama could see me now, she thought, she would see my time spent with Jean-Luc was not entirely wasted.

The news had moved onto the weather and Elodie downed the last of her coffee and pocketed the bag of hash.

What I need now, she thought, standing up, is internet access and some transport.

The Commander: December 16th

The Commander turned slowly, raising himself to his full, imposing height, as the three Agents filed into the circular chamber.

He waited until they were still and facing him silently across the table, the holographic image of earth spinning languidly between them.

'I see we have all three deactivated and secure,' he said.

An awkward silence hung in the room.

'No Sir, we lost the Dubois girl,' an Agent replied.

The Commander's head snapped to attention,

'How is this possible? I watched all three traces fade ...'

The second Agent stepped forward,

'Either she has found a way to evade the VR, through modulating her frequency or she is dead.'

'And why was I not informed of this sooner?' demanded the Commander.

'We have spent the day scouring London for her ... and were hoping to successfully terminate our assignment,' replied the first Agent uncomfortably.

The Commander walked heavily away from the table, his footsteps ringing clearly in the peculiar acoustics of the room. He turned on his heel obviously having come to a decision.

'Either way, she cannot achieve her objective,' he paused, looking them up and down, 'but we shall take no chances. I want a police search and full media coverage.'

The 3rd Agent nodded,

'Yes Sir,' and cleared his throat before continuing, 'There is another problem ...'

'Which is?' snapped the Commander.

'Her neighbour, a Mr. Sutherland, drew our attention this morning by boarding the Eurostar to Paris. We secured the station ... yet he slipped through our net.'

The Commander again appeared pensive before asking,

'Does he have training? Dimension jumping abilities?'

'No Sir, not that we were aware of.'

'Then it will not be difficult to apprehend him without any further delay,' his tone of voice was icy cold, 'use all the resources necessary.'

He turned away from the Agents, closing the conversation and placed one long finger on the hologram which stopped spinning to home in on a map of western europe on which could be seen a collection of tiny illuminated dots, three around Paris and six others scattered around Italy and Switzerland.

The Agents leant in, examining the hologram, as the Commander continued,

'The other nine anomalies are on the move, converging on three separate headquarters.' He stared hard at the blank faces of the Agents, 'once they are all in situ, we strike hard.' The Agents nodded their understanding. 'I want the whole society shut down in one stroke, we cannot afford another mistake so close to the end time.'

Paul: December 16th

The Christmas lights on the Rue du Faubourg St Denis were lit, throwing colored reflections into the oily street puddles and the glistening droplets of rain on parked cars.

People hurried by on the street, intent on getting out of the evening wind and home, barely giving Paul a glance. He needed to reconsider his options. If he handed himself in, the best case scenario he could expect was a serious grilling and a couple of nights in a police cell. He didn't even want to think about the worst. The thing to do, he concluded, was to carry on, deliver this damn stone and find out what the hell he'd gotten himself mixed up in. Until he had some more information, how could he feasibly assess his options?

Obviously he wasn't a terrorist, so logically, Elodie could be as innocent as he was. As far as he could see, the only way to get to the bottom of this crazy mess without getting arrested, was to deliver the crystal to the address Elodie had given him.

Paul pulled his map out from his pocket and peered at it in the orange glow of a streetlight. He found the address easily, it was on a tiny island on the Seine, connected by a choice of bridges to the rest of Paris.

Where he was now wasn't quite so easy but by walking to the end of the street, keeping his face concealed from passers-by as much as possible, Paul found a street sign and soon located himself fairly close to the Boulevard de Strasbourg which led into the Boulevard Sebastopol and then directly to the Seine. It wasn't too far, maybe 3 or 4 kms at the most, but as Paul was on the point of starting back for the main road, he heard the whine of police sirens and saw two cars streak by, towards the Gare du Nord, blue lights flashing.

He'd have to keep to the back roads, he thought, weave his way there carefully, keeping parallel to the main road.

What didn't make sense to Paul, was how the stone could make him a terrorist. He'd looked at it long and hard. You couldn't unscrew it to conceal a deadly, biochemical weapon inside. It didn't have a hidden USB port. It was just your average looking crystal, a large acorn-sized, egg shaped bloody stone, without any obvious value. Paul cut left, turning the map in front of him to keep his sense of direction. Even if it was a diamond, he reasoned, they'd call him a jewel thief and not a terrorist.

There was so much in this business that made no sense at all.

The blustery afternoon had darkened further into a cold, wet evening, the wind whipping fallen leaves and the odd bit of rubbish along in the gutters, and Paul, keeping furtively to the side streets and alleyways was fast approaching his destination.

He arrived finally at the river and looked across at the island, gratefully hugging the overcoat around himself against the heavy drizzle that plastered his hair onto his forehead.

The view laid out in front of him was truly spectacular.

The bridges decked in hundreds of lights and the breath taking bulk of the floodlit Notre Dame cathedral, reflected and sparkled brilliantly in the choppy waters of the Seine.

Paul stopped to admire the beauty for a moment and was struck by a thought.

This time yesterday he'd been on his way home, looking forward to a cosy meal with Elodie, never conceiving that only twenty-four hours later he would be in a foreign city, without passport or money and wanted by the police!

Paul sighed and started over the bridge towards the island.

If nothing else it would make a good story to tell the kids one day he thought.

Christ! The whole situation had to be a big mistake, didn't it?

He turned left off the bridge, stopping in the light of a smart restaurant to check his map.

There were no customers yet and a waitress was sulkily setting the tables. He pulled out the torn address book page, pleased to see he was nearly there. He followed the road as it skirted the island and then turned off into the shadows of an austere, stone archway which opened into a vast courtyard, ambiently lit and ringed by grand, terraced houses. They were generously proportioned, at least five stories high, tall french windows leading onto wrought iron balconies on the upper floors. Paul took it in slowly, sniffing the unmistakable aroma of wealth.

He strode into the square, counting the numbers on the doors off until he reached No 17.

Once there, he hesitated, aware that two distinct possibilities existed from this point. Either he would be admitted and could hope to learn something that would help unravel this mess, or, he would find himself looking up the barrel of a gun, staring at the grim features of an Agent with his finger poised on the trigger.

But there was no avoiding it now he'd come this far, Paul thought, and bracing himself he climbed the wide steps and lifted the brass knocker on the grand double doors. The frosted bevelled glass obscured the view of what lay inside.

Here goes, he thought, letting the knocker fall decisively, praying for the last time that it wasn't a trap.

A moment later he heard the clack of heels approaching and the door was opened by a small, yet elegant, middle-aged woman, her black hair gleaming in a pristine bob.

She looked at him quizzically,

'Oui Monsieur?' she asked.

Paul gaped, relief flooding through him. He realized that during his hour long walk through the dark streets of Paris, he hadn't planned what he'd say once he got here. The woman's prim and proper air threw him. He hadn't known who he had expected but she definitely wasn't it.

"Errrr ... Bonjour Madame,' he stumbled, 'Je suis, err une amie de Elodie et ..."

She interrupted his stilted flow abruptly, 'You would perhaps prefer to speak in english?' the pitch of her voice rising towards the end of the sentence.

'Yes, thanks.'

'Please come in.' She held the door back, stepping aside for him to pass. Paul found himself in a huge spacious hallway, a symmetrical tiled floor stretching away in front of him, to the cavernous depths of the house. It certainly didn't look like a terrorist headquarters, he thought, but come to that, he didn't really know what one would look like anyway.

Paul stared, impressed at the marble staircase flanked by wrought-iron banisters which swept gracefully upwards from the hall. Surely terrorists wouldn't have such artistic sophistication?

The woman closed the front door promptly and stood feet together, waiting for Paul to explain, her painted eyebrows raised in enquiry as Paul's eyes continued to wander from the immense chandelier poised over the centre of the hall to the highly polished pieces of antique furniture that lined the walls. With a detectable note of impatience in her voice, she cut off Paul's silent admiration.

'Yes, you were saying Monsieur, about Mademoiselle Elodie?'

Paul gathered his thoughts together and plunged his hand into his trouser pocket, withdrawing the silk wrapped package. The cloth fell open, revealing in the palm of his outstretched hand the tiny, egg-shaped crystal.

The woman let out a stifled gasp and raised a hand to her heart.

'Mon Dieu!' she half whispered.

Paul continued to hold the crystal towards her, fascinated by the effect it was having on her.

'Elodie gave it to me and told me to bring it here, and so,' he paused, not sure how to go on, 'here it is! It must be bloody important,' he ploughed on, 'as everyone seems to want it and I've been through hell to get it here! And now, I'd like to know what this is all about.'

His speech didn't come out quite as articulately as he'd hoped but still he thought he'd covered the major points.

The woman's jaw dropped for a moment but she quickly recovered herself, opening a door leading off the hallway into an elegantly furnished, high ceilinged room.

'Please come in and make yourself comfortable.'

She followed him into the room and moving towards an old-fashioned, white telephone on a corner table said,

'I regret Monsieur, I am not in the position to answer your questions. But perhaps you would care for a cup of coffee while you wait?'

Without pausing for Paul to answer she picked up and rang a dainty silver bell.

Almost instantly a woman wearing a maids uniform knocked and quietly entered the room. Paul listening, understood absolutely none of the rapid instructions she rattled off at the maid before she turned back to him saying,

'Please excuse me while I make a call.'

Paul sat himself awkwardly on an elegantly carved chair and watched her.

'Madame Sauveterre-Dubois,' she said breathlessly, 'C'est tres urgent, il faut que vous venez de suite,' she paused.

'Oui Madame. Un anglais.'

'Très bien Madame.'

The conversation ended abruptly and the woman looked up and addressed Paul.

'I am happy to say Mme Sauveterre-Dubois is on her way.'

'Who?' asked Paul

'The mother of Elodie.'

'But what ... ?' Paul started, so filled with questions he didn't know quite where to begin, before he was cut off by a raised hand.

'As I said before Monsieur, all of your questions must wait.'

She turned to the window pulling the curtains closed with a heavy gold cord and then sat demurely, her hands folded in her lap, on a small padded chair and Paul, feeling effectively dismissed, resigned himself to wait.

He'd come this far, delivered their precious stone and felt that at the very least they owed him an explanation. He looked around the room in awe, feeling like he had been dropped into another world. Above the stylish curves of the art nouveau fireplace was a large and fabulously ornate golden clock, swarming with trumpeting angels and podgy cherubs, its brass pendulum ponderously ticking away the seconds.

There was a discreet knock on the door and they both turned to see the maid enter carrying a tray.

'Ah le café,' said the woman, sounding relieved.

But what Paul noticed, was that standing in the hallway behind her was the back of a tall, dark suited man, with a thickly muscled neck bulging from his jacket collar.

Shit, Paul thought, it looked like maybe he wasn't free to leave even if he wanted to. There was definitely more to this crystal than met the eye.

The maid set down the silver tray beautifully laid with tiny jugs and a sugar bowl with tongs. Paul smiled his thanks to her but she ignored him, pouring his cup of steaming, black coffee and leaving the room.

Coffee wasn't his favorite drink but what the hell, it gave him something to do. He stirred in some sugar and cream and took a sip. If it was as strong as it tasted he knew that every mouthful was jeopardizing his chances of a good night's sleep.

As he drank the woman remained seated by the window, her eyes lowered and lips tightly pursed. Fine, thought Paul, if she didn't want to talk she didn't have to. He was glad of the time to gather his thoughts anyway and this opulent drawing room was a definite improvement on the cold wet streets outside.

Paul sipped his coffee slowly. The mantelpiece clock ticked the seconds and minutes away, he drank one cup, then a second, and finally a tepid third.

As Paul stirred the dainty cup yet again he could hear the occasional shuffle of the guard's feet outside the door.

There were a lot of players in this game already. The Agents, the bag-lady and now these wealthy Parisians.

Well, it didn't take that many brains to figure the Agents were the bad guys, which logically would make this lot the good guys.

Still, you couldn't be too sure, maybe real-life wasn't quite as clear cut as a movie.

The purr of a powerful engine slowed in the courtyard outside, the woman quickly rising and twitching a corner of the curtain back. With a look of relief, she spoke to Paul for the first time in half an hour.

'Mme Sauveterre-Dubois has arrived.'

The engine cut and Paul heard the opening and closing of car doors.

A moment later the double doors were opened to reveal a slim, elegantly dressed, elderly woman. Although she was petite her presence was huge, dominating the room. Paul rose as she entered, stepping forward to shake her tiny gloved hand.

'Hi, I'm Paul, you must be -' he started to say, before he was cut off by her quiet, imperious voice,

'You have something for me I believe?'

Paul fumbled for a moment in his pocket before handing over the silk-wrapped crystal. As Mme Sauveterre-Dubois received it, she too let out an involuntary sigh, saying,

'Mon Dieu, qu'est ce que c'est passé?'

She examined it carefully for a moment before unclasping a shiny, black handbag and carefully dropping it in.

'So tell me Mr. Paul, firstly how do you come to be in possession of ... of ...' she searched for a word before settling on, 'this object? And secondly, where is my daughter?'

There was something about her attitude, a mixture of haughtiness and condescension that threw Paul off track, making him feel tongue tied and clumsy,

'Well, you see, I'm her neighbour and we were just having dinner and all these police came and she ran away ...' he took a much needed breath, 'and well, she gave me the crystal and asked, or told me to bring it here, and I don't know where she is and that's about it,' Paul finished lamely, feeling the blood starting to rise to his face, as Mme Dubois studied him hard. That would have to be his worst speech ever he thought, the flush of shame burning his cheeks.

'So, how well do you know Elodie?' she asked.

'Quite well I thought, but obviously not, ... '

'And what exactly has she told you?'

'Well she forgot to tell me the bit about being a member of a terrorist ring,' Paul replied, thinking that at least belligerent was better than moronic. He was aware that the conversation was not going to plan. He'd unwittingly risked his neck bringing them their crystal and he was the one who should be asking the questions.

If only she didn't make him feel so insignificant and small.

'I see,' she said, 'and let me clarify, you said you are her neighbour?'

'Yes, that's right,' replied Paul, his infatuation for Elodie staring them both in the face.

Mme Dubois smiled mirthlessly,

'Well, it is most kind of you I am sure ...' she said, offering him a delicate, gloved hand to shake, 'Of course, if you have incurred any expenses,' she continued, 'it would be our greatest pleasure to reimburse you.'

She tilted her head quizzically for the briefest moment, before carrying on with a new note of briskness to her voice,

'I beg you to excuse me but I must leave at once. I trust you will have a pleasant stay in Paris,' she said, turning to leave.

Paul stared at the space that she had just vacated for a moment before stumbling after her down the hallway.

'Hang on, hang on! Having a pleasant stay in Paris is one thing I won't be doing!'

Mme Dubois stopped and turned to look at him.

'Or haven't you seen the news? I'm a wanted man thanks to your daughter and your blessed stone!'

Paul stopped as he reached Mme Dubois, the guard half a step behind him.

'What's this all about?' he demanded, 'are you terrorists?'

Mme Dubois eyebrows arched slightly in response as Paul blundered on, his need to have some answers taking priority over everything else,

'So why is this stone so bloody important? Who are those Agents in grey? And what -'

Mme Dubois visibly stiffened, cutting Paul's flow.

'Agents know you are in Paris?' she asked.

'Well, obviously!' Paul replied, pleased to be getting some kind of reaction.

Mme Dubois appeared to think hard for a moment before reaching a decision.

'One thing we can certainly not afford now is for you to fall into their hands. We have no choice,' she stated, 'you must come with me.'

Finally, Paul thought, she was paying some attention to his problems or was she just thinking about her own? Either way, anything was better than being turned out onto the streets to await arrest, and this way at least he might actually get to find out what this story was about.

Paul grabbed his damp coat and allowed himself to be led out onto the dark street where a uniformed chauffeur was holding the back door to a prestigious, sleek silver car open. Paul wasn't an expert on vintage cars but from the graceful curves of the wheel arches and the long bonnet, he guessed it was probably a Bentley.

Paul settled himself on the spacious leather seat next to Mme Dubois, and the chauffeur eased off from the curb as Mme Dubois leaned forward to speak to him,

'Aussi vite que possible, s'il te plait Louis.'

He nodded in acknowledgement, 'Bien-sur, madame.'

Paul, still desperate to understand the situation immediately fired off his most burning questions.

'So who are you guys? Why am I wanted for terrorism?'

Mme Dubois looked him over gravely but didn't reply.

'Look I'm not stupid!' Paul blurted out, 'there is obviously something secret going on here and it's time I knew what it was.'

'But of course, Mr. Paul. We will do our best to inform you and remedy your predicament once we have arrived at the Chateau ... You are of course our guest until such time.'

She paused, flashed him a brief insincere smile whilst lifting a satellite phone from its cradle between the seats.

'Excuse me please and thank-you for your patience.'

Paul bit his lip in caffeine-fueled frustration.

How many times could these people fob him off, he wondered, as the shining puddles flashed by outside the window. He'd just have to go with the flow and wait till they got to this 'chateau'. At least he'd be kept warm and dry and there was the prospect of a hot meal and a comfortable bed for the night. Of course, there was always the possibility he was going to finish the evening in a bag at the bottom of the Seine, he thought wryly.

Paul settled himself resignedly into the cream upholstery, staring out the window as Madame Dubois started to speak into her phone.

'Ah Serge! Ils savent qu'il est a Paris!

Oui ... il faut qu'on se deplace ce soir même. Je suis en route ...

Oui ... à toute de suite.'

If only he'd paid more attention to his French lessons at school, he thought, but then again, he'd never have predicted ending up in a situation like this.

She replaced the telephone, then picked up a remote control the size of a lighter. Paul noticed the glint of a diamond encrusted watch elegantly draped around her wrist. He thought of the necklace he'd been so proud to buy Elodie, realizing that it would probably look like it came out of a Christmas cracker to people with this kind of money. Classical music suddenly filled the car, the melody washing over him in perfect definition from hidden speakers behind his head.

Mme Dubois smiled across at him,

'I trust Bach is to your taste ... so soothing for the nerves I find.'

Without waiting for a reply she reclined comfortably and closed her eyes.

Paul, in his state of agitation found Mme Dubois attitude perplexing.

How could she listen to music at a moment like this?

Was she not worried about her daughter?

The chauffeur gunned the car confidently through the streets, weaving smoothly through rush hour Paris. Paul peered out, recognizing the spectacular flood-lit Arc de Triomphe across three lanes of traffic on his left as they peeled off, accelerating down a tree lined dual carriage-way.

As the rain-washed streets of Paris finally gave way to open countryside, Paul sat in coffee induced agitation, mentally chewing at the bizarre and frightening events of the day.

The CD finished and Mme Dubois opened her eyes, blinked once and looked around.

'We are nearly there,' she said.

They had turned off the main road and mature parkland was visible behind spiked iron railings on either side of them. The intermittent drizzle of the afternoon had increased to a steady rain and Paul peered past the monotonous sweep of the windscreen wipers looking for a road sign to give him some indication of his whereabouts.

'Voici le Chateau, Mr. Paul,' said Mme Dubois, gesturing with her hand to their left.

Paul could make out a side view of an enormous, rectangular building, lights blazing from the upper windows.

As the road swept toward it the trees thinned out and Paul could see an ornate gatehouse tucked behind a pair of imposing, wrought iron gates.

The chauffeur flicked his indicator on and braked to pull into the drive.

Suddenly Mme Dubois let out a shout of horror and surprise as all three of them saw a blue gendarmerie van concealed by the rhododendrums tucked in at the edge of the drive and the silhouettes of two gendarmes blocking their way.

At the far end of the drive, Paul could see more police cars and two black, tinted windowed Range Rovers parked haphazardly on the Chateau forecourt. And behind them, illuminated in the light spilling from the open double doors, silhouetted figures were being frog-marched out of the building. The Bentley ground to a halt, its wheel skidding on the wet gravel.

Mme Dubois reacted quickly, grabbing Paul's shoulder and shoving him down before either of the waiting police officers on the drive turned to look. Paul found himself bent double, his head jammed between his legs as Mme Dubois, suddenly fiercely animated, urged her driver on,

'Recule Louis, vas-y.'

Paul tried to sit up but she held him forcefully down as Louis put the car into reverse, the wheels spinning on the gravel.

'Stay down,' she said, ' you must not be seen. They know I am here, but hopefully they do not know about you.'

The tyres gripped tarmac and the Bentley powered off into the darkness.

Mme Dubois grabbed the telephone, 'I must warn the other houses, it is all in my hands now,' she said, thinking aloud, whilst she punched in the number on the keypad.

Paul, from his hunched position looked questioningly up at her. She met his eyes and explained,

'We have more people in Italy and Switzerland.'

Paul could hear the dull ring of the telephone, once, twice before it was answered by a gruff voice.

'Allo? Polizia ...' Despite the darkness inside the car, Paul could see the color drain from Mme Dubois face as she broke the connection and tried another number with the same result. She replaced the phone with a shaking hand, flashing a backwards glance through the rear window.

'Plus vite Louis! Ils nous approchent, plus vite!'

Paul's stomach tightened sickeningly as the car's wheels accelerated through the bend.

He looked up at Mme Dubois seeing her face sagging momentarily in despair.

'Mon Dieu! On est vaincu ... on est vaincu ...' she muttered under her breath. Her eyes met his again as a new thought hit her, returning strength and color to her face, 'but while Elodie is free, there is still hope,' she said with conviction.

Paul raised his head gingerly above the seat, sneaking a look behind at their pursuers. They were about two hundred meters away, their high beam shining through the falling rain.

'This can't be coincidence. We have combated their power to read minds for centuries,' she said.

'You what?' Paul interjected, but Mme Dubois ignored him, following her own train of thought, 'Obviously they have upgraded ... they must have a new device ... something that specifically isolated the chosen 12. But how did Elodie escape when the others didn't? And now, Elodie, alone of the 12 is still free.'

Paul clung to the armrest as the car braked into another bend and powered out the other side. He looked at the walnut veneered dashboard with its dated, circular dials and saw the needle creep up to 140.

This wasn't your average chauffeur, he thought, this guy really knew how to drive.

Mme Dubois was evidently thinking along the same lines,

'We have a superb driver and a superior car but even as we speak Agents are on our trail,' she sighed, 'even if it takes until the petrol tank is empty, inevitably we will be caught.'

She unclipped the clasp of her handbag, withdrew the now familiar silk bundle and held it out to Paul, her eyes burning with an intensity that reminded him strongly of her daughter.

'I pray to God that Elodie knew what she was doing when she chose you,' she looked hard at Paul, still bent double uncomfortably behind the drivers seat, before she continued, 'perhaps there is wisdom in her choice, after all they will not be looking for a mind or frequency like yours.'

Paul, although he didn't fully understand what she was saying had the distinct feeling that he was being insulted. Mme Dubois pushed the crystal more urgently towards him, saying,

'Take it, you are the only chance we have left ... take it to Alesia as fast as possible and we will pray that Elodie will find a way to meet you there.'

'Whoooaa there!' Paul sat up straight, 'Why on earth would I want it back? I don't want more trouble, I want my name cleared and the first train back home ...'

They screeched round a bend and Paul was pushed hard against the door as the back wheels slid on the wet tarmac. Squinting ahead, Paul saw a "STOP" sign flash past and then another with "TROYES 85 kms" written on it. They skidded diagonally across the junction to join the main road.

He looked out the back window and saw that even though the police headlights were still visible behind them, Louis professional driving had gained them some ground.

Mme Dubois fixed Paul with her eye,

'Mr. Paul, we must not delude ourselves, the raid on the chateau has changed everything. The only person who can help now,' she paused for effect, ' is you. Of course it will be dangerous but if you succeed, then we will all be free.'

Paul was on the point of answering when Louis interrupted with a shout of,

'Attention!' and slammed the brakes on.

Both Mme Dubois and Paul were flung forward into their seat belts, Paul just glimpsing the flashing blue lights of a roadblock ahead before Louis turned sharply down a farm track. The car bumped over potholes, past some lit-up farm buildings and a half-minute later Louis rejoined a smaller tarmac road.

Paul, looking between the seats noticed, tucked discretely next to the steering column, the glowing screen of a state of the art GPS. Not only could that guy drive, he thought, but he could read his GPS with his foot down at 100 k's per hour.

Mme Dubois, maintaining her composure shook the crystal inches from his face,

'Do you even know what this is?'

Paul pulled himself back up in his seat,

'No, I don't, but I've been hoping -'

Mme Dubois cut him off, the urgency in her voice unmistakable,

'It is the most powerful object in the world! For centuries it was guarded by the druids in the central stone of Alesia. Until 2,000 years ago when Julius Caesar and the Roman legions systematically destroyed the stone circles of ancient Gaul.'

'Wait a minute,' said Paul. 'What on Earth would the Romans want with it?'

A look of exasperation flashed across Mme Dubois face.

'I am afraid we do not have time for a lengthy discourse in history. Suffice to say there is more to any power structure than meets the eye and there are always those who control the controllers. May I continue?'

'Yeah sure,' said Paul, none the wiser and uncertain whether she was going to make any sense at all.

'The druids were able to reach the stone first and hide it and ever since then it has been passed down in secret.'

'But why?' Paul interrupted, 'why so much trouble for a little stone?'

'This "little stone" as you call it, and only this little stone,' Mme Dubois rushed on, 'according to druidic legend has the power to bring on a golden age of peace and prosperity for all of Earth, if replaced in the stone circle of Alesia at sunrise on winter solstice 2012.'

'Hang on,' Paul interrupted, 'I thought you said the Romans destroyed the stone circles.'

'Indeed,' she replied, 'they did, and that is why the chosen 12 have trained all their lives to be able to transcend both time and dimension to plant the crystal back before the circle was destroyed.'

Paul started to object but she cut him off,

'Believe me Mr. Paul,' she laid her hand on his, 'We are no more terrorists than you are.'

Mme Dubois might believe in the story she was telling him but there was no way Paul was going to buy it! A prophesied "golden age of peace and prosperity"! He'd never heard anything quite so idiotic.

Could she be lying, he wondered? But if she was, couldn't she have concocted a better story than this wooly fairy tale of conspiracy, prophesy and magic? It made no sense at all.

The car veered off the main road and rocketed down a steep incline. There was so much nonsense in her tale, Paul thought, as his body was flung around in the back of the car that he didn't know where to start with it.

With all the incongruous ingredients that she'd thrown into the plot, Paul could see no way in which they could all link up into a coherent story. How could she expect him to give any credibility to the idea of "transcending time and dimension"?

But then he remembered his strange experience of that afternoon with the bag-lady in the station. Could that have been what she'd done to him?

Transcended dimension? Of course not but what on Earth were the police doing taking this madness so seriously, he thought, vocalizing the question that sprang to mind.

'So why do the Agents want the stone?'

'There are those who benefit from keeping the Earth and humanity in a weakened state, a lower vibration,' she said enigmatically, 'and it is from them that we have been running for centuries and it is they who will win tonight if you do not help us.'

Paul tried to rationalize the situation but failed. He was sure of two things, very sure. One; He wasn't going to get a nice dinner or a comfy bed and two; he didn't fancy another meeting with those Agents. Mme Dubois imploring eyes locked with his.

'Please, Monsieur Paul, I beg you ...' she breathed, as he stared stubbornly back at her feeling his resistance begin to weaken and then, against all reason, logic and sound judgement he felt himself open his hand and accept the crystal into his palm.

Mme Dubois, still holding his eye contact said,

'Thank you. If Elodie placed her trust in you, then I must also. I believe you can do this.'

She leant forward to speak to the driver,

'Arrête après la prochaine virage Louis. Mr. Paul va sortir.'

Moments later the car slammed to a sudden stop and Mme Dubois, un-clicking both seat belts, leant across him and flung the door open. Then, placing a hand on his shoulder, she gave him one last searching look and said.

'Bonne chance Monsieur Paul. Get out and hide!'

Paul stared dumbly back for a moment before she pushed him, with unexpected force, out of the door into the rainy night.

Paul, taken totally by surprise caught his leg in the foot well of the car and fell, flinging his left arm out instinctively to protect his head. He landed badly, his shoulder and wrist impacting hard against the tarmac.

Before he could think let alone speak, the passenger door slammed shut and he watched stupefied as the car smoothly accelerated away from him through the dark night, its taillights receding into the distance until they vanished round a bend.

Sitting confused and sore on the wet road, Paul rubbed his shoulder and noticed that his watch was smashed, the glass face shattered into tiny shards where it had ground into the tarmac.

He sighed, aware that his broken watch was probably the least of his worries. He heard the screaming revs of a fast approaching car and looking up he could see its headlights picking out the branches of the trees above him.

Paul staggered to his feet, took a few steps in the dark, aware that he must get off the road and tripped, stumbled and fell headlong into the ditch.

He lay still, feeling the cold water seeping into his clothing, as a police car streaked by throwing blue light onto the surrounding undergrowth.

Paul raised his head as a second car roared past, realizing immediately that it was one of the black Range Rovers he'd seen at the Chateau.

They too vanished further up the road, the sounds of their engines fading to leave him in a silence broken only by the soft patter of dripping leaves.

It was only when he realized that his left side was soaked through, from his sock, to his trousers, shirt and coat sleeve that he lifted himself up cautiously and climbed out of the ditch.

Paul stood vacantly on the road, the gentle rain settling in tiny pearls on his hair and the heavy fabric of his overcoat.

The situation was so beyond his previous experience that he was at a loss as to how to react.

How had he got into this mess?

Come to that, why was it happening to him?

If this was a dream, now would be the opportune moment to wake up, he thought, but from the throbbing pain in his shoulder it was clear that he was most definitely awake.

Could things possibly be any worse?

He was wet, cold and hungry with a badly bruised shoulder on a deserted road somewhere outside Paris. To add to that, he was wanted by the police, for a crime he didn't understand, in connection with the tiny crystal which was now shoved back in his pocket. And to really top things off he had no money, no passport, no phone, no watch and no prospect of either a meal or a bed for the night. Laid out simply like that, things appeared even worse than before and Paul sank down onto the wet tarmac, a wave of despair washing over him. He buried his head in his hands, rocking unconsciously backward and forwards. It was only when he noticed that his teeth were starting to chatter and the cold rain was running down his neck in rivulets, that he realized he needed to move, to keep warm.

He could feel something pressing uncomfortably into his leg through the thin material of his trouser pocket, he pulled it out to find the bar of chocolate he'd bought all those hours ago in Paris. It had moulded itself to the shape of his thigh, and the outside wrapper was sodden, but, right now, Paul didn't care and he ripped it open, gratefully munching his way through piece by piece. As he polished off the last crumbs and the rush of sugar hit his bloodstream he could feel his mood lifting slightly. His blank depression having been replaced by a new determination to think his way out of this crazy muddle.

If his mobile hadn't been smashed this afternoon he would have liked nothing better than to tell Julie the whole, incredible, nonsensical story. He had to admit she had a certain knack of reading between the lines and spotting the things that really mattered.

Still, Paul sighed, it wasn't going to happen. He was well and truly on his own here. He got to his feet, stamping about and clapping his hands together to improve his circulation.

The rain was showing signs of letting up, the ragged edges of a break in the cloud illuminated in silver moonlight.

His mind turned to the tiny, egg-shaped stone once again in his pocket.

It seemed there was no getting rid of it, but how could it be so damn important? To him it looked like any other trinket you could buy for a fiver in a new-age hippy shop. As far as he could see there wasn't anything either magical or powerful about it.

But then again, even if he didn't believe in it, those Agents did, and he only had to cast his mind back to the station earlier that day to know they were real enough.

In fact, both Elodie and her mother had thrust the damn thing on him as a last resort, when they thought they couldn't escape. He could clearly see Elodie's beautiful face, her eyes pleading with him to take the crystal to France, and then more recently her mothers intensity as she'd pressed it back into his care, begging him to take it to Alesia.

Alesia?

Well, he still didn't know where the hell it was. It was all just so damn confusing.

What was he, of all people, doing embroiled in this mess?

He didn't believe in conspiracy theories or crystal power, let alone anything quite so unscientific as alternate dimensions!

The cold continued to seep further into Paul's skin from his drenched clothing and he knew it was time he formulated some kind of a plan.

'Jesus,' he said out loud, 'I don't need this! I've got a job, kids to think of, a marriage that might just be savable.'

He started to walk, thinking as he went. Just because he fancied Elodie didn't mean he had to risk his neck for her. The bottom line was, however much truth there was or wasn't in this story, one thing was certain, it didn't concern him. He had his own life to think about .

Suddenly a concrete plan sprang up in his mind. That was it! He'd walk back to the last village they'd passed, it hadn't been that far, five or six kilometers at the most. And then he'd hand both himself and this bloody stone into the gendarmes. Once they got what they wanted, they'd let him go free, wouldn't they?

The thought cheered his spirits and he picked up his pace, at least in a police cell they'd give him dry clothes and a breakfast. He wasn't exactly helping Elodie by dying of pneumonia in a ditch, he thought.

Maybe, he'd be able to talk his way out of this mess. He hadn't actually done anything illegal and it had to be pretty obvious that he wasn't part of a terrorist ring. Paul skirted a large puddle reflecting the moonlight and strode on, the corner of his coat slapping rhythmically against his knee and his soaked shoe squelching along in time.

He heard a distant car engine and glanced over his shoulder, wondering as he did so what had happened to Mme Dubois. Had they caught her by now?

He turned back and his heart skipped a beat. For a moment he stared incredulously, his jaw dropped slackly open. There standing solidly in front of him, no more than ten paces away was the bag-lady from the Gare du Nord, looking calmly back at him, her head cocked slightly on one side, a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

Paul struggled to find his voice,

'You again!'

She nodded, the corners of her mouth turned up in a smile.

'How did you get here?' Paul demanded, 'and where are my wallet and passport?'

She didn't answer, but instead, the strangest change appeared to be taking place in her. Subtlety at first and so slowly it was hard to be sure if he wasn't imagining it, Paul saw her start to transform. Her skin darkened, the wrinkles in her face deepened into folds and creases from which her dark, penetrating eyes shone out. As Paul gaped, the transformation seemed to speed up, the changes occurring in her appearance becoming so rapid it was hard to take them all in at once. Her lank grey hair lengthened and thickened into long matted dreadlocks wrapped with lengths of string and hung with pebbles, beads and bones. In fact, her entire head was changing, the mouth and jaw jutting forward and her skull flattening and elongating. Paul was held so fascinated by the bizarre changes taking place in her face that he hadn't noticed that her shabby tramps clothes had vanished, replaced by a cape of animal fur, bound with a leather cord at her waist.

'Who are you?' Paul demanded, feeling thoroughly unnerved by this attack on all that was possible.

'I am a Magur, an original Earth human from 78,000 years in your past.'

Paul slapped his forehead dramatically, feeling overwhelmed by the sheer ludicrous impossibility of her answer.

'Fantastic!' he exclaimed, 'That explains everything! I should have known ...'

The woman remained impassive and patient, a gentle smile still playing at the corners of her mouth as Paul's sarcastic outburst continued.

'Well, thanks for that! It's all clear as a bell now. So you're a ghost, well, seeing as I don't believe in ghosts - '

She gently interrupted him,

'I know this is hard for you to accept ... You can think of me as your next-door neighbour, separated from you only by the thin walls of frequency.'

'So, why are you here?' he asked, reigning in his sarcasm.

'I have been entrusted with the task of entering into your vibration if the heart stone ever comes into danger. I must help the bearer in time of need. You are that person. That is why I am here, now.'

'But I don't understand,' Paul stammered, 'I mean, what happened in the station? Was that real?'

'The heart stone was in peril,' she replied, 'you were nearly caught. I had no choice but to pull you out of your reality.'

'OK,' said Paul slowly, trying to digest the information, 'the crystal, or 'heart stone' as you call it. Why's it so important?'

'You are the bearer?' she said, looking at him quizzically, 'You are entrusted with the heart stone yet you know nothing? There is so much I need to tell you and so little time.'

She stepped closer to him until he was looking straight into her deep, black eyes in the moonlight. Despite the strangeness of the situation, standing on a deserted road facing a being who claimed to be an apparition from the past, Paul felt neither scared nor threatened. The Magur reached a bony arm towards him from beneath her ragged furs and poked him firmly between the eyes.

Instantly, Paul's field of vision closed in, narrowing rapidly from the outside until all he could see was the wizened face of the Magur peering at him intently as though through a tunnel with those wise, penetrating eyes.

And then that too was gone as the tunnel shrank to a pinpoint and suddenly -

Paul is standing knee deep in lush, waving grass on a wide plateau looking down into a long, wooded valley, the rough limestone sides of a gorge visible at a distance.

In front of him, lit by a swollen, yellow moon floating in a cloudless star filled sky, Paul can make out a circle of standing stones, huge shards casting their long, black shadows across the surrounding silvery grassland.

Around the imposing circle of stones, several fires are lit, their aromatic smoke carried on the warm, summer breeze, to where he stands.

The Magur's voice starts to speak calmly from somewhere inside Paul's mind.

'We are 78,000 years back in your time and are here to witness the creation of the heart stone. It was the last desperate deed of the ancient people, when we knew we were beaten.'

Paul looks and as he does, he feels himself zooming in on the scene, bodiless, weightless, his consciousness moves closer.

Within the ring around the central stone, he sees people, like the Magur, standing in a circle, holding wooden staffs and torches. Above and around them the air has come alive, swirling patterns hovering and then shrinking into the central stone, like giant, fractal ferns folding themselves away. They shimmer and flow, awash with rainbow colours. He stares fascinated as pattern follows pattern, a continuous succession of geometrical complexity, pyramids, cubes and intersecting circles shrink and vanish into the jagged point of the central stone.

The voice of the Magur continues,

'We placed the energetic blueprint of the planet into the heart stone, hidden from the invader's eyes.'

Paul moves closer still, till he can clearly make out the people's rough leather and fur clothing, their flattened foreheads and short, hair covered bodies, ornamented with necklaces and bracelets of pebbles, small bones and feathers.

As he stares at them, Paul becomes aware of a gentle, droning noise throbbing in the air. It is a subtle sound, reverberating around the stones, rising and falling, the tones from each person blending with the whole sound.

Paul listens intently, feeling the swell of power in these voices, but also their sense of loss, an indefinable sadness woven through the melody. Paul moves closer still, and realizes he is seeing right into the stone, where nestled in its centre he recognizes the now familiar, tiny, egg-shaped crystal. The crystal appears to be pulsing with energy, absorbing the compressed patterns through a network of veins of quartz that lace the inside of the standing stone.

The Magur continues her tale,

'The heart stone was encoded to be reactivated far into humanities future, in the crucial moment when the possibility exists to revive the earth's vitality, heal humanity and shake off the invader's network of control.'

As the voice fades, Paul feels the pressure and warmth of the Magur's finger between his eyes decrease, and as suddenly as it started, he is back in his own time, standing on a road on a damp winters night, facing a small, neanderthal woman.

Anticipating the questions that rushed up to Paul's confused mind, she said,

'There is much more you need to know ... but first we must get you off this road, before we are traced.'

Paul's mind was reeling from the vision he'd just seen. It had felt so vivid, so startlingly real that it demanded to be taken seriously and not fobbed off as a hallucination.

It seemed so unfair that just when he'd decided he wasn't getting involved in this crazy business, this neanderthal, this "Magur" should appear to confound and draw him in again.

Another rain cloud was swept in by a cold gusty wind, its wispy edges turning the bright moon to a dull, opaque disc.

Paul's attention was alerted suddenly by the sight of headlights coming round the bend. A thought of panic leapt to his mind. Could those Agents have come back for him? But it was too late to hide, the car careered round the bend and Paul was caught, flooded by the full beam of the headlights, frozen like a rabbit in the centre of the road.

The car swerved erratically and pulled up alongside him, a repetitive beat reverberating in the quiet night, and Paul saw that it was a tiny Renault 4. He looked behind him but the Magur was gone.

The driver threw the door open and in the weak, interior light Paul saw a grinning face covered in piercing with a pink crew-cut, looking him up and down, as he stood stupefied, rooted to the spot.

'Eh mec!' the driver called, turning the music down, 'tu montes ou quoi?'

Paul realized that he was being offered a lift and shaking himself out of his stupor, he stammered,

'Errr ... merci beaucoup.'

'Yah! Eeeeenglishman cool!' the driver shouted, recognizing his accent.

Paul tried the door.

'That door fucked man - get in other side ...'

He walked round the car and opened the back passenger door.

The two guys in the back seat good-naturedly shuffled over as Paul squeezed in and closed the door.

The driver pulled a gear stick poking out from the dashboard, jamming the car into 1st and turned back to Paul.

'Where you from?'

'London,' Paul replied.

'Hey, you know 'ackney?' he asked delighted, turning back to the road, 'yeah man. Me, Toxico, Kiff-kiff we squat in 'ackney', yeah, you know Dalston lane? Mare street? Good times man! Hey you lucky we take this road man! Night-time, no cars little roads.'

The front passenger turned the volume up again as the driver finished speaking. Paul was engulfed in a pounding techno beat pulsing out from miniature speakers, screwed to brackets, behind his head.

He'd never succeeded in enjoying the repetitive, electronic music young people listened to these days and now was no exception.

The driver, turning, passed him the soggy butt of a joint, shouting,

'What's your name man? I'm Crousti.'

'Paul,' he shouted as he took it and passed it disdainfully to the lanky guy next to him, who toked hard, filling the air between them as he breathed out with a cloud of stale smoke. He too had a face full of piercings, a bullring in his nose and a huge plug with a yin-yang design in the ear nearest him. His tall, starched mohican flattened against the roof of the car as he turned to Paul accusingly,

'Hey, fuck! You're wet man!'

'Yeah, I'm really sorry,' Paul stammered, hoping that this wasn't going to turn ugly. What had he been thinking getting into a car full of drug-taking punks? For all he knew they might be planning on robbing him and leaving him to die in a pool of blood. Not that he had anything to rob.

'You want orange juice?' Toxico asked, moving Paul's dripping coat away from himself.

'Oh, err, yeah, thanks,' said Paul, confused by the change of subject, as he accepted the carton. The car jerked round a bend and the orange juice splashed down Paul's chin and neck.

Crousti turned back in his seat, taking his eyes off the road for far too long in Paul's opinion.

'Where you go man?' he asked.

Paul realized that he didn't have a clue. Where was he going?

Was he still going to the nearest gendarmerie to hand himself in?

Or had the vision he'd seen changed how he felt?

He just didn't know. He needed time to think.

He remembered the signpost he'd seen from the window of Mme Dubois car and said,

'Troyes.'

'Too far man, in pissing rain. Wrong road this,' he pointed past the creaking windscreen wipers at the night beyond to make his point,

'You come chez nous, relax, crash ... morning come ... is much better hitchhike no?'

Toxico nudged Paul in the ribs with his bony elbow, 'Night-time only crazy people on roads ... like us man,' he said grinning insanely.

The guy on the other side of him raised both hands, arms stretched forwards, past the drivers head and burst out with,

'Party people!'

The others joined in with ear-splitting whoops and trills and a long drawn out,

'Ecstacyyyyyy!' almost drowning out the music behind Paul's ears. Another fat cone of a joint was lit in the front, filling the tiny interior of the car with dense smoke. Paul wiped the condensation awkwardly from the window with his already damp coat sleeve and wondered where they were taking him. He could ask to get out, to be dropped off again, but there was nothing out there except the occasional passing tree and an ocean of darkness. Maybe he was better off in a car full of delinquents than back out there in the rain. They at least weren't as threatening as the Agents. Yep, his best bet was to try his luck with them for a bit longer.

Crousti passed him the joint. Paul took it and passed it straight on to Toxico,

'I don't smoke anymore,' he said apologetically.

Toxico shrugged, nodding his head in time to the music and toked. Paul, feeling smothered in the smoke filled, tiny car tried to open the sliding window to let some air in. He noticed that there was a line of moss growing on the sill, and the sliding mechanism seemed to be sticking.

Toxico looked across as Paul struggled to budge it.

'Window fucked man, kaput, like car!' he explained.

Crousti heard him and shouted back,

'Eh! Ta guele toi, espèce de connard!'

Toxico grinned and lent forward,

'C'est un bagnole de merde,' he said, adding for Paul's benefit, 'big shit car.'

'You don't like car, you walk man!'

The banter continued backwards and forwards and Paul let himself slip into his own thoughts.

Was the Magur for real?

How had she found him again?

Where had she vanished to and what about that vision?

The problem was it all felt too damn real for him to pretend he was suffering from some kind of schizophrenic fit.

The car slowed and turned off down a deeply, rutted farm track, throwing the three in the back around on their seat.

What a night, Paul thought, he'd gone from traveling with an aristocrat in a luxury Bentley to this journey squashed up with a bunch of punks in a wreck on wheels.

What was going to happen next?

The headlights panned over some stone farm buildings, a pack of dogs appearing out of nowhere, barking madly. Well, Paul thought, this must be it as they stopped next to a single story farmhouse, a dim light glowing through a dirty window.

'Crazy farm!' announced Crousti proudly, turning the engine off.

Paul opened the door and unfolded himself stiffly from his cramped journey, the collection of mongrel dogs crowding round his feet, sniffing, tails frantically wagging.

Toxico pulled his lanky body out of the car behind Paul and nursing his hair upright said,

'Ehh Crousti, you kill my mohican man!'

Crousti ignored him, bending down to fuss the dogs, he rolled them over and scratched their bellies,

'Eh Jo-jo, tu étais sage? C'est qui le bon chien-chien?'

Together they headed over to the farmhouse, climbed three worn stone steps and pushed open an old, weathered plank door, the dogs surging ahead.

Paul blinked for a moment as his eyes grew accustomed to the light from the single bare bulb that hung from the ceiling, smelling the stale odor of wet dog and tobacco.

The room was long and low, with a stone fireplace at one end in which a couple of huge logs smoldered, ash spilling out on to the rough, flagstone floor. Paul was relieved to note the absence of a television. If they didn't have one, they couldn't see his face on the news. There was a rectangular table in the centre of the room crowded with a chaotic array of dirty coffee cups, full ashtrays, beer cans and half-eaten food. Paul had never seen anything quite so disgusting. This place hadn't seen a decent tidy-up let alone a drop of bleach in a very long time.

Behind the table was an ancient looking stone sink built into the wall, a cold tap on the end of a long copper pipe hanging suspended above it. The sink itself was piled high with dishes and pots and in the corner, Paul could see a collection of overflowing bin-bags. Housework was definitely not their strong point.

Nailed up blankets roughly covered the two, tiny windows, presumably to keep out the cold but even so the room wasn't much warmer than the outside.

A young couple were sprawled on a cheap modern sofa drawn up close to the open fire. The guy looked up lazily and said,

'Eh les gars.'

'Salut Babu, Lili ..."

'C'était bien la teuf?'

The punks crowded into the room and gathered round the fireplace, their boots tracking mud across the filthy floor.

'Ouia, trop cool quoi."

As the guy on the sofa caught sight of Paul, he sat up, his eyes narrowing suspiciously and asked,

'C'est qui ce mec?'

Paul felt a wave of hostility directed towards him and there was a moment of silence as all eyes stared at him, waiting for an explanation.

Paul was acutely aware of how out of place he looked in his newly acquired black overcoat, white shirt, creased trousers, and shiny shoes.

Crousti took a step back, breaking the tension by putting one arm round Paul's shoulder and said,

'Hey! C'est notre Eeenglishman! He's cool mec. We find him on little road.'

Babu and Lili said nothing, obviously unimpressed. Crousti snatched his hand off Paul's shoulder saying,

'Hey, fuck! You make me wet,' and stepped back, fully appraising Paul for the first time, and Paul reddening slightly, mumbled,

'Yeah, I ... er ... sort of fell into a ditch.'

Crousti thought for a moment,

'No problemo,' he said, 'I lend you clothes - you got to change or you get sick ...' and dragged Paul from the room down a dingy corridor reeking of cat's piss and into a bedroom, talking as he went. 'Hey, don't worry 'bout Babu man,' he grinned apologetically, scooping bits of clothing off the mattress onto the floor, 'he smoke too much reefer, always fucking paranoid. Babu think everyone pig!'

Paul's eyes wandered around the small room, taking in the grubby mattress and single bulb dangling from the low ceiling by its grey cable, while Crousti opened a big tin trunk against the far wall and started rummaging. After a few seconds he pulled out and held up a pair of lime-green, furry trousers.

'Hey, these ones punky,' he said, his face lighting up with childlike delight.

Paul winced, there was no way that he would ever wear anything like that.

Faced with a choice, Paul thought, he'd rather get pneumonia than be seen wearing those trousers.

'Err, no thanks ... you don't have any jeans do you?'

Crousti looked momentarily disappointed before he said,

'Hey, no problemo, we nick Babu jeans. He your size.'

He was back in seconds with a pair of ripped, greasy jeans. Paul reckoned that he didn't have much choice and not wanting to seem ungrateful, he accepted them. Crousti found him a tight, black, sleeveless T-shirt with 'Never mind the Bollocks' scrawled across the front and an anarchy A symbol on the back and to finish off, a huge, mohair jumper with a horizontal rainbow fade.

Paul peeled off his wet clothing and shivered. He squeezed into the T-shirt and pulled the jeans on, transferring the contents of his pockets out of his wet, flannel trousers. It seemed totally ludicrous to him that the sum total of his possessions included a cheap street map of Paris, a silver necklace for Elodie that seemed increasingly unlikely to ever get to her and the source of all his troubles, an egg-shaped crystal.

He dropped the enormous, misshapen jumper over his head and pushed his arms through the sleeves. At least there wasn't a mirror, he thought, it would be too humiliating to see what he looked like. Anyway, he only had to wear this strange assemblage till his clothes were dry.

Crousti barged back into the room with a heavy, fur-lined, flying jacket.

'Hey, some guy leave this after party ...'

He looked Paul up and down approvingly, till his eyes rested on Paul's respectable black leather brogues.

'Hey, your shoes shit man. No wonder Babu worried,' he said, turning back to the door and calling over his shoulder, 'lucky I don't see them before, I don't give you lift!'

Paul, clutching his bundle of soggy clothes and feeling more self-conscious than he remembered ever feeling before, followed Crousti back to the kitchen, from where he could hear the angry tones and raised voices of an argument.

As they re-entered, the room fell silent. Babou and Lili got up and left without another word. They brushed past him on their way through the door leaving Paul facing the other four in an awkward silence.

'Hey, I'm really sorry if I'm causing trouble ...' Paul faltered, 'if you want me to go,' his eyes flicked to the wet, dark night beyond the window, 'that's fine ... I'll go'

The silence hung for a moment until Toxico laughed.

'Hey, fuck Babu man! You want some shit to eat?' Toxico mimed putting food into his mouth and Paul grinned with relief. Now that Paul thought about it he realized that he was ravenous and had been for hours.

But what sort of food was he going to get here?

Definitely not the pate de Foie Gras and Don Perignon he had envisaged at the Chateau with Mme Dubois. They might not be too hot on hygiene, but still, beggars couldn't be choosers. Paul accepted gratefully and taking his wet clothes to the fire he hung them to dry over the backs of kitchen chairs.

The atmosphere relaxed as Kiff-kiff loaded more logs on the fire and Crousti put some chill out music on the CD player. Toxico ladled some grayish glop from an enormous, blackened, aluminum pot on the table, its rim encrusted with layers of dried dribbles and presented Paul with a loaded bowl full.

'Casserole like wine,' he stated, 'more old, more better taste.'

Paul had to smile as he spooned the cold lentil, potato and carrot stew into his mouth. It may not have been the 3 course dinner served by a butler in a chateau that he had been looking forward to only a few hours ago, but all the same, he had to admit, it tasted great.

Toxico, seeing Paul smile, puffed himself up proudly,

'I make good chef no?'

Paul nodded and said,

'Oui, very good.'

He focused on his food, chewing and swallowing slowly, hoping that they wouldn't talk to him. He didn't want to chat about himself, why he was here, what he was doing or anything like that.

The punks settled down to smoking joints and chatting amongst themselves, puppies sprawled at their feet, soaking in the heat of the fire. Paul let their conversation and the ambient beats of the music wash over him as he again lapsed into his own thoughts, trying despite his exhaustion to make some sense of what both Mme Dubois and the neanderthal Magur had told him.

The fact that their stories supported each other he supposed, gave them some kind of credibility, but there was just too much that was plain impossible and too much he didn't understand for him to take it onboard. Everything the Magur had done today had confounded the laws of possibility. If it hadn't actually happened to him, he would have thrown the whole business out as total fantasy, but it had, and he just didn't know what to think.

Paul finished his food and got up taking his bowl to the sink and washing it out. The steam was rising from his clothes now and he sat down besides the fireplace, feeling the welcome heat on his face and hands.

He stared into the fire, mesmerized by the licking tongues of flame and flurries of sparks that shot up the chimney, the conversation of his hosts a comforting incomprehensible murmur somewhere behind his thoughts.

There was one question pushing to the forefront of Paul's tired mind that needed asking first.

Who were the Invaders the Magur had mentioned? Were they possibly linked to the allusions Mme Dubois had made in the car chase that evening to, "those who control the controllers" and "those who benefit from keeping the Earth in a weakened state"?

One of the puppies lounging around the ashes of the fire, saturated with heat, rose sleepily to its feet and tottered a few paces back before throwing itself down with a deep contented sigh.

Toxico leant forward rubbing its belly affectionately, whilst the puppies tail lazily flopped up and down.

Paul watched him, looking from his enormous, spiky, green mohican, to his ears, nose and eyebrows loaded with piercings, a realization slowly dawning on him. He'd always presumed that young people who made themselves look so different, so aggressively radical were inherently antisocial, filled with negativity and anger, but now, seeing Toxico soppily stroking the puppy, he realized that he might be wrong. They had shown him, a soaked stranger on a deserted road nothing but generosity and acceptance. Would he have been so charitable if their positions had been swopped?

He thought not.

Kiff Kiff passed him a joint and on impulse, instead of passing it straight on, Paul took a tentative toke. The tobacco was rough on his throat as he inhaled but the taste was not unpleasant. He had smoked the odd joint when he was at college doing his A levels years ago but had never got into it, always preferring a good honest pint of beer.

He exhaled the smoke into the fire, watching it drawn by the heat up the chimney and away.

Jesus, if Tara could see him now sat here, holding a joint, dressed like a freak with a bunch of techno-punks, what would she think?

In fact, shit! Tara, and Chris and Julie had probably seen him on the news or online, wanted by the police for suspected terrorism.

They would know it wasn't true, wouldn't they?

Paul felt suddenly desperate, the effects of the cannabis amplifying his anxiety and he put his head into his hands as the extent of the mess he was in flooded back into his mind.

Crousti called across to him,

'Hey man! You OK?' a look of concern on his face.

'Oh yeah, just had a bit of a long day, I guess,' Paul replied looking up, thinking ironically that that was probably the biggest understatement he'd ever made.

'You wanna sleep? You take my bed,' Crousti offered, adding with a grin, when Paul started to politely refuse,

'It's cool, when I come down, I crash on settee.'

Paul realised the offer was genuine. He dragged himself up out of the chair,

'Thanks for everything guys and good night,' he said, feeling a bit foolish for his stiff formality.

As he left the room Crousti added,

'No problemo. When I go to London you do same for me yeah?'

Paul couldn't help but smile at the incongruity of the image, trying to picture Crousti in his tidy, well-furnished flat. As long as it wasn't a weekend that he had the kids, Tara would probably take him for a role-model.

Christ! If Crousti was his son, they'd spend their time arguing about how he should get it together, get a job, tidy up etc., etc.

He padded back down the dark corridor to Crousti's room.

Paul took off his shoes but decided to leave his clothes on, away from the kitchen the house was freezing. As he arranged the stained quilt and smelly blankets on the mattress and rolled up the sheepskin jacket as a pillow, he thought of his own bed and the one he'd shared with Julie with a pang of longing.

He looked at the smashed face of his expensive swiss watch, the buckled hands jammed at twenty five to eleven, reluctant to take it off and throw it away. Maybe he'd be able to get it fixed when he got back to London, if he ever got back there.

It must be getting toward morning he reckoned and pulling the weight of bedding around himself and sighing, he lay back, hoping for sleep.

A few hours later Paul woke up, his eyes popping open in the surrounding darkness. The heap of blankets were twisted around his legs and he was uncomfortably hot despite the damp, coldness of the air in the room.

'Jesus Christ,' he breathed as the memory of the previous evening flooded back to him, the weight of reality heavy on his mind.

Paul heaved himself up and felt his way carefully to the light switch on the wall, blinking as the squalor of Crousti's bedroom snapped into illumination.

He pushed open the door into the dark corridor and felt his way along towards the toilet.

The pulse of trance music was still coming from the kitchen. He clicked on the single bathroom light bulb. If the kitchen could be described as "filthy", it was nothing compared to the bathroom, Paul thought, eyeing the shelf cluttered with squeezed out toothpaste tubes and empty hairspray cans. The whole room had the faint but unpleasant odor of stale urine and damp and the toilet bowl was stained brown around the rim, Paul noticed with distaste.

He turned on the tap to wash his hands. It gurgled and burped for a moment before letting out some faintly brown, icy water, which swirled around the dirty sink before sinking down the hair-clogged plug hole. The general squalor of the punks house reflected his feelings of depression and gloom. What was he going to do when the cold light of tomorrow dawned? he wondered. He padded groggily back down the dark corridor to his bed and pulling the covers over himself, he lay down, staring into the pitch darkness overhead.

The responsibility of his choices felt too overwhelming for him to come to a decision.

Should he do what the Magur woman, Mme Dubois and Elodie wanted? Or should he put himself and his family first by turning the crystal in to the police?

It would be so much easier if events would slow down enough for him to think straight and make his own informed decisions. Maybe what was needed was some objectivity? Tomorrow, he resolved, he'd phone Julie and perhaps his lawyer and get some level-headed advice. Feeling better for having come to a decision, Paul drifted once again into the blissful freedom of sleep.

Paul is standing alone in a large, empty cinema.

In front of him, row after row of empty seats run down to a rippling, red curtain covering the screen.

Suddenly, loud dramatic music blasts out around him and the lighting slowly fades.

Paul quickly steps into the nearest row, unfolds a velvet covered seat and sits down.

The curtains pull back smoothly revealing the screen.

He looks on.

There is a moment of silence and then a mighty fleet of black craft burst onto the screen, flying in a tight, orderly formation, high up in the sky.

Hundreds of triangular machines, like no aircraft that Paul has ever seen.

The noise is terrifying.

A deep, oppressive, rumbling vibration pushes him deeper into his seat.

Close up there is something disturbingly organic about the craft, their shiny, black bodies glittering with scales, half primeval flying reptile, half machine.

Paul feels their malignant consciousness searching, scanning down over the surface of the Earth.

A shiver passes up his spine as the scene on the screen changes, growing until it encircles and encompasses everything and the theatre vanishes.

Paul is crouching behind a large, granite outcrop, dense, leafy forest all around him.

He feels the dampness of the moss against his skin and smells the rich complexity of the leaf-mould and soil beneath his feet.

He hears the approaching engine and a surge of fear passes through his body.

Looking up through the mottled greens and yellows of the canopy above him, he sees nothing but the shards of sunlight shimmering through the ever moving leaves.

But the noise is getting louder.

Adrenaline rushes through his veins.

He knows there are others concealed like himself, throughout the sloping woodland.

Suddenly, the air around him explodes.

The forest is a chaos of flying earth and stones, torn branches, searing heat and acrid smoke.

Paul buries his head in his arms as more explosions ricochet through the valley.

He looks up and devastation meets his eyes.

A craft lands in the gaping crater of blasted, bare soil.

Tall, black-armored men charge out, two, four, ten, twenty, too many to count.

Two by two they return with captured natives.

Small dark skinned people, defeated, injured, dragged between them.

His interest overriding his fear,

Paul follows,

stealthy, unseen, into the belly of the craft.

The Commander's heals echo on the steel floor, as he paces,

tall and powerful, scanning the miserable, huddled captives.

He too is dressed in black body armor,

his skin ageless and pale to the point of translucence.

Paul looks on,

feeling his way into the Commander's blank, sterile consciousness,

He is intelligent, focused and chillingly effective,

devoid of love or fear, as he makes his judgement,

pointing to three females.

Elodie December 17th

Elodie sat back in her chair and running her fingers through her cropped hair she looked away from the flickering, computer screen and around the bar. Even though it was only 3 p.m. it was over half full, the air filled with the hum of voices chatting over coffee and the rattle of backgammon dice.

Elodie decided she'd done enough for now and logged herself out of the computer, before stretching and yawning luxuriously.

She knew it was time she left the area. Once the last couple of hours of her work was picked up on, they'd soon trace it back to this computer address and before she knew it they'd have all routes out of Amsterdam cordoned off and road blocked.

She scooped the pile of 2 Euro coins at her elbow back into her bag and rubbed her eyes again, trying to clear her pixilated vision.

One thing she could definitely not afford at this moment was unnecessary risk or complacency.

She'd read this morning's papers without too much surprise. It was as she'd suspected, the raid in England had not been isolated but part of a co-ordinated strategy, and the Society had been raided throughout its European headquarters, the members, including her parents, held for questioning.

Elodie spun her chair around away from the row of partitioned, grey PC's and reached into her donkey jacket pocket for her newly bought stainless steel pipe and plastic bag of opiated hash. The effects didn't agree with her, her normally sharp mind becoming inclined to pointless rambling and the only way she could hold a sense of urgency and counteract the lethargy was with continual cups of black coffee.

Still, if a drug-clouded mind was what it would take to avoid detection, it was a sacrifice worth making. Elodie loaded the pipe yet again, smiling to herself at the irony of the situation. Here she was, Elodie Sauveterre Dubois, the girl who'd dedicated her entire life to purifying her mind and body ready for this moment, sat in a bar in Amsterdam, stoned out of her mind. But worse than that, not only was she, the last of the twelve at liberty, forced to conceal her vibration in a drug-induced fog, but the role of crystal bearer had fallen into the hands of her untrained and infatuated, clueless neighbour.

She drew hard on the pipe, holding the smoke in her lungs for several seconds before exhaling and then reached for the remains of her last double expresso which she gulped back.

Elodie stood up, squeezing into her bulky leather and donkey jacket combo and picking up her full face helmet. Outside, on the street, U-locked onto a lamppost, Elodie could see her purchase of this morning; a scruffy, matt-black Harley Davidson. As soon as she'd seen it she'd loved the look of its shiny twin cylinders, single leather seat, and the smooth line of its chromed mudguard. It was an old bike that had been reconditioned and rebuilt and despite the price, she'd bought it instantly. Now, she knew, was not the moment to quibble about a few thousand Euros.

... Here was another thing her mother could be grateful to Jean Louis for, after all, hadn't he taught her how to ride his trials bikes around the woods and meadows of the Chateau estate?

Elodie pulled the U-lock carefully through the spokes of the back wheel and stowed it in her shoulder bag. She put her helmet and gloves on, swung her leg over the bike and kicked the side stand up. It would be good, she thought, to see a bit of open road, especially after so many hours of staring at a screen and tapping feverishly at a keyboard. She turned on the petrol supply, pulled out the choke and pressed the red starter button as she'd been shown. Instantly the engine caught. It sounded good, deep and throaty. She pulled out slowly into the traffic, turning left at the lights onto Herengracht and following the canal away from the city centre.

There were so many things she didn't know, so many possible problems. She wondered how Paul was managing. He obviously still had the crystal but quite how he'd find Alesia and hand it to her, she didn't know. Yet despite these worries, Elodie felt good. As the bike engine opened up, the tarmac streaking by beneath her, Elodie knew it was all up to her. If everything she'd been taught about the crystal was true, if it really was the one thing that would free human society from the imposed frequency of control, then it was imperative she carried out her plan and succeeded in helping Paul evade capture.

The Commander: December 17th.

The Commander turned slowly, calmly surveilling the three Agents respectfully lined up in front of him. Between them, the holographic image of planet earth revolved serenely on its axis, suspended a foot above the slab of marble table.

Dressed in a well-cut suit, his thin grey hair carefully combed back over his high, domed skull, the Commander looked disquietingly human, if it were not for his eyes, almost reptilian in their lack of emotion.

'So, not only did our Mr Sutherland slip through the security net ... ' the Commander said, picking the name "Mr Sutherland" out slowly, syllable by syllable with evident distaste, 'but now it seems he has disappeared without trace ...'

Even though he spoke quietly, his words were loaded with displeasure and sarcasm. The Agents knew it and stood rigidly before him, not saying anything as the Commander paced slowly in front of them, every second filled with increasing tension. Finally, one Agent spoke up.

'Sir, are you sure he is dangerous?' The Commander stared at him expressionlessly as he nervously continued. 'The 12th anomaly is still missing ... should we not concentrate on her?'

Instead of replying the Commander tapped a couple of digits into a keypad on the table. The hologram of Earth instantly vanished to be replaced by a three-dimensional life-sized image of Paul's head, revolving eerily in the air. Next to it, a computerized LED graph flickered showing a scan of his neural circuitry.

'What do you see here?' he asked.

The Agents remained silent, unsure of how to respond.

'I shall tell you,' he said, resuming his pacing. 'What you see here is a nobody, an uneducated, untrained human mind,' he paused at the end of the room and turned, 'the sort of mind that should present no significant problems for us to apprehend. Agreed?'

The Agents nodded soberly.

'Well, what I wish to know is this,' the Commander's voice was steadily rising, 'firstly how he evaded us in Paris? And secondly, how he remains un-apprehended 24 hours later?' he thundered, glaring at each Agent in turn. 'From his actions I can only conclude that he is the crystal carrier, that he has help from an unknown source and is therefore the most dangerous human alive.'

The Commander gave his Agents another long look to make sure they fully comprehended his words, then changing his tone he asked briskly,

'What are we doing about it?'

The Agent in the middle stepped forward,

'We have given it top priority media coverage throughout Europe. We have intensified thought monitoring in the Parisian area. All phone calls and e-mails are being screened for references to "crystal" and "Alesia". And of course police have set up road blocks and searches on all routes out of Paris.'

The Commander nodded thoughtfully and touched the keypad again, Paul's disembodied head being replaced by a detailed map of Northern and Eastern France. He raised a hand to the map, on the point of speaking, when he was interrupted by the voice of a computer technician from the far side of the room.

'Sir? We have a dimensional interference pattern.'

The Commander's attention snapped round,

'Where?' he demanded.

Instantly the image of the map homed in on an area south east of Paris, about 30 kms from Troyes, where a tiny, red light could be seen repeatedly flashing.

The Commander stared at it intently for a second,

'Either the missing twelfth anomaly has reappeared, or, as I suspect, we have found our Mr. Sutherland,' he said with satisfaction, before turning to the Agents, 'you know what to do.'

The three Agents turned as one, ready to exit the room, when the Commander spoke again.

'There is no need to emphasize the seriousness of the situation, so close to the end-time. When Re returns for the harvest I have no desire to look a fool. Do your job and do not fail!' he ordered and the Agents once again turned to leave.

Paul: December 17th

'Hey Eeenglishman! Time for wake up!'

Paul opened his eyes blearily, Crousti's grinning face and offensively bright pink hair only inches away.

'Uuuh, oh thanks,' Paul mumbled, trying to dispel the feeling of dread and terror from his dream which still dominated his mind.

He felt exhausted, his chin rough with a days growth of stubble and his mouth and tongue dry and furry.

' You sleep long man, you wanna drink?' Crousti asked, offering him a half-drunk bottle of lager.

Paul accepted, hoping it might wash the staleness from his mouth and propping himself up on one elbow he took a swig before handing it back.

'Yeah man,' Crousti continued, sitting down on the end of the bed, 'you got to go, Babu paranoid crazy man.' He shrugged apologetically at Paul, who, pulling the covers off himself sat up.

Outside, through the window he could see the rain had stopped, though heavy grey clouds were still racing by. The disturbingly vivid dreams he'd experienced were fresh in his mind but he pushed them back, remembering his night-time resolve to get some advice on how to extricate himself from this mess.

'You come with me, man. I go make business in Troyes.'

'OK, thanks,' Paul replied, standing up.

There was nothing to do but go with the flow, Paul realized. At least, in Troyes, he could find a phone, reverse the charges to England and get some advice. The dreams, well, there'd be time to think about them and what they meant later.

Crousti opened the door to leave, turning back in the doorway he said,

'Oh - big shit with your clothes man.'

'What do you mean?' Paul asked, following Crousti down the corridor into the kitchen.

The question answered itself as Paul's sleepy eyes took in the scene in front of him. The chair he'd carefully placed his overcoat on to dry had been knocked over and the coat now lay half in the fire ashes, one shoulder and sleeve charred black. On the other side of the fireplace a group of three puppies were lying contentedly chewing on the ripped remains of his shirt and trousers.

'We crash, wake up too late,' said Crousti, regretfully.

The only thing he had left were his damp, black brogues. Crousti, seeing Paul's crestfallen face, slapped him cheerfully on the back.

'Hey don't worry man. I give you clothes, I come get them in London -'

Paul looked down at himself, from the greasy jeans with frayed knees to the ridiculously large mohair jumper that Crousti was generously donating him.

There was nothing to say but thank you, but inside himself Paul felt a mounting mixture of shock, anger and frustration. He knew he could hardly blame Crousti for the puppies destruction, but still ...

Paul ran his fingers disconsolately over the singed edges of the coat.

God! As if losing his phone, jacket, wallet, passport and luggage wasn't enough ...

If it wasn't so damn depressing it could have been funny, he thought, as he eased his feet into the damp leather of his shoes.

Crousti was bending over the table, carefully scraping some white powder into a line with a razor blade on a scrap of mirror. Paul watched as he rolled up a 10 Euro note and snorted the line neatly up one nostril. He straightened up and seeing Paul watching, asked grinning, 'You want some low-fat, high-energy petit dej?'

Paul declined. It was one thing having a toke on a joint but he didn't see that whacking class A drugs up his nose was going to help his predicament.

Crousti looked a mess, Paul thought, from his unhealthy, pasty complexion to his manic grin. Did he really want to be driven by someone on drugs, he asked himself? But then again did he really have much choice?

Toxico, who'd been quietly sat at the kitchen table, fiddling with his mobile phone, burst out excitedly,

'Ay Crousti! Regarde un peu ca!'

He waved his phone toward Paul and Crousti, both standing by the open front door.

'C'est quoi alors?'

'Il y a un MegaTechnival en trois jours, près de Besancon.'

'Ah bon,' Crousti seemed to catch his infectious enthusiasm. 'Il faut y aller quoi!'

Toxico grinned at Paul,

'Hey, you make party with us yes?'

Paul smiled with an effort. He couldn't quite imagine it but not wanting to disappoint his hosts who'd given him so much, he replied,

'Yeah ... maybe ... See you there and thanks again ...' before Crousti hustled him out into the cold windy afternoon.

In daylight the farm looked a disreputable state. The front yard was taken up with a brightly painted UV caravan, black bin bags badly taped over its broken windows, and a large ratty Mercedes van, its front wheels off and front axle blocked up on lumps of wood. Next to it, on a stained patch of spilt oil, he could see a slowly rusting gear box and bell housing.

'That Babu van,' Crousti declared scornfully, 'he no good mechano, always break things.'

When they reached the yellow Renault 4, Paul squeezed into the passenger seat, kicking the collection of empty drinks cartons and tobacco packets aside.

The dashboard, Paul saw, was covered thickly in a riot of colorful stickers.

Crousti pulled the choke out and turned the ignition, frowning in concentration until the engine finally caught, when his face broke into a broad smile.

'They say Crousti car shit but ha!' He slapped the steering wheel triumphantly, 'not like Babu tas de ferraille Mercedes.'

He put the car into first and they crawled out of the farmyard onto the rutted track, Crousti steering round the deepest potholes, front wheels spinning on the mud and wet grass at the edge of the track. They pulled out onto the empty road, the pitch of the tiny engine's whine getting higher and higher as Crousti worked his way up through the gears.

Suddenly, Paul felt an unusual sensation on the back of his neck as though all the hairs were standing on end.

He turned in his seat to look behind and saw, slowing down to turn into the punk's track, a procession of police cars, followed by an ominous black 4x4 with tinted windows.

Shit! It couldn't be!

How could they have possibly known he was there? Paul thought in a panic, as the police cars were lost from sight. He turned round again in his seat, his heart beating rapidly. The line he'd heard the Agent say yesterday at the Gare du Nord jumped clearly into his mind again, "monitor all thought patterns," and Paul made a conscious effort to breathe and focus on what Crousti was saying, wondering if he'd just crossed the border between paranoid and downright crazy.

Crousti hadn't noticed a thing and was still happily chatting about his car, 'don't listen to Toxico and the others, this car is good car ... I go everywhere in this car ... clubs in Paris ... free parties, festivals ... you know ...' he said, gesturing at the array of stickers plastered in front of them.

Paul forced himself to breathe to contain his fear. How long would it be until they'd searched the punk's house and were on his tail, he wondered?

Crousti's animated monologue didn't seem to need any encouragement.

'Yeah man, with internet, you know, Facebook, Twitter, we tell all the party people ... but must be clever, don't want no pigs find out man! You know what to do?' he asked, throwing Paul an intensely questioning look and not waiting for an answer continued, 'you keep place secret ... and then ... last minute ... Kablam! Big Party Time yeah!'

Paul glanced again behind him. The road was empty, no sign of the pursuing blue gendarmerie cars, or worse still, that powerful looking 4x4.

Crousti seemed to have read Paul's mind and glancing in his mirror said,

'Hey man, we take little road innit? No hurry. No flics, no hassle with control, assurance, you know ... "

Paul didn't know, he'd never driven an illegal car, or whilst under the influence of a class A drug, but he was more than happy to go with Crousti's decision, who flicked his indicator switch and pulled the little car off the long, straight, main road and down a single track lane on the right.

'So man, you never say what you do in Troyes?' Crousti asked.

'Errr, ... well ... ' Paul tried to think. 'I'm passing through, you know, on my way somewhere else.'

Crousti gave him a long, searching look, his forehead creased in puzzlement, before saying,

'No man, Troyes is cool town, many bars, many hot women yeah?'

Paul decided if he was going to trust anyone, it might as well be Crousti,

'Well, actually, I'm going to a place called Alesia, but, I'm not quite sure where it is ...' he faltered. Even as he said it, Paul surprised himself. Had his unconscious mind made the decision to take on this crazy mission without informing the rest of his brain?

Hadn't he decided to get a second opinion, establish his legal rights before he did anything?

It would be handy to know where the hell it was, he supposed, before he decided if he was going to even try to get there. To his amazement, Crousti's face lit up with a grin of recognition.

'Alesia man! Everyone in France know Alesia, but we don't talk about it.'

Paul waited,

'So, it's ...?' he prompted.

'Is where Romans kill Gauls yeah?' Paul looked blank. 'You don't know Asterix the Gaul?' Crousti asked, amazed by Paul's ignorance. 'Man, it tells everything ... I know all history from Asterix.'

'So ...' Paul paused, asking directions from someone whose concept of history and geography came from a comic strip didn't give him much confidence, 'where is it then?'

'Oh ...' Crousti waved his hand vaguely at the surrounding countryside saying, 'past Dijon man, long way, in Jura, I think. Why you wanna go there?'

Paul was momentarily at a loss for words. It was one thing admitting the name of Alesia but quite another to explain quite why he was going there.

'Oh, it's a long story, complicated you know,' he mumbled, letting the conversation lapse, with just the whining Renault engine breaking the silence. Paul spotted a tattered road map tucked into the passenger door pocket, pulled it out and turned to the index, trying to read the printed list of town names as the little car swayed and bounced over the uneven tarmac.

"Albi, ... Alby-sur-Cheran, Alencon, ... Aleria ... Ales ... Alise St Reine ..." Paul read carefully down the list. No, there was no mention of "Alesia" there. Was it too small a place to get on the roadmap or could it have changed its name and be called something completely different now? He didn't know.

The kilometers ticked by and Paul was glad that Crousti didn't push him any further, instead humming enthusiastically and weaving across the road, until finally they pulled up at a crossing of a Route Nationale.

'Nearly there man!'

A couple of trucks roared by and Crousti, waiting for a gap in the traffic pulled the tiny, yellow car onto the main road.

There were more houses here and advertising boards along the roadside for supermarkets and DIY stores.

Paul's mind returned to his immediate problems. Going right into town in broad daylight just didn't seem wise, what with his face probably plastered over this morning's national papers.

No, he'd best wait till nightfall, which wasn't far away now and then he could sneak in under the partial cover of darkness. Would the Agents have found out he'd gone to Troyes? He'd best get out before the ring road to be safe.

As they slowed at a roundabout approach, Paul leaned toward Crousti,

'Can I get out here please ...'

'You don't want meet friends?' Crousti looked genuinely disappointed.

'Well, not with these shoes,' Paul joked.

'Oh, OK man ...' he shrugged and pulled the car over, one wheel on the verge and Paul climbed out, leaning back in to shake Crousti by the hand.

'Thanks for everything, bed, food, clothes, I really appreciate it ...' On an impulse he picked up an empty cigarette packet from the foot well and a biro from the clutter on the dash and scribbled an address.

'If you're ever in England, you're more than welcome to stay.' He handed the scrap of cardboard to the grinning Crousti, slammed the door closed and watched as the battered little yellow car pulled off the verge onto the roundabout.

Paul felt surprisingly emotional watching Crousti drive off, as if they'd been close friends for years rather than having met less than 24 hrs ago.

It wasn't until the car was out of sight and he'd swallowed the lump in his throat that Paul realized he'd written Julie's address on the cigarette packet.

He wondered why for a moment. It felt strange, as though his flat in London was a chapter in his life that had closed at the moment when Elodie had leapt through the loft hatch, and he couldn't quite imagine himself returning there. But he was hardly going to turn up on Julie's doorstep, give her a peck on the cheek and settle down on the sofa, either.

Shit!

What was he going to do?

Where was he going to live when he got home, if he got home?

More to the point, what was he going to do now for Chrissake?

He noticed passing car drivers staring at him. Had they recognized his face from the news? Or was it his incongruous assortment of clothing?

He didn't know but one thing was clear, it was time to get out of sight.

Apart from the Route Nationale that he'd just come down, which led onward past the out of town commercial sprawl into Troyes, there were smaller roads leading off to either side.

Looking left, Paul could see the identical red tiled roofs of a new housing estate.

Where there were houses there were people who might recognize him. Turning to the right, Paul saw the road passed under the motorway bridge and away into the distance. Maybe he could shelter under it until darkness fell, which couldn't be far away now.

Paul strode along, under the heavy grey skies, the dull roar of the traffic on the motorway carried towards him by the gusty wind, his mind magnetized back to the mystery of the Magur woman.

There was something about her, he pondered, his black brogues squelching with every step, that was unnervingly compelling, demanding his attention, but he'd be nuts to believe some neanderthal apparition from the past, rather than his own good sense. Everything had happened so fast, Paul just hadn't had time to think it all through and weigh up the evidence. Would he even be able to explain to Julie the complications he was struggling to comprehend?

For example, that dream last night.

The images hadn't hazed over and faded back into a recess of his mind like dreams normally did but instead they were there, the whole sequence embedded on his memory, the feeling of fear still vividly in reach.

Could it be his own stress and anxiety, or had the Magur put them in his mind? Was she trying to tell him Earth had been invaded by aliens?

Because if she was, she'd taken things one more step beyond credibility, he decided.

But what about the Agents? They were certainly real, Paul could vouch for that, and how in God's name had they known where he'd stayed last night?

The motorway bridge was closer now and Paul could see the steady stream of trucks and cars passing across it and away into the distance.

As he neared the bridge, Paul caught sight of something moving in the shadows beneath the bulky concrete pillars. Someone was there already!

Could it be an Agent?

He checked his step, wary, ready to turn and run.

He was no more than ten paces away when the figure stepped out into the open and Paul let out a huge breath of relief, aware suddenly of quite how tense he'd been.

Paul wished for a moment he had a camera. The picture in front of him of the Magur, her snaking ornament hung dreadlocks, her roughly stitched cape of animal fur and the gnarled wooden staff she carried, made a spectacular contrast to the stark, modern reality of the graffiti-scrawled, concrete underpass.

The Magur's face wrinkled into a smile as she stood motionless, calmly awaiting him, and immediately Paul could feel her enigmatic magic working on him, melting his resolve, bending him to her will. He'd have to tell her of his decision before he faltered.

'You know Agents turned up this morning?' he blurted out as they stood face to face.

Her smile faded as she replied, 'Yes, I know. Every time the fabric of reality is opened, it is visible to the Invaders. If I am going to teach you what I need to, we are going to have to be very careful.'

She fell into step beside him and together they walked on under the bridge, the traffic thundering over their heads.

'So that 'was' you, making me dream that stuff. I knew it!' Paul declared.

'Yes,' the Magur replied, 'In order to comprehend the importance of your role at this crucial moment, I believe some knowledge of the events of your history is essential.'

Paul protested,

'I do know my history,' he asserted, as they came out of the shadow of the bridge under the open sky. 'No, I'm sorry, but if that stuff in my dream about alien invasions had really happened they'd have left some traces, some artifacts. Archaeologists would have found something and we'd know about it. It would be written into the history books.'

The Magur turned her dark eyes filled with compassion towards him,

'You know nothing,' she stated, 'beyond what you have been taught. Your version of history has been edited and rewritten countless times till nothing of the truth remains.'

She paused briefly and Paul could hear only the receding noise of traffic buffeted on the wind and the steady squelch from his wet shoes.

'You must understand the history of your planet has been purposefully concealed in order to control you.'

Paul looked up at the clouds racing over the surrounding expanse of grey, stubble covered fields. He took a deep breath and tried to put his thoughts into some kind of order of priority. He felt the Magur was already taking his mind off at a tangent he didn't necessarily want to go down.

'OK, OK, lets just suppose the alien Invaders and the Agents are the same, yeah? And all that stuff in my dream really happened; the invasion, taking the people captive and now they're secretly controlling the planet right?' The Magur nodded, listening. 'Well, what I want to know is what's it got to do with me? Why should I take on your crystal carrying job?'

The Magur was silent a moment before replying,

'You have been chosen ... I do not know why. Now you are involved, you have seen too much of the Agents for them to let you off free. If you hand yourself in, you have everything to lose. Those who discover the invader's true identity do not walk away alive.'

'Well, what about Elodie's society?' Paul countered.

'They, unlike you, have no direct knowledge of the Agents.'

'I could ditch the crystal first, they can't prove a thing,' Paul stated.

'You do not comprehend what you are up against ... With their advanced technology they can read your mind as easily as I can.'

Paul remembered the sneer of contempt on the Agents face back in his flat, as he'd said "he knows nothing", and that unreal sentence he'd overheard in the Gare du Nord. Could she be right?

'Yes of course I am right,' she said, 'That Agent in your flat was looking into your mind. He could see that you knew nothing ... but now you do.'

Paul stared open mouthed at her for a moment,

'No, I don't believe it! That was just luck!' Paul declared, thoroughly unnerved by the way she'd continued the thread of conversation as if his thoughts had been spoken aloud.

'OK then, what am I thinking now?' he challenged, searching around in his mind for a random memory, something the Magur couldn't possibly know about. An image of Julie's Volvo engine blowing up popped into his mind, the suddenness of the bang and the plume of black smoke streaming from under the bonnet.

The Magur said,

'You had argued that morning with your wife about your plans to move out. She left in anger, with your children, ready for school. You followed her to the door ...' She smiled smugly before continuing, 'The explosion made you jump and she has been driving your car ever since.'

Paul's jaw dropped, astounded, as the Magur continued to speak.

'It's as easy for the Invaders to read your thoughts as it is for me, although the process is different. You can never conceal the part you have already played in this story.'

Paul thought for a moment. If the Magur could read his mind like that, why not the Invaders as well? If what she was telling him was really true, he was in trouble.

'Indeed,' smiled the Magur, 'our only option is forward. But it is imperative that you separate your thoughts from both the crystal and Alesia.'

'Well, that's all very well for you to say but how can I, with it sat here burning a hole in my pocket?'

'If either of them come into your consciousness, breathe and focus yourself on the moment, on the things that surround you, the mundane.'

Paul looked perplexed and shrugged,

'Well, I'll try,' he conceded.

'Trying not to think of it is useless, you must actively direct your thoughts elsewhere or they will trace you.'

'OK,' he said slowly, trying to bring the conversation back to the point, 'understanding that this crystal,' he patted his pocket, 'is so damn important and I'm not allowed to think about it, why don't you take it yourself?'

'I cannot,' the Magur replied, 'I am anchored to the past. The opening at solstice will be in your time, your dimension and it must be someone from here and now who places the crystal and re-connects my dimension to yours. Besides,' the Magur smiled, 'I believe you will need me on the other side to help create the opening.'

A thought struck Paul suddenly, 'So if Elodie was doing it, like she was obviously meant to, you wouldn't have had to help?'

'No, she had been trained in dimensional jumping. You have not.'

Paul wrinkled his forehead in confusion, 'I don't get it,' he stated, 'I mean, so where are you from?'

'As I have said, I live in a next door dimension, existing parallel with your own. A handful of us Magur have survived and managed to live on, hidden, in a time-sealed reality, waiting for this moment to be reunited with you.'

As far as Paul could see, this was getting more and more complicated and further and further from the issue he wanted to sort out, each statement of the Magur's throwing up another handful of questions, branching off at different angles.

'Hang on - let's get this clear. Elodie can't do it cause she's on the run somewhere. You can't do it because ... of all that stuff, but, why can't someone else do it? I bet there are loads of people who'd jump at the job.'

'I believe you have been chosen. All things are layered with purpose and meaning. Besides,' she continued, 'we are short of time to find another crystal bearer and you, at least, have met the Invaders and have no other options.'

The answer wasn't totally satisfactory but Paul passed it by as another question sprang to mind.

'OK, so say it has to be me who takes this crystal to Alesia and suppose I manage without getting caught, what's it going to do? I mean, how's it going to help anything?'

'You can think of the crystal as the spark that will jump start the Earth's energy grid -'

Paul interrupted, 'Energy grid? Is that the same thing as ley-lines?'

'Yes, the ley-lines transmit the pulse of life throughout the planet and it is this pulse that gives all beings their life-force. The crystal will reopen the grid and once the original earth-lines are restored, the Invaders will be forced to leave.'

'What, just like that?' Paul asked.

'The vibration will be too high for them to maintain physicality.'

Paul looked quizzically across at the Magur as she continued.

'The Invaders only hold control in your reality by creating their own electromagnetic grid. Through their skill with technology they use antennae to broadcast the frequency that allows them to access Earth.'

'So, to break this down a bit,' said Paul, 'I put the crystal in your stone circle, the Agents vanish, the "terrorist" charge against me will be dropped, I'll get my passport and wallet back, get out of these daft clothes and go home and see my kids?'

The Magur smiled, her eyes twinkling,

'If you succeed ... yes.'

Paul thought hard, his forehead creased in concentration. Was he really going to let her talk him into this madness? Or should he stick to his guns and phone Julie and his lawyer?

'Everyone connected with you is being monitored. The moment you pick up a telephone your call will be traced,' the Magur quietly informed him.

Shit! She was probably right.

Maybe the best way to get his life back would be to do as she wanted. He was going to have to make a decision one way or the other. He strode along, hoping the gusty wind that blew cold on his face and sent his hair flying behind him, would blow some clarity into his befuddled mind.

Finally, he shrugged and said,

'I'm pretty good at jumping ditches but I've not a clue about jumping dimensions.' Paul looked the Magur straight in the eye, 'I guess, what I'm trying to say is, just so we're both clear, I haven't understood half of what you've said,' he took a much needed breath, 'but, the way my options are looking, you tell me where to go and what to do and how to do it and I'll give it a shot. Reserving the right to quit if I want,' he added quickly.

The winter afternoon had been darkening as they walked, and now, coming down the road towards them, its headlights cutting through the dusk, Paul could see a car approaching.

'We would be wise to hide,' the Magur said, ducking down into the ditch at the roadside and pushing through a thin, straggly, thorn hedge. Paul followed slightly less gracefully, holding his jacket around himself to prevent it getting snagged. The car passed by without incident and Paul let himself be led around the edge of the field towards a small copse on the far side.

The walking was tough going in the fading light, the mud sticking to Paul's shoes, making his feet heavy and clumpy, and the straw stubble scratched his ankles. They walked in silence for a while, Troyes just visible as an orange glow reflected onto the clouds behind them.

When they reached the copse, they stopped and Paul leant against the mossy bark of a tree, needing to catch his breath for a moment.

When the Magur started walking again, Paul followed, finding a peculiar relief and freedom in relinquishing resistance, letting go of responsibility for his actions.

They skirted the edge of the copse in single file before cutting diagonally across a grassy field and squeezing through the strands of a barbed wire fence to find themselves once again on the side of a road. Two cars streaked by in a roar of noise and glare of headlights before Paul and the Magur gingerly climbed up the embankment to stand on the tarmac. As they started to walk again, another question in this riddle sprang to mind. What was the significance of winter solstice 2012, he wondered? Why did it have to be that specific moment, just three days from now?

Although he hadn't asked the question aloud, the Magur answered him, smoothly continuing their conversation as if there had been no break in its flow.

'The iron core of planet Earth will be in perfect alignment with the Galactic centre at that moment.'

'Galactic centre? What's that when it's at home?'

'It is as it sounds,' she replied, 'the centre of the galaxy around which we revolve. The moment of alignment is a time of great power and potential for change. You can think of it as the magic hour, when all things become possible.'

Paul was confused and waited for a further explanation,

'This moment has the potential for the installation of a new frequency on the planet,' the Magur continued. 'There are three possible outcomes from this point,' she said, trudging steadily ahead, her silhouette hazy in the evening gloom. Paul jogged to keep up, the clutching tendrils of roadside brambles catching on his legs.

'Which are?' he panted as he fell in step with her.

'One, if we succeed in installing the new frequency the Invader's power will be broken and humanities DNA will have the conditions it needs to re-connect and heal.'

'Sounds all very jolly,' Paul replied sarcastically, 'What about number 2?'

'If we fail to place the crystal, the Invaders hold the planet for another galactic cycle, climaxing in another armageddon and humanities enslavement continues ...'

'Hang on a minute,' Paul interrupted, 'we're not enslaved! I mean, slavery was abolished in 18 something or other.'

The Magur stopped walking and turned to face Paul, staring at him gravely,

'You are a genetically manipulated being,' she stated, ignoring Paul's exclamation of protest, 'You have been tampered with, your DNA reduced from its full 12 strands to just the 2 essential to your physical functioning.'

Paul stared back defiant,

'No-way, that's nuts! Everyone knows DNA is a double helix, 2 strands,' he held up two fingers to make his point, 'that's the way it's always been. I'm not buying that genetic engineering bosh!'

'Your scientific insights are in their infancy. What you call "junk DNA" is in fact unplugged genetic programming,' the Magur said, staring back at him without flinching,

'Do you really believe yourself to be a true inhabitant of Earth?' she asked sternly, continuing before Paul had time to answer. 'Look at your behavior ... would a true earth dweller create war? radioactive waste? Pollution of the oceans? Deforestation? Species extinction? Oil spills? Pesticides?'

Paul felt himself quailing in front of the Magur's intense verbal ferocity, unsure how to defend his point.

'Anyway,' he commented, trying to change the subject, 'you haven't told me possible option number three yet.'

'You are caught, the Invaders gain possession of the crystal and Earth's greatest hope of liberation is lost for ever.'

'Wow ... ' said Paul, 'Bummer.'

In a way he wished he'd never asked the question. There he was, only a few minutes ago thinking he didn't have responsibility and now she was telling him that the little egg in his pocket would one way or other change the future of the whole planet for eternity?

Nope, from beginning to end it was all too crazy.

He'd agreed to take on her delivery job but that didn't mean he could be expected to believe all this stuff.

Prehistoric genetic engineering?

He was sorry but she'd gone too far, yet again.

'Come,' the Magur said simply, leading Paul off the road onto leaf covered soil beneath a stand of tall beach trees.

'If your mind will not accept my truth, I am left with no choice but to risk our safety and make you see with your own eyes the darkness of your past.'
Abruptly her tone changed,

'Sit!' she commanded and Paul did as he was told.

As soon as his back touched the trunk of the tree he saw the Magur's bony arm reach out from under her furs and winced as her index finger extended, as it had before, and he felt that sharp, almost painful pressure between his eyes.

Instantly the dark, damp roadside vanishes and Paul finds himself in an opulent, luxuriously furnished, conference hall.

At one end, on an ornately carved throne inlaid with gold filigree and sparkling stones, sits the now familiar figure of the Commander.

Across the chamber, seated around a long, rectangular table are, twenty or so people, a handful of them wearing white doctors coats.

The Commander speaks in a ringing, authoritative tone,

'As you are all well aware, with six thousand years until the end-time, the moment has come to seed Re's legions.'

He lets his eyes run slowly up and down the rows of attentive, upturned faces.

'This time we must learn from the mistakes of our predecessors and produce beings with full physical strength and reproductive capabilities. Have my orders been followed?'

A white coated man rises to answer,

'Yes Sir, our genetic trials were positive. We have cut as much DNA as possible. Their chakra links have been terminated and they are disconnected from the planet's field,' he pauses, 'although we have come across a problem ...'

'Which is?' the Commander inquires icily.

'If we are not to clone this time and must leave their sexuality intact, we are leaving them an opportunity to re-connect their DNA. Sexuality and emotion are encoded together ...'

In an instant the scenery changes and Paul finds himself standing in a spacious but windowless corridor, a row of doors opening off from it on both sides. It is lit with a clinical, white, artificial light and Paul has to blink several times, wincing as his eyes grow accustomed to the glare.

The corridor is filled with a bustling intensity, doors opening and closing, the white coated scientists hurrying past each other, intent on their work.

Paul watches them for a minute, before, his curiosity aroused, he decides to investigate.

A few yards away a door has been left ajar and he slips quietly through.

He is in a long, rectangular room filled with work tables and lined with deep, stainless steel shelves.

He can see several scientists busying themselves at the far end of the room, but they seem to be unaware of his presence.

Paul's confidence grows and he steps up to the nearest table.

It is covered with an array of high-tech, scientific equipment.

Small, glass dishes and ceramic bowls are stacked in labelled lines.

Rows of shiny metallic boxes emit a gentle, electric hum.

Paul lifts the lid of the nearest one and recoils back in horror.

Inside the box are layers of shallow compartments, and each one contains an embryo, a tiny human fetus no bigger than a mouse.

Paul replaces the lid quickly and makes his way across to the shelves at the edge of the room, where the walls are stacked with glass-topped boxes.

He peers inside the nearest one and sure enough, in each one is a human baby, white skinned, large-headed, suspended in a clear-fluid.

He can see their tiny fingers and toes, their umbilical cords hooked up to a drip-feed tank above them.

Before he'd has time to digest the horrific implications of what he's just witnessed, the scene dissolves to be replaced yet again by the Commander's conference hall.

As before, many people are seated around the rectangular table, though this time the Commander is pacing the length of the room as he listens to a report .

'The breeding program is advancing well and the legions are rapidly multiplying, though their emotional connection, most notably the "love" strand is, as we feared, causing disruption to our agenda. They feel their loss and are searching for reconnection.'

The Commander turns, to raise a question.

'Could we not find a way to fill this emptiness and provide them with the things they are seeking? In this way we could turn the problem to our advantage.'

Another man, distinctly similar in looks to an Agent, rises to speak,

'Perhaps we could give them laws and beliefs to follow.'

The semblance of a smile passes over the Commander's face, the idea obviously pleasing him as he announces,

'Let Re's legions be instructed in the laws of us, their gods and let them revere us as all seeing and all powerful.'

'Let each race be instructed in the doctrine of a separate God. In that way we can create conflict between opposing doctrines.'

Paul gasps as the vision starts to fade, and in seconds he is back in the darkness, his head resting on the damp, mossy bark of a tree and a pair of ancient, dark eyes peering intently at him in the gloom.

'So that's the start of humanity is it?' Paul asked angrily. 'Our lives and our beliefs are nothing more than a test-tube experiment?'

The Magur answered him calmly, not reacting in any way to his aggression,

'The Invaders mixed their own sperm with the tampered Magur female egg. And from this mixture a new race was born. This new human was lighter skinned, without body hair, tall and upright. They reached sexual maturity at a much earlier age then the ancient Magur, facilitating a rapid breeding cycle. They had the greater analytical intelligence of the Invaders, yet also their lack of emotional depth and spiritual awareness.'

Paul wasn't clear why he was so angry as he listened to the Magur's words, but he felt strangely affronted.

How dare this savage from the past turn up and sweep the accumulated knowledge and wisdom of the human race into the dustbin. He might not be religious but it was his heritage and he resented its validity being challenged. But it was worse than that, Paul realized, this idea threatened the basis of who he was and if it was true, it compelled him to reconsider his whole identity as a human.

The Magur said nothing more as Paul sat, dazedly coming to terms with her words and the vision he'd just been shown, her eyes beaming gentle compassion toward him, giving him time to digest this new perspective.

Two cars rushed noisily past on the wet road, one close behind the other, their tyres powering through the puddles on the verge and Paul watched their red taillights recede into the night in a daze. Something about the Magur's presence beside him seemed to expand the horizons of his credibility and abate his frustration, leaving him room to think.

Could all this really be true? Could humanities ancestry really be quite so grim?

He shuddered at the thought of those soulless, efficient aliens being his forefathers. Paul had never really given humanities origins too much thought.

He'd always presumed, since the biblical Adam and Eve story was such obvious bosh, that Darwin's theory of evolution must be right. He'd never stopped to think there could be other scenarios, untold other possibilities lurking in the history of the Earth.

But then really, when you thought about it, this theory kind of slotted in with Darwin's. The jump from Neanderthal man to Homo Sapiens, explained by what went on in the Commander's disturbing laboratories?

Maybe not only evolution was true, but bizarrely, the Bible had the other half of the story, "man made in the image of god."

Wouldn't it be strange if the real truth lay in the synthesis of both stories?

The Magur interrupted his train of thought,

'You must remember, though you are the child of the Invaders and you have inherited their physical appearance and many of their destructive traits, you are also the child of the original Earth people, the Magur, and as such a human, you are at the cutting edge of evolution. The wisdom and power of your Magur lineage still exists, waiting to be healed, inside every cell of your body.'

'Yeah, great consolation,' Paul said bitterly. He wasn't sure which idea he found the most unpalatable; humanity being created in a laboratory or the Invader's installation of ready made religion. Something deep inside him rebelled against both ideas, desperately wanting to discredit their validity.

'So if you're saying that the Commander created religion, all religions,' he corrected himself, 'what about before? Didn't the Magur have religious beliefs?'

The Magur was silent a moment, thinking before she replied,

'I know it is hard for you to understand but we have profound differences. You are tampered with, broken and vulnerable. You do not know who you are or quite what your place in the Universe is, and so naturally you are searching outside of yourselves for what you can feel is missing. Your religions handed to you by the Invaders are nothing more than constructs for your own suppression, instilling fear, guilt and sin into your consciousness.'

The Magur paused, but when Paul said nothing she continued,

'Whereas we, the Magur, not being broken, need nothing to make us whole because no part of us is lost we have nothing to find. Without the concept of sin we have no need of forgiveness. In the eternal moment we are our own Gods. If we could be said to revere anything, it is the spark of life that inhabits every atom of the multiverse.

Yeah, Paul thought to himself, he could kind of see what she was saying but still religion wasn't all bad was it? It had it's good sides.

'What about Jesus?' he asked.

'The man you call Jesus was one of many humans at that time who succeeded in raising their frequency. Their DNA began to re-bundle and heal, returning to them their innate power and freedom. The Invaders saw the threat and countered it with the might of the Roman legions. The uprising of the human spirit was crushed and their ideologies twisted to birth another suppressive, controlling religion.'

Paul thought for a moment, trying to process her ideas, to make room for them inside his mind. If all religions were as simple and unified as the Magur's beliefs there could be no ideological conflict, he realised. It was common knowledge that most of the warfare and bloodshed on the planet was fueled by religious differences.

The Magur broke Paul from his reverie with a touch on his arm.

Her tone was urgent.

'Come, it is time to move ...'

Paul rose to his feet and tripping over tree roots and snagging on brambles, he made his way back to the roadside ditch following the Magur. In the distance he could hear the low rumble of a diesel engine and see the naked silhouettes of tree tops illuminated in the high beam of its headlights.

Again the Magur urged him forward.

'This is your lift,' she said, motioning towards the lights in the distance.

How could she know? Paul wondered, glancing across at the approaching points of light.

He looked back to ask a question but in the space where she had been there were only damp branches, leaf mould and darkness.

There was nothing for it ...

Paul leapt the ditch, landing heavily on the verge and stumbled into the centre of the road.

The headlights were a dazzling glare in his eyes now and he was forced to squint as he waved his arms over his head. With Agents possibly already aware of where he was and imminently arriving, the situation felt too urgent to politely stick out his thumb in the hope the driver might stop.

He heard the engine revs race as the driver changed down a gear and braked.

Paul stepped to the side of the road as an enormous, bull-nosed truck rolled to a stop alongside him, a whoosh of compressed air escaping from its brakes.

Even in the dark he could see it was an old vehicle, the side-doors battered and dented, their paint work scabby with rust spots.

The passenger window wound down and a thin face wearing mirrored sunglasses looked him up and down.

Paul froze as his mind leapt to the obvious conclusion.

It was an Agent!

As soon as he thought it, he realized he was getting jumpy with paranoia.

All the Agents he'd seen had the same respectably short, side-combed hair and angular impassive faces, whilst the guy in the truck was wearing a trilby hat perched on a tangle of shoulder length, brown curls and was grinning broadly, as he said something Paul couldn't hear to the driver.

Had he been recognized? Paul wondered, a constriction of fear tightening his chest for a moment.

Of course he hadn't!

With two days stubble and this ridiculous garb on, Paul knew he looked a world away from the clean-cut, respectably dressed version of himself, broadcast on yesterday's news.

The guy turned back to Paul and asked him a question.

The language was one that Paul had never heard but then languages had never been his strong point.

Paul shrugged hopelessly, the guy's grin broadened and he shouted down over the purr of the engine,

'Dijon?' waving a map as he said it.

Paul's face lit up and he nodded vigorously. Wasn't that where Crousti had said Alesia was, somewhere past Dijon?

The door swung open and Paul heaved himself up and climbed in.

The second passenger seat was entirely taken up with a huge round of healthy looking bread and a knobbly dried sausage, so Paul squeezed behind it to sit on a raised, narrow mattress, a large southern rebel flag hanging behind him.

The door slammed out the night, the driver crunched the gear stick into 1st and they pulled off.

Paul took a good look at his latest traveling companions. They were an extraordinary pair, both dressed in cheap, shiny, matching jackets and trousers, surprisingly crisp, white shirts and thin, black ties.

The driver had a dark ponytail, snaking down his back, the hair over his forehead slicked back heavily with grease, and an enormous pair of meticulously trimmed, pointed sideburns.

On the dashboard, between neat stacks of CD's sat his identical trilby and mirrored shades.

The windscreen had a row of garish bunting pinned across it at the top and stickers from what looked like every hard Rock Cafe in Europe at each side, so that, together with the cluttered dashboard, Paul had to crane his neck down uncomfortably to see the open road ahead.

The driver, half turning, shouted a question at Paul.

Paul again shrugged hopelessly before falling back on his good english manners, he thrust his hand out, saying loudly,

'Paul, very pleased to meet you.'

The driver grinned, shaking his hand and replied,

'Jurgis ....'

Paul reached to the drivers mate, who also shook his hand, throwing Paul into confusion as he briefly clasped it and then bumped fists with him.

'Petras ...' he shouted good-naturedly. 'Ar norite kai kurie maisto?'

Then rubbing his stomach and pointing his thumb at his mouth, he did a quick mime of chewing and swallowing, so that even if Paul could make nothing of his words, their meaning was clear. Paul nodded vigorously as he watched Petras pick up a huge, vicious looking hunting knife from the dashboard.

Carrying on preparing sandwiches, Petras cut wafer thin slices of salami and Paul could feel his stomach churning and cramping in anticipation as he looked on.

How long was it since he'd last eaten, he wondered? Getting on for 24 hours he reckoned, back at the punk's farm. He'd obviously slept the best part of the day away and from then till now there had been just too much going on for him to spare a thought for food. But as Petras put the finishing touches on their sandwiches, Paul knew he was ravenous, hungrier than he could ever remember being.

As they approached an intersection he saw out of the side window, the unmistakable sight of blue flashing lights racing towards them. The truck powered past the junction and the lights were lost to view behind an alley of tall trees but Paul didn't need to see them to have a pretty good idea of where they were going.

Petras passed him a sandwich so thick he could barely get his teeth round it and Paul set to eating, remembering the Magur's advice to keep his mind free of fear and firmly focused on the food in front of him.

It was delicious and he had to force himself to eat slowly, when all he wanted to do was cram it into his mouth as fast as it would go down. Paul couldn't believe how fantastic it tasted, with a richness of flavor that would beat any five star restaurant in the world.

He wondered as he ate what nationality his hosts were, after all, it would be nice if he could at least thank them properly for the lift and food. An idea came to him and he reached to the back cover of their road map, where the countries of Europe were listed with their flags and pointing at the Union Jack, he said,

'Me ... English.'

Petra's face lit up,

'Ah! Hellohowareyou?' he said in one breath.

'Good,' Paul smiled, 'thanks for the lift guys and the sandwich, I really appreciate it ...'

Petras was still grinning vacantly, obviously not understanding a word of what Paul was saying, the "hellohowareyou" being the height of his english linguistic skills.

'Oh well, it was worth a try,' Paul said, and then pointing at the map, 'You?'

Petras ran his finger down the tiny, colored symbols stopping at a yellow, green and red striped flag. Paul screwed up his eyes to read the small print.

'Lithuania?'

Shit, well, there was a language of which he knew precisely no words. Paul and Petras both grinned helplessly as they each realized their total inability to communicate with each other.

Petras reached again into a metal box at his feet, pulling out a liter bottle of clear liquid with an optic screwed on the top and expertly filled two shot glasses, passing one to Paul,

'Sveikata!'

'Cheers!'

Paul sniffed it cautiously, until spurred on by Petras he knocked it back, enjoying the burn of vodka on his tongue and throat and the glow of warmth that passed down into his stomach.

When he passed his glass back, Petras instantly refilled it.

'Jus megstate muzika?' he asked, pressing the play button on the CD player.

The cab was suddenly filled with the heavy guitar chords of a rock band, so loud he could hardly hear the engine's steady roar.

Paul recognized the track, Neil Young's "Hey, hey, My, my". It had been on one of the first albums he'd ever bought, back in the good old days of vinyl and he'd listened to it over and over in his bedroom.

The driver, Jurgis, began beating his hands on the steering wheel, matching the drum beat and singing tunelessly along, while Petras shook his long hair in front of his face and strummed an air guitar.

A wave of well-being swept through Paul's body as the good food and shots of vodka found their way into his bloodstream and uncharacteristically he heard himself launching into song. Despite the lack of practice, Paul had always been quietly proud of his deep, rich voice and ability to hold a tune.

Both the Lithuanians looked round approvingly as Paul's baritone burst over them and all three voices joined together for the final chorus.

The white lines of the road rolled by under their wheels and Petras took them on a tour of the 60's and 70's rock greats, neatly fading one track into the next, they moved through Led Zeppelin, the Stones, the Byrds and Canned Heat. Paul leaned back on one elbow, his head touching the back of the cab, joining in whenever he knew the words.

The damp night and the worrying situation he was in faded blissfully away as Paul let himself sink into the pleasures of music and a full stomach.

After an hour of so, Jurgis pulled the truck off the road into a big gravel lay-by. Paul looked questioningly forward and Petras held a plastic thermos upside down saying,

'Padaryti Kavos.'

They all climbed out, leaving the doors open, letting the truck lights and a Lynyrd Skynyrd track spill out into the silent night.

The heavy cloud of the afternoon and evening had broken up into ragged tatters racing each other across the sky and a sprinkle of stars twinkled down from the velvet blackness between them.

They lined up on the verge, three streams of urine pattering onto the wet grass. Petras unlocked a hatch on the truck body revealing a gas bottle and two-ring gas burner. He filled an italian espresso pot and set it on the flame while Paul stood gazing around himself.

If any Agents had been alerted by the vision he'd been shown, they'd surely lost him by now, he thought contentedly, looking from left to right down the deserted country road, dark woods and fields stretching off uninterrupted on both sides.

"Sweet home Alabama ...

Lord I'm coming home to you ..."

drifted out across the expanse of gravel, swelling as the sound was buffeted by gusts of wind.

He loved this song and it brought memories flooding back from when he and Julie had been dating, going to rock discos in Nottingham on a Friday night. He wiped a tear impatiently from the corner of his eye. It was strange, he thought, as he wandered back to the truck how a memory could make you feel happy and sad at the same time.

He gratefully accepted a tiny glass of strong, sickly sweet coffee from Petras, who looked him up and down, from the ruins of his mud splattered shoes to his oversized, fur lined jacket and burst into laughter. He plucked at Paul's multicolored floppy jumper, shaking his other hand rapidly in scorn.

Paul had to laugh as well. These guys might dress oddly in their blues-brothers combos but he knew he looked downright ludicrous.

'Yeah, well,' he said, 'You're just jealous. Just you wait till Punk gets to Lithuania!'

They climbed back into the cab and set off, the kilometers clicking away on the tarmac strip beneath them, Petras constantly serving coffee to Jurgis and coffee and vodka chasers to himself and Paul, whilst searching tracks and taking CD's in and out of the player.

Enjoyable as the ride was, there was one niggling thing that couldn't be ignored. His feet.

They were damp and cold, his shoes heavy and squelching with water. Hoping no-one would object, he pulled them off, upending them on the floor and peeled his mud-streaked, clammy socks over his ankle and heel, revealing a pair of swollen, pink feet that he hardly recognized as his own.

He hung his socks above a heater vent and wiggled his toes to the beat. Petras turned round and holding his nose with one hand, he grabbed the socks to show Jurgis. They both burst into guffaws of laughter and Petras wound down the window, chucking them flamboyantly out onto the passing roadside.

'But my...' Paul began, unsure how to react, when Petras clapped him on the shoulder and then reaching into a sports bag, he formally presented him with a folded, clean pair of white, woolen socks.

'Wow! Are you sure?' Paul asked.

Petras shoved the socks into his hands and mimed putting them on.

'Thanks,' Paul said, unfolding them and smiling his gratitude. He pulled them onto his feet, luxuriating in their cosy warmth. Paul had had plenty of socks given to him for Christmas over the years but he'd never appreciated any of them like he did this pair. He wished he could give them something back, some kind of repayment but he knew he had absolutely nothing. Of course, it occurred to him, supposing the Magur's tale was true, he might just be able to save the world for them, but he definitely wasn't about to tell them that.

If it had been the other way round, Paul thought, would he even have stopped for a solitary hitchhiker in the night, let alone have shown the spontaneous generosity of these guys?

Rather than have given his socks to a total stranger, he would have thought it was their own stupid fault for hiking in the wrong shoes.

The honesty of the realization gave him a twinge of momentary discomfort.

He'd never come across such deep kindness as he had in the last two days, he realised, but then again he'd never been put into situations like this. He'd always believed the world was full of people like himself, busy putting number one first. That's what you'd presume was true from reading the papers, but then again, "Random Acts of generosity to hitchhiker" would hardly make a sensational headline. But still, in a world filled with greed and suspicion, it was incredible luck to meet people as generous and open as the punks, Petras and Jurgis.

Maybe it wasn't luck, he pondered, maybe the Magur had something to do with it?

After all, she had conjured up out of thin air both of his lifts. No sooner had he thought of her, than he heard her unmistakable voice in his ears.

'It is time to get out.'

Paul looked around perplexed. She couldn't have materialized into the lorry cab, could she?

'Get out at the next junction,' her voice continued.

Ahead, Paul could see a string of orange lights intersecting the road, and beyond, the hazy glow of a city. He couldn't help feel the moment was significant when Petras put on Credence Clearwater Revival's, "Bad Moon Rising" and ahead, over the shimmering haze of Dijon, a slim, silver, waxing moon hovered between parting clouds.

He tapped Jurgis on the shoulder, miming the cab door opening and waggling two fingers to show himself walking away. Jurgis nodded and changed down a gear to stop at the approaching, deserted roundabout, while Paul hastily squeezed his shoes on.

A minute later, they'd said their hearty good-byes and Paul was once again on his own, standing under the star studded canopy of the night.

It felt a lot colder than it had before his lift and Paul zipped up his jacket and turned his collar up to shield his face from the cutting wind.

Had he really just climbed out of a warm, comfortable, friendly truck cab because he'd heard a voice that sounded like the Magur's? How crazy was that?

Could he have imagined it? What was he doing following instructions in his head! He was going the right way for a padded cell and a tightly buckled straightjacket.

'Your sanity is safe,' said a voice in the dark.

Paul span around and there behind him, where seconds before there had been nothing but wind and starlit roadside stood the Magur as calm and inscrutable as ever.

'Glad to hear it.' Paul replied sincerely.

'Come, we have a long way still to go.'

And without waiting to see if he was following, she stumped off down the verge, supporting herself on her gnarled, wooden staff. Paul watched her for a second, dumbfounded.

Who exactly was this wizened old woman, with the power to materialize in and out of existence and read his mind?

He was deeply uneasy with the idea that she could talk into his head and if it wasn't for the proof of it staring him in the face, would have written it off as downright impossible.

He ran after her figure receding into the enveloping darkness of the night, till breathing heavily, he fell into step beside her.

The moon was rising in the sky and bright enough now for Paul to make out a bit of the surrounding countryside. Above him he could see the lights of an airplane cruising in to land at the airport behind the motorway. He followed the lights with his eyes, wistfully envying those anonymous people their passports, wallets and comfortable normality.

Ahead, away from the glow of the city, the road ran straight, past ploughed fields, to disappear in a point of perspective where the darkness of the night overwhelmed it, blurring its edges till nothing could be seen.

The Magur, despite her seeming frailty and age, set a brisk pace and Paul had to stride to keep up. For a 78,000 year old woman, she sure had good walking legs, he thought to himself.

'You know that was a great lift you just got me out of,' he said.

'Yes,' she replied simply, ignoring his disgruntled tone. 'But we are going to Alesia, not Lithuania.'

Paul shrugged, she had a point.

As they walked, the memories of his most recent vision came rushing back to him and he realized there were some burning questions that needed answers, questions that had somehow been pushed aside by good music, food and company. But quite where to start he wasn't sure.

Alien Invaders?

Test-tube babies?

Religion?

Jesus! It was starting to sound like a science-fiction plot and sci-fi was his least favorite genre. If he was going to be cast in a movie plot why couldn't it be a romance or at least a comedy?

'Why do I need to know all this stuff?' he asked, 'I mean, I've already agreed to take on your little delivery job haven't I? Isn't that enough?'

Before the Magur had time to answer, another thought occurred to Paul.

'Hey, did Elodie know all this? You know, alien Invaders and laboratories making humans and all that?'

'No, not all of it,' replied the Magur simply.

'So, you're saying I know more than Elodie?' Paul couldn't help a note of smugness entering his voice.

The Magur glanced across at him.

'It is too early for conceit. A few history lessons do not make you better than Elodie. You have a long way to go till you can learn and match her skills. Remember, she had her whole life to learn what you need to in just three days.'

'Is that even possible?' Paul asked.

The Magur turned her gaze on him, her eyes seeming to burn with an inner fierceness, 'we must make it possible,' she said. 'If we are to avoid detection you need to access knowledge directly without my help. I know you can do it but you must believe that you can.'

They cut off the road into a hazel coppice and Paul was silent a while as he concentrated on fending off branches, his wet shoes slipping on the uneven ground, until the Magur brought them to a narrow footpath leading through the trees.

'Why would they bother making humans?' he blurted out, 'what's the purpose of it all?'

'Quite simply, your race has been created as slaves.'

'Slaves?' Paul asked incredulously, 'Slaves for what?'

'Slaves for the Invaders, to assist them in the creation and harvesting of gold.'

Paul did a double take. It seemed unlikely that this race of Invaders had no other motivation than the shallow, materialistic desire to get rich.

'Gold? What good is gold to them?'

'Gold emits a frequency very similar to that of love. As the Invaders are incapable of creating the vibration of love, we believe gold is needed to maintain life on their planet.'

Paul thought before saying slowly,

'OK, let me get this straight, you are saying that we are slaves to mine their gold?'

'Yes.'

'But you also said that we are needed to create gold?'

'That's right.'

'But that doesn't make sense. We can't make gold. Alchemists have been at it for centuries and I haven't heard of one of them succeeding yet.'

'The Invaders,' said the Magur, 'have learnt that Earth creates the substance gold alchemically, in response to pain, suffering and most specifically, bloodshed.'

'What do you mean "bloodshed"?' Paul questioned.

'The wars and genocide that the human race has experienced are no more nor less than sacrificial rituals instigated by the Invaders.'

'What?' Paul protested.

'Every galactic cycle of 26,000 years, the Invaders exploit and pollute the planet to the brink of no return.' She stopped walking and turned to look at him. He could feel her eyes pierce into his, willing him to see what she had seen, inviting him to travel along her gaze, into her mind. She continued to speak, 'Maximum destruction creates the most gold. Their aim is to cause pain to the Earth, not kill her. And you have been designed to help them achieve this goal.'

'The earths not alive! It can't feel pain!' Paul interjected, 'it's a ball of rock full of molten lava spinning round the sun.'

He stared confrontationaly at her through the darkness, daring her to contradict him. But as he looked at her steady, inscrutable gaze, he perceived a depth of integrity welling up from within her and he knew, however outrageous her ideas might sound to him, she was speaking from a place of total honesty. Paul felt instinctively that if he had her powers of telepathy, or mind-reading or whatever it was and could see inside her, he would find a mind free of deception or hidden agendas.

Her whole hypothesis was shocking. How could human history be nothing more than a designed conspiracy of destruction? Admittedly, you didn't have to search too far to find plenty of evidence to support her theory but still ... Paul remembered the Commander's words in the vision and asked,

'So they've done this whole destruction, gold harvest thing before? That's what the Commander meant by "the mistakes of our predecessors"?'

'Yes, the Invaders first came 78,000 years or three harvests ago, the time when the Magur peopled the Earth.'

'So what were their mistakes then?'

'Last cycle, they scorched the Earth with weapons so powerful that the planet was brought to the point of extinction and they found consequently that their harvest was diminished. They have learnt that a drawn out, gradual campaign of suffering and destruction yields the best harvest.'

Paul struggled as he tried to digest this information.

'Wait a minute,' he said, spotting a flaw, 'if this is the 3rd harvest, why didn't you do your thing with the crystal, you know, and sort it all out the other times?'

The Magur replied with a note of sadness to her voice,

'The first time we tried to re-connect the crystal we failed, not realizing that it must be done from within your dimension.'

'And the second?'

'The second, armageddon came early, before we reached the moment of galactic alignment.'

'So it's 3rd time lucky then?' Paul replied light-heartedly.

'Let us hope so,' she answered somberly, 'the element of surprise is with us. Though the Invaders know about the crystal, they have underestimated the resourcefulness of the Magur and are unaware of our survival.'

They each lapsed into their own thoughts, their feet unconsciously moving steadily forward along the woodland path. Paul felt revitalized by the sandwich and vodka and stimulated by the coffee. His mind whirled, spinning this new information around in his head, as the stars whirled and spun in slow motion high above him.

The coppiced woodland they'd been walking through abruptly ended, the footpath continuing over a small humpbacked bridge. They crossed it and descended down some stone steps to join the towpath of a canal. On the far side of a pair of lock gates, Paul could see the last straggling houses of a village.

A motley selection of boats and barges were moored along the canal, some with yellow lights still burning behind drawn curtains.

Paul wondered what time it was, remembering to block the instinct to consult his broken watch. It couldn't be much past half eleven or maybe midnight he reckoned. He scraped the clods of mud that clung to his shoes onto the concrete towpath as he walked, the moon silently keeping pace, bobbing above the tree branches on his left hand side.

'So,' Paul said into the night, following his train of thought, 'according to your theory, we're just a factory farmed breed, manipulated to destroy our planet and ourselves for the invader's gain. Is that it?'

'It is,' the Magur replied. 'Your civilizations and societies have been seeded and created with that in mind. At the beginning of the cycle, royal and aristocratic lines were bred to serve as intermediaries between you and the Invaders. They are created to govern you and have been continually crossbred with the Invaders to give them a higher proportion of their "blue blood". Of course this also lowers their ability to feel emotion, making them capable of compassionless actions. By using these royal lineages, coupled with the divisions of language, race and religion, the Invaders have engineered warfare and ecological destruction throughout the centuries. Now the fleet is on the point of return, the stockpiles of gold are amassed, ready to load and the third armageddon is imminent.'

Paul strode on in silence for a while, thinking it all over. If you looked at it her way, the whole human race could be seen to be working unwittingly for the Invaders program. Everyone from politicians, to bureaucrats, to policemen to teachers, even himself, were part of a society constructed by the Invaders, for their own gain. As Paul's feet moved ever forward down the concrete towpath, he mulled it all over, trying to look objectively at the evidence.

Why humans had, since the beginning of history, chosen to place value on gold, a seemingly useless, soft, shiny metal, was a question that had always perplexed him?

And then, where was it all now?

All the gold that had been found in the American gold rushes, or looted by the Spanish conquistadors from the Mayan and Aztec hoards?

The banks and governments of the world had traded it with us, the people, for paper currency and plastic credit cards, locking it away in high security vaults.

If you believed the Magur's story, Paul supposed, there was a certain ingenuity in the way gold had been amassed and then withdrawn from circulation.

But still, could this plan have really been played out without anyone realizing what was going on?

It was hard to know ...

And then what about the colonial history of Europe, as each nation spread their Empires, gathered gold and exterminated indigenous populations?

It certainly had a hint of the invader agenda about it.

Across a field of vines, Paul could see a grand, symmetrical chateau shrouded by the black silhouettes of tall cedar trees.

Some lights were still on in the upstairs rooms and Paul's mind switched to Mme Dubois and the society. Well, some people had known about it, he corrected himself, wondering where they were now and what had happened to them.

'Sounds like its been a bit of a walkover for the Invaders so far then ...' he said aloud.

'They have had their troubles,' the Magur replied cryptically. 'The Invaders never bargained for the tenacity of the Magur DNA that they used in your creation.'

'How d'you mean?' Paul asked.

'The Magur genes have the innate ability to re-bundle and heal themselves. Through the generations these dominant genes have resurfaced and humans have re-found their way to the higher emotions of compassion and kindness and love.'

'Is that what they meant, you know, about sex re-connecting the DNA?' Paul asked, another line from the vision coming back to him.

'Yes, in order for humanity to successfully breed, a certain amount of Magur DNA had to be left intact. Sexual energy has the possibility of raising your vibration. As your chakras start to spin again, your DNA is reorganized. It is this DNA that has been the thorn in their sides throughout the ages.'

'Doesn't seem to me to have been that big a thorn.'

'There you are wrong. Why else would the Invaders have felt the need to condition your beliefs about sex to such an extent, mixing it with violence and domination, guilt and sin. A human who re-finds his power will not mine their gold or fight their wars and they know it. Throughout the last few thousand years, genetic throwbacks have continually arisen, the spirit of the ancient people rising up against the Invaders oppression.'

Paul thought about that statement for a while. Maybe you could break human history down to being a struggle between the two sides of humanities genetic heritage. Could it be that the Buddha, Jesus, Gandhi and Mother Theresa to name a few, were people whose Magur DNA had started to fix itself? It was certainly an intriguing theory.

Maybe the recent upsurge of environmental campaigns and charities like OXFAM and the Red Cross were all symptoms of those Magur genes rising to the surface of our consciousness?

Paul sighed to himself.

He didn't know what to believe, but in a way there was a sense of comfort and relief to be found in the concept.

Paul had always believed that the bottom line was that people were basically, at their core, dominated by short-sighted self-interest.

But if you bought the Magur's tale, he realized, humanity was essentially a blameless victim and could be forgiven for all the genocide, slavery, greed and destruction it had perpetrated whilst under the cold, manipulative power of the Invaders.

The scattering of barges and boats on the water had been left well behind now and the canal was an empty, shimmering streak of reflected moonlight stretching silently ahead of them.

The energy and positivity Paul had felt earlier was fading now, as the kilometers passed steadily under their feet, and he found his mind returning to its familiar track.

Where exactly were they going?

Was it all really going to be over in 3 days? Would he ever see Julie and the kids again?

And when was he going to find his next meal and somewhere warm to sleep?

The Magur, as had become her habit, answered his thoughts directly,

'We are going to a point of power where the pulse of the Earth still beats with enough strength.'

'Enough strength to do what?' Paul wondered aloud.

'To help you to rearrange your molecular structure,' she replied simply.

'Why would I want to do that?'

'Unless you can modulate your frequency, you have no chance of success when the solstice dawn breaks over Alesia.'

Paul was silent and noticing that she'd ignored his other questions, he plodded wearily onwards.

The canal passed through a sleeping village, the houses huddled tightly round a squat, stone church and as they passed, Paul found himself gazing with a kind of longing at their drawn curtains and closed shutters. He felt alone, excluded from the secure mundanity and comfort of these sleeping people's lives.

Was he ever going to get back home to the normality and routine of his working life?

Paul wondered what Julie and the kids were doing now? Sleeping probably.

Had they thought about him before they'd gone up to bed this evening?

It was ironic really, that he, Paul, of all people should get mixed up in this business. Wouldn't it have been better if it was Julie here, now, in his place? She would have been so much more open-minded and predisposed to believe the Magur's stories than he was. But no, he wouldn't wish the kind of danger and discomfort he was in on her.

Paul could feel a disheartened weariness creeping up on him as he struggled to match the Magur's seemingly effortless pace.

The moon had moved silently across the sky as they'd walked and it now lay directly in front of them, its reflection on the murky water shining back in perfect clarity.

After another couple of weary kilometers the Magur turned abruptly off the towpath, leading the way across a field of grape vines, their gnarled, twisting stems laid out in orderly lines.

They followed a wide, grassy path between the rows of vines, picking their way over the discarded, pruned branches that lay scattered to either side as the land rose up in a gentle slope away from the canal.

At the end of the vineyard they ducked between the strands of a barbed wire fence, continuing up the hill over closely grazed grass, Paul silently following, longing for a rest. As they neared the top, Paul could make out a scattering of dark shapes rising up from the grass.

He strained his eyes into the darkness ahead trying to figure out what they could be, as step by laborious step, his heavy feet followed the Magur's outline across the damp grass and up the hill.

It wasn't until they were maybe twenty paces away and one of the shapes raised its head lowing gently, that Paul realized they were nothing more than cows, sleeping on the hillside.

The Magur made an answering sound, somewhere between a deep, musical note and a moan and the resting cattle seemed to relax, their jaws steadily chewing, their big, calm eyes following the course of the two travelers as they quietly picked their way through the herd.

Just beyond the cattle, squatted on the top of the hill, Paul could make out a dark silhouette against the star speckled sky.

It was too big to be an animal, Paul thought, as he trudged behind the Magur directly towards it, his mind too weary to care much and his concentration more focused on putting one heavy foot in front of the other than anything else.

As the Magur reached the shape, Paul could see it was composed of three, mighty stones, the first two protruding from the earth and supporting the third; a massive, weathered slab of granite laid across them.

A stunted thorn tree and a collection of brambles trailed out from the base of the stones.

A dolmen, Paul thought, the word coming suddenly to mind as he remembered pictures he'd seen in archaeology books. The Magur squatted neatly down on her heels and began untying a small leather bag strung from her waist.

Paul flopped down beside her and rested his head against the solid mass of stone, physical exhaustion overwhelming him.

He watched passively, content just to rest as the Magur busied herself removing a small, clay pot from the leather pouch.

She gently blew into it for a minute or so, quietly intent on her task and Paul sat up, his interest getting the better of his fatigue. She was carrying fire! he realized, marveling at her self-reliance.

He watched fascinated as she opened another bag and carefully sprinkled something over the clay pot. At once, dense wafts of resinous smoke filled the air around them, flowing out of the clay pot before being dispersed by the night breeze.

The Magur started to sing in a low undertone, her voice rising and falling, undulating rhythmically and Paul listened carefully, feeling strangely calmed by her tones. It was like no music he'd ever heard, part song, part chant, a complex melody weaving through it all.

Paul watched mesmerized as the ribbon of smoke rippled and uncurled in front of his eyes, seeming paradoxically so solid and three dimensional and yet so transparent and ethereal as it vanished into the night.

Her song gradually rose in volume and despite his inquisitiveness he didn't dare interrupt her to ask what she was doing.

After a minute or so she finished, replacing and retying the bag of resin and the clay pot onto her belt. Finally she turned to Paul, her eyes burning deeply into his,

'The stories of the Earth are stored in stone and bone,' she said, 'now you must use your breath and intention to feel your way into the Earth, to read what is written there. You must learn how to access information yourself, without my help. If you can do this, we will avoid detection. Ask to be shown what you need to know.'

Despite his fatigue, Paul's mind protested. What did she mean "use your breath and intention to access information"? All he wanted to do was rest.

'The energies of this place are willing to help you. Let the pulse of Earth's heartbeat into yourself,' the Magur said. 'All of existence is made of the same molecular structure. Reality is vibration. It is only your belief that holds the illusion of your separateness in place. Surrender that illusion now ...' She was starting to sound like one of Julie's airy-fairy visualization CDs, Paul thought as he listened to her words, enjoying the soothing images they created but failing to grasp their meaning.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, in front of his closed eyelids he saw a tunnel of spiraling colored lights.

From a thousand miles away he could hear the Magur's soothing murmur gently urging him onwards,

'let go of your thoughts and trust yourself ...'

Paul followed her words, breathing in and out and suddenly he was tumbling backwards, carried by the helix down the tunnel and into the Earth.

And then, without knowing quite how it happened or being aware of the transition, Paul finds himself high up, overlooking a dry and arid land.

Nestled below him, in the folds of the baked, brown, desert sands lies a great city.

Spires, turrets and glimpses of lush, green foliage rise up from behind its enclosing walls.

The sun is high in the sky, hot and vital.

Paul knows instinctively that he's far back in the past, maybe two or three thousand years ago, maybe more.

He looks out to the horizon and sees a glittering line, a cloud of dust rising behind it.

Instantaneously his vision zooms in and he sees a vast army.

Helmets, chest plates, shields, spears and banners glinting in the sunlight.

Teams of horses are dragging massive wooden catapults and siege towers steadily towards the city.

Paul's vision draws slowly back until he has both the advancing army and the city in view.

The city is quiet, hushed.

Hundreds of people look silently out across the shimmering sand.

The only sounds are the occasional barking of dogs and the braying of donkeys.

As Paul looks on, captivated by the scene, he sees an energetic glow pulsating and shimmering from the earth beneath the city. The glow radiates outwards, like a star, lines of light stretching across the desert and Paul realizes instinctively that this city is built on a power point.

Time seems to speed up.

The sun sinks down over the dusty plain and the shadows of the city walls lengthen.

Thousands of tents sprawl across the desert.

Night falls and a hundred fires twinkle like stars in the velvet blackness.

Silence settles briefly between the dark of night and the grey of dawn.

In a blaze of lightening shades of purple, mauve and orange, the sun rises on the far horizon, reflecting the sharp glint of steel.

Horses neigh and armor clanks.

The horns blare.

Paul watches as the mass of humanity below him assemble into a tight, fighting formation, a solid glittering wall of steel.

Now, there is only silence, a silence so heavy and loaded that Paul's heart chills.

Another horn blows, low and long and the battle starts.

Paul watches, both fascinated and horrified, as swarms of arrows fly through the air.

Flaming missiles bombard the city.

Ladders are raised and climbed only to be thrown down.

As the sun rises higher, the battle rages in a glittering, shimmering chaos.

Cries and shouts of pain and the horrific screaming of horses distorted in the hot air.

The dead bodies pile up around the walls, the frenzy of fighting replaced by the low moans of the dying.

Wreathes of smoke drift up from the charred remains of buildings and the vultures circle patiently above.

Paul gulps down a lump in his throat, feeling like he's never felt before; the tragedy of war, the pain, the suffering and waste of human life.

But even as these feelings engulf him, Paul is aware of something else occurring.

Time appears to have speeded up again, day following night following day, disorientating him like a strobe light.

Where before the battle he had perceived a pulse of energy rising out of the Earth, now as the sun, moon and stars revolve in a rapid progression around him, Paul perceives the fear saturated blood of the slaughtered soaking into the desert sands, the pulse of energy repelled, retreating and diminishing deep into the Earth.

The scene starts to shimmer and fade as another image asserts itself on his vision and Paul finds himself yet again in that sumptuously decorated chamber, filled with strange richly carved furniture, hanging tapestries and golden ornaments lining the walls.

In the centre is a heavy, gilded table and around it stand a group of tall men.

With a jolt of fear, Paul recognizes the high pale face and emotionless eyes of the Commander as one of the men speaks,

'The battle proved successful. The Canaan line is down.'

'Good,' replies the Commander with satisfaction.

As suddenly as it had begun, it was over and Paul was sat on the damp grass, cold starlight raining gently down on him as he adjusted to being back in his own reality.

In a flash of understanding, Paul saw the sequence and meaning of his vision. It all slotted neatly into place with what the Magur had told him. It was a plan, a manipulation!

The Commander had sited the city there on a crossing of ley-lines, a power-point, intentionally, Paul realized with a shock.

It was one thing listening to the Magur telling him these things but quite another seeing and experiencing them himself.

The Magur, still squatting motionlessly at his side, smiled across at him.

'Was that real?

How did it happen?

Won't the Agents know where we are and come after us again?' Paul blurted in a rush of panic.

'Relax,' the Magur replied calmly, 'they cannot see us. You found your own way in and succeeded in accessing the Earth's memories directly. Come, you are cold and we must keep moving.'

Paul realized she was right, a chill numbness had crept into his bones while he had sat at the dolmen and he stumbled to his feet, clapping his arms together and shaking his legs to restore his circulation.

As they set off, moving away from the dolmen and down the far side of the hill, Paul felt strangely revived. Where only minutes ago his muscles had felt weak, each step an effort, now he felt an invigorating spring to his stride.

Even the stars above and around them seemed brighter and closer, tiny pulses of color glinting out across the universe.

The Magur answered his unspoken thought, her voice drifting back through the silence of the night,

'Energy is always available to you, from the Earth, the Sun, the moon and the Stars ... it is just a question of knowing how to access it.'

Despite how real the vision had seemed whilst he was in it, Paul's mind protested.

How could he have just seen something that happened so long ago? and what could she mean, "the stories of Earth were stored in stone and bone?" He needed more information before he could begin to understand what had just happened but couldn't think quite how to articulate the questions inside himself.

'So if it wasn't you putting stuff in my head, how did it work then?' he asked into the shadows.

'Everything is recorded inside the molecular structure of reality,' came the reply from the darkness in front of him. 'The stones we just visited are sited at an ancient source of energy, connected to the entire planetary network of ley-lines. Combined with my request you succeeded in accessing a memory of the Earth's past.'

The Magur's reply frustrated Paul. Like so many of her statements, it just led to more improbabilities and quandaries, rather than succeeding in clearly answering his questions. Sensing Paul's confusion, she continued, her voice drifting back eerily through the night,

'You are essentially one-being,' she said, 'Earth, rock, trees, plants, animals and humans are all aspects of the planet's consciousness. Instead of living in separation, you can learn to work with the rest of the planet, it is ready and willing to help you if you will only open your selves ...'

Paul, his feet slipping on the damp grass stumbled down the hillside after her. He heard her words but couldn't accept the concept. Sure, animals had a consciousness, maybe he supposed trees and plants could have too but rocks and soil? Wasn't that pushing things a step too far?

'Of course you cannot feel it. The Invaders have done their best to disconnect you from all that is real, so they can fill your hearts and minds with the narrow, limited perspective that makes you so easy to control,' she stopped at the foot of the hill and turned to Paul, 'As you ravage the Earth with wars and fill the oceans with your poisonous waste, can you not feel how that affects you with negativity and separates you from the depth of reality?'

The Magur was filled with a passion and intensity that Paul had not felt in her before and in that moment he knew that whether or not he could accept these ideas, to her they were both very real and desperately important.

She turned again, leading Paul through a gate onto a muddy track, deeply rutted by tractor tyres and Paul's mind turned back again to the strange vision he'd just seen set in that faraway, biblical land and as much to himself as to the Magur he said,

'So, are you saying that all the wars and battles of history were created by the Invaders for their own gain?'

'Not just were,' the Magur replied, 'They have been sacrificing you from the beginning and they are still busy with it now."

'But what about freewill?' Paul retorted, struggling with the idea that human society could really be so powerless and also so ignorant of it's own condition.

'The psychology of the Invaders is impeccable,' the Magur replied, 'through the spilling of your blood, they achieve not only their dual goals of weakening the Earth and creating gold but they have created a genetic memory within you of pain, revenge and hatred. So in a sense you have become self-regulating, passing your enmities on to the next generation, pitting your religious, political and ideological differences against each other, over and over again.'

Yeah, Paul thought to himself, he could see how it kind of could make sense, he supposed, but, if human history did boil down to one big manipulation, apart from Elodie's secret society, why had no-one realized or put up some resistance?

Paul's feet marched steadily onwards, occasionally jumping from one side of the track to the other to avoid the deeper mud and puddles. Ley-lines, Invaders and sacrifices aside, he wanted to keep his new socks dry for as long as possible.

'Come to think of it, why didn't you, the Magur, try and help, or warn us? After all, you've been around, presumably watching everything all this time?' Paul said, a hint of accusation creeping into his voice.

When she did reply, Paul could detect a note of sadness in her tone,

'It has not been easy for us either,' she said, 'We were a peaceful people, unequipped to resist their aggressive technology. The handful of us who survived have been challenged to remain concealed from the Invader's eyes.'

'So where have you been all this time?' Paul asked.

'We redirected our energies into crystalline structures deep inside the Earth. In doing so we succeeded in slowing down time so our bodies did not age. From there we learned how to re-create the ancient frequency of the planet and so in a sense, we have created a parallel reality. We have been able to observe your reality but not to influence or help, until now.'

Paul pondered her words for a while as they made their way steadily through the night. Some of the stuff the Magur said was just beyond understanding, Paul mused, and he'd have to either choose to take her word for it and believe her or not.

In the silver light of the waxing moon, Paul could see the countryside around them had changed. The huge, ploughed fields and flat land had given way to an undulating series of small hills, covered in a patchwork of woodland and grass and increasingly Paul noticed outcrops of limestone breaking through the soil.

They settled into silence, broken only by the steady tramp of their feet and Paul was glad to have some time to himself, to think about and digest the events and information that had bombarded his life in the last few days.

He thought about the visions and dreams he'd been shown, from the force of alien craft arriving, the Magur creating the crystal as a blueprint, the plan to genetically engineer the human race and this most recent vision of humanity being used as a blood sacrifice. He knew that sane, educated people would reject these ideas as ludicrous but would they be right or just blind to the truth?

He couldn't be so sure now.

He wanted to be objective, to run through her theories, find their faults and discredit them one by one but which ever way his mind turned, he seemed to just find further evidence and support for their validity. If you thought about it, how much real knowledge did human society have of the past?

History books went back at their furthest to just a few thousand years ago, so how could anyone say with certainty what had or hadn't occurred as long ago as 78,000 years?

Paul remembered the brain-numbing boredom of assemblies at the Catholic boys school he'd gone to when they'd first moved to Essex, listening to the headmaster reading Genesis from the Bible.

'And God said let us make man in our image after our likeness.'

Who was this "our"? Wasn't God meant to be singular?

It wasn't hard to imagine those words coming from the Commander's mouth.

Could Noah's flood be a reference to a previous armageddon? he wondered.

Come to think of it, the whole warlike, judgmental, controlling nature of that old testament God seemed much more in character with an alien Invader than the benign being who'd created the World.

Paul grinned to himself, amused by the blasphemous craziness of his ideas. If he ever got out of this adventure alive he'd give the Bible another good looking over, he decided.

The moon had arced across the sky, sinking down into the distant, hilly horizon.

It couldn't be far off morning, Paul thought, sensing an almost imperceptible lightening of the sky in front of them but still the Magur paced on tirelessly, leading him onwards to who knew what.

Paul's mind wandered again as he looked afresh at the way society was structured within pyramids of control.

It was so totally opposed to the way indigenous tribal people like the Australian aborigines or the rain-forest pygmies lived, that from his present perspective it didn't take a giant leap of the imagination to conjecture that modern, Western society had been modeled on an alien principle.

As Paul walked lost in thought, he realized he was surprised at himself. He seemed to be thinking from a new space, a space of greater depth and openness that allowed him to embrace concepts that he knew just a few days ago he would have been clearly closed to. It was as if his boundaries had suddenly been blown apart, the sides of his mental box kicked wide open.

But, he supposed, considering the things that had happened in those few days, it would be even stranger if he hadn't adjusted his beliefs as to what was and wasn't possible.

Paul was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he almost walked into the Magur, who had stopped, looking down an incline across a meadow to dense woodland beyond.

'We will rest there,' she said, pointing into the valley.

Paul followed her outstretched, bony arm and peered down through the gloom. The sky was definitely getting lighter in the east now, a band of grey blue extinguishing the stars on the horizon, the outlines of trees and rocks becoming subtly clearer as black faded to grey.

And as he looked, Paul made out the shape of an old, stone barn, in a state of semi-dilapidation, blending into the trees that crowded around it. It was built of flat shards of stone with a sturdy-looking wooden A-frames holding up a roof of canal-shaped tiles.

They made their way down the hillside, the grass beneath their feet turning from grey to grey green as the light in the sky rapidly increased, to find themselves standing in front of a pair of weathered, wooden doors. They were held closed with a length of rusty chain looped over itself which Paul quickly opened. He heaved back one door which grated on the ground where the hinges had sagged and the two of them stepped inside, their eyes adjusting to the gloom.

At the back of the barn was a half-floor piled high with mounds of loose hay and a rickety, dangerous looking, wooden ladder leading up to it.

Beneath it, on the dusty, dirt floor stood a variety of broken discarded machines and assorted junk. It looked like a cross between an agricultural museum and a scrap yard and Paul would have been interested to poke around if he wasn't suddenly overwhelmed with a wave of exhaustion.

Their rest at the dolmen in the night had strangely given him a burst of extra energy, but now all he could think of doing was laying his body down in the soft hay and shutting his eyes.

Paul would never have believed a heap of musty old hay could have so much comfort in it, but as he let his body recline and his head flop back, a deep sigh of relaxation and contentment escaped from his lips.

He gazed upwards at the irregular selection of roughly shaped poles that served for rafters, the first rays of the rising sun sending laser-like beams of light past the broken and slipped tiles of the roof illuminating columns of dancing dust in the gloom of the barn. Paul knew he was behaving irrationally feeling quite so calm. After all, given his current situation, shouldn't he be racked with anxiety, worry or even panic?

Maybe, he mused, it wasn't until you'd been so exhausted that just lying down and resting your body shrank all other concerns into insignificance.

The Magur squatted motionlessly in the barn doorway, silently watching the red sun rise above the mist shrouded treetops.

There was one question that he hadn't asked her, that had seemed too irrelevant until now but that fascinated him deeply. With his body splayed out now in the yielding softness of the hay, feeling exhausted yet strangely peaceful, it felt like the perfect moment.

'What's it like being a Magur?' he called down to her, 'I mean, do you feel different inside from me?'

He knew what he meant but it wasn't easy to put these things into words.

The Magur's voice drifted up to him from the barn doorway,

'That is something I cannot tell you.' Paul felt a moments disappointment before she continued, 'but I can try to show you. But now you must sleep. We have still a long way to go.'

Paul nodded, accepting her answer and pulling his fur-lined jacket around himself, he let his eyes drop shut and sleep overtake him.

Elodie: December 19th.

Elodie indicated and pulled out of the stream of traffic. She bumped her Harley up the kerb and cut the engine.

The border crossing at Heerenberg had gone smoothly but it had been a long hard cold night's ride through the industrial sprawl of Northern Germany. She felt frozen stiff and tired, never before having realized quite how demanding on the body riding a bike could be. She'd have to get warmer clothing but first things first, right now she needed to top up her frequency block and get on-line.

Elodie's gaze flicked up and down the street for signs of danger. She removed her helmet and pulled a U-lock through the frame of her bike. She clicked it closed and scrambled the digits of the combination.

The Bahnhofstrasse in the centre of Frankfurt was a busy road at any time of day, and this morning was no exception.

Elodie strode through the throng of shop keepers, secretaries and office workers, pleased at the way a leather jacket and bike helmet afforded her a certain wary respect as people hurriedly stepped from her path.

Time was everything and Elodie was acutely aware she didn't have that much left as she swung open the doors of yet another internet cafe and strode straight through to the toilets at the back.

Once locked in a cubicle, Elodie removed a wrap of opium from her inside pocket and scraped the sticky, brown lump onto a folded piece of tinfoil.

She sighed to herself as she placed a rolled up 20 Euro note in her mouth and held a cigarette lighter under the foil. She didn't like doing it but if that was what it would take to stay hidden from their radar, that's what she'd have to do.

After all, she had got this far without detection, so her strategy must have some merit. With the rest of the society stuck behind bars and so much dependent on her, now was not the moment to falter. As long as Paul was free and in possession of the crystal, the possibility of success still existed.

The opium was soon bubbling and releasing its thick, heady smoke, which she sucked deeply into her lungs.

As she exhaled she felt the now familiar numbness spread its tentacles through her brain, her limbs flopping lethargically at her sides. It wasn't easy to function on opium and to keep her mind sharp she'd now had to substitute amphetamines for caffeine.

Elodie heaved herself up and out the cubicle, knocking a couple of tiny, white pills back with a mouthful of water from the sink tap.

She stared at her reflection a moment in the mirror, hardly recognizing the scruffy, pale skinned girl who stared back at her.

If and when this was all over, she was looking forward to a good detox and the pleasures of a clear, focused mind again.

There were only two available computers and Elodie chose the one in the corner of the cafe that afforded the maximum privacy.

Poking a couple of coins into the slot she logged on, rapidly typing her password into the box and waited for the web-site window to appear in front of her on the screen.

Paul: December 19th 4 p.m..

Paul woke slowly, his mind groggily separating itself from his dreams.

He'd been with Julie and the kids, the four of them together.

They'd been somewhere, already the details were retreating into some inaccessible corner of his mind but he knew they'd been happy, laughing, walking along, enjoying each others company.

Expecting to see Julie's long, auburn hair spread on the pillow next to his he rolled over and opened his eyes to the sight of dusty hay and an unpleasant, prickling sensation on his cheek. He blinked, disorientated for a moment, until it all came flooding back in a rush of memories.

'Oh God!' he groaned.

It must have been late afternoon, judging by the mellow sunlight filtering through the roof-tiles and here he was in an old barn, somewhere in France, hunted not only by the police but by a particularly sinister bunch of mind-reading aliens, and in the company of an ancient, neanderthal crone!

Why couldn't he just have stayed with Julie?

They could have worked out their differences.

God, he realized, all it would have taken was a little more flexibility on his par, and then, instead of being here, he could be safely in bed, looking forward to a good mug of tea and chat with Julie, propped up on clean pillows, maybe a fry-up for breakfast and an afternoon cheering Chris on in a school football match.

Paul heaved himself slowly up to a sitting position, the thought of a fried breakfast, 3 slices of bacon, an egg sunny-side up, fried bread and maybe a tomato, set his stomach growling in anticipation.

Jesus, he was hungry. And thirsty. His mouth was parched and his tongue and teeth felt rancid and furry.

He picked random strands of dried grass from his hair and clothing before making his way stiffly down the rickety ladder to the barn floor below. The Magur was nowhere to be seen.

His eyes scanned around the clutter of discarded objects, catching sight of a battered, enamel saucepan hung from a nail in the wall. The enamel was badly chipped in places, rusty metal showing through but it would hold water.

He remembered from that morning that the barn was sited in a valley, maybe there was a stream in the trees beyond and so the hope of a cup of tea was not a total impossibility.

Paul squeezed past the barn doors cautiously. Outside the weak winter's sunlight bathed the field and surrounding trees in an ambient, golden light.

He could hear birds chirruping in the branches overhead and the distant hum of a tractor engine somewhere over the hill.

It was hard to believe, surrounded by this tranquil scene, that those ominous Agents were out there somewhere, hunting for him.

Paul picked his way past moss covered boulders, parting the creepers that hung from ash and hazel saplings till he heard the telltale, gentle gurgle of moving water.

It wasn't much of a stream, more of a trickle of brackish, leaf-filled water winding its way between the rocks and tree roots of the valley floor but he followed it down, until, just beyond a large boulder he found a small pool, big enough to fill his saucepan.

Paul splashed water over his face and neck, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

It was ice cold and refreshing. He dabbed ineffectually at his face with his mohair jumper in an attempt to dry himself, looking down at the swirling sediment in the pool. If he'd been a boy scout he'd probably have known to fill the pan before stirring the water up, but it was too late now, he thought, dipping it into the cloudy pool and heading back to the barn, holding it delicately in front of himself.

As he came out of the trees, amongst the tattered brambles and small splaying elders, Paul's eye was caught by the bright orange shine of berries, standing out starkly against the mottled greens and browns behind.

Still balancing the saucepan of water, he approached to take a closer look.

Rose hips!

Weren't they one of the ingredients in Julie's herbal tea mixes?

Come to think of it, he was sure he'd heard they were a good source of vitamin C. Maybe you could even eat them, he thought hopefully.

He began plucking them off their thorny stems, the spikes hooking into the mohair of his jumper as he dropped the rose hips into the pan. Well, it might not be quite PG tips but it was the best he was going to manage now.

When there were two dozen or so bobbing around in the water, Paul figured he had enough and set off back towards the barn.

As soon as he entered, he saw the Magur, squatting peaceful yet alert in the shadows as if she had never moved. He thought of asking her where she'd been but decided instead to stick to practical matters where he had a chance of getting an answer he'd understand,

'Could I borrow ... ' he hesitated, not sure what to call it, 'your fire?' adding a 'please' as an afterthought.

The Magur silently untied her leather pouch and from it withdrew the clay pot which she held out to him.

Paul cautiously opened the lid, not sure exactly what he was expecting to find.

Inside, nestled in a bed of grey ashes, lay a nugget of what looked like coal, not much bigger than a walnut.

Paul gently blew on it, watching an orange glow spread around its contours. He searched in his pockets for something to light, his hand withdrawing the crumpled street map of Paris.

The memories of that panic-stricken flight across the city rushed back to him. It seemed like an age ago, a memory from another lifetime but how long had it really been?

Two days?

Just two days!

Well, he couldn't see that he'd be needing the map again, he thought, tearing a fine strip from its edge, dangling it carefully over the glowing ember and blowing, until a delicate finger of flame climbed up the paper.

Dropping it on the dusty, cobbled floor at his feet, Paul quickly added a handful of hay.

He hastily gathered twigs and splinters of wood until he'd built a tiny pyramid, the flames greedily licking upwards, crackling and popping as the fire gained strength.

Before long Paul had a satisfying blaze going, on which he perched the saucepan, propped between a couple of heavier logs.

While waiting for the water to boil, he wandered aimlessly around the barn. He lifted up and examined some rotten horse harness, the leather brittle and cracked, hair padding bursting from its seams.

There was an ancient plough and some kind of machine that could have served for chopping straw or maybe slicing root vegetables, he wasn't sure but there was nothing that could be of any conceivable use to him, he thought, until in the far corner, leaning against a dusty crate of empty bottles, Paul spotted a pair of wellies.

He gingerly picked them up, peering past the dusty cobwebs inside them and then shook them upside down. A flurry of debris fell out; dried grass, strands of sheep's wool, shredded cardboard and thin plastic.

It smelt rank and wild, probably some kind of rodents nest, he concluded.

Still, they appeared to be serviceable, without any evident holes or rips and would undoubtedly be more suitable than his sodden, black brogues.

Paul tried them on, a little large perhaps but they'd definitely do. He smiled as he imagined the mystification of the owner finding the wellies replaced by a pair of office shoes. Mind you, from the look of this place, no-one had been in here in fifty years.

It felt kind of sad, Paul thought, as he placed his brogues neatly against the wall. His shoes, though admittedly a lot worse for wear, were the last little bit of his old identity, the Paul Sutherland he was just three days ago and leaving them behind felt like he was symbolically abandoning the very last vestiges of who he was.

Paul carefully stoked the fire under the saucepan, dipping his finger in hopefully to check the temperature.

Still only tepid, he sighed, continuing to nose aimlessly around.

The wellies were a bit clumpy but dry feet were worth sacrificing for. Besides, his fashion sense couldn't really get much worse whatever he put on his feet.

Paul was investigating an ancient circular saw, idly spinning the pulley and watching the huge rusty blade turn on its axle when his eye caught sight of something that could be more than just a little useful.

An upright, black bicycle!

It had some old hessian sacking draped over it which Paul excitedly pulled off, imagining how a bike could help eat the miles of their journey away.

He checked the tyres first, they were both flat but there was a pump neatly clipped onto the frame. Paul lifted the bicycle out and set it upside down in the middle of the floor. It was solidly built, weighing probably twice as much as a modern bike and had no gears. Still, it had to be better than walking.

Paul tried turning the pedals but the chain stuck, the rivets of the links seized with rust.

Refusing to be disheartened he collected a jar of used, tractor engine oil from a dirt encrusted barrel by the door and dripped it on to the chain, working at the links one by one to free them.

Forgetting all about both his hunger and his need for a cup of tea, Paul busied himself with the bicycle till he had it up and running. The inner tubes even appeared to be holding their pressure.

A column of steam rising from the saucepan on the fire caught his eye and he hurried over to pick it up, gently blowing on it till it was cool enough to sip.

Apart from a vaguely metallic flavor it tasted of nothing more than hot water but he drank it down anyway, picking out the plump rose hips from the gritty sediment left at the bottom.

He popped one in his mouth and bit into it, only to spit it out immediately. He might be hungry but it would take more than one day without food before he'd try that again.

All this time the Magur had been squatting motionless in the doorway gazing out silently at the countryside. Now she turned her attention to Paul saying,

'Do you still wish to know how it is to be Magur?'

Paul had completely forgotten the question having been absorbed in practicalities since waking and took a moment to reply.

'Yeah, I guess I do ...'

'Come then and let us prepare to leave, as in showing you, once again we will make our location visible to the Invaders.'

Paul did as he was asked, treading the last embers of the fire out and wheeling the bicycle outside.

Was it OK to take it, he wondered uneasily, or was it stealing?

He hesitated for a moment as the moral dilemma passed through his mind. It would be very useful - and whoever owned it certainly hadn't used it for a long time but did that justify him taking it?

Paul chewed his lip in indecision, finally resolving that saving the world might be a reasonable excuse, though how it would stand up in court he didn't know.

He closed the barn doors, replacing the chain as he'd found it early this morning, the setting sun a red globe in the western sky.

It was strange to be always traveling at night, he mused. He missed the light and warmth of the daytime, all he'd seen of today was it's sunrise and sunset. All the same, he knew it would be foolish to show his face in the villages they passed through, when there were people about who might recognize him from the news flashes.

As soon as Paul had the handlebars in his grasp, the Magur approached him, her thin arm extended from beneath her furs, her index finger reaching out to his forehead.

As it made contact, Paul's consciousness was engulfed in a brilliant, white, electrical flash. His mind reeled back, his eyes blinking hard until his vision cleared.

Even though he hadn't moved from the spot, everything he saw was suddenly profoundly different.

His gaze swept around the wooded fringes of the field and over the grassy hillside, realizing as he did so that he wasn't so much seeing as perceiving the countryside, responding to an energetic aliveness so intense that everything he looked at appeared to be consciously looking back at him.

His gaze focused in on the Magur still standing expectantly in front of him.

Where before he'd noticed the calm wisdom of her eyes, the deep folds and wrinkles of her skin, now her entire face appeared to have come to life as if every cell was emitting energy, vibrating and pulsating colored lights outwards around herself. In fact, the space surrounding her appeared to be buzzing with a golden light. It wasn't just the Magur but everything seemed to extend beyond its physical boundaries into the air all around it.

Reality appeared to have lost its hard definitions, each thing energetically blurring into the next.

He stared fascinated, feeling as if he could read so much more, communicate and take in so much more deeply the essence of who she was, by watching the flow and swirl of energy emanating from her, than he ever could have done before. It wasn't just his sight, Paul realized, but all his senses; smell, touch and sound had all enlarged their range of perception from anything he'd ever known before.

'Come we must leave,' she said, interrupting his rapt amazement. Paul swung his leg over the crossbar and pushed down hard on the pedal and the ancient bicycle rolled, bouncing on the rough ground down the track skirting the bottom of the field.

Paul turned his attention to himself as he pedaled gently along the valley under the overhanging branches of the woods.

He felt more alive than he ever had before, more deeply aware of his body, his feet steadily pedaling, his arms balancing his weight. He could feel the pulses of electricity passing through him as his brain communicated directly to his muscles, nerves and organs. From the crown of his head, past his throat and down his spine, he perceived energy zapping up and down, firing triggers and impulses of information at the speed of light. The whole effect was literally mind-blowing. In fact, Paul realized, his mind felt incredible, at once totally aware, yet at the same time infinitely spacious and free of the clutter of random anxieties, judgements or memories that normally occupied it.

'So is this what it's like to be you?' Paul said out loud.

The Magur laughed,

'Yes, though of course for me it is not a novelty, it just is ... You are now as close as you can get to experiencing a restored genetic program, the twelve strands of your DNA reactivated and re-connected to your twelve centers of perception.'

Yes, Paul thought, that was it!

His entire body was now conscious and busily in communication with itself and everything around it. It was as if his awareness had escaped the confines of his brain and was now issuing from every cell in his body. There was a pure joy in this feeling that went beyond anything he'd ever even dreamed of. Without his mind busy labeling and analyzing his experience, he was free to simply be in the present moment.

Paul smiled, then grinned and chuckled. Just being alive here and now was so perfect, at once so simple and yet so profound, that all he could do was laugh at the wonder and magnificence of it.

Paul looked round for the Magur but she appeared to have vanished.

'We shall speak telepathically,' came her voice in Paul's mind. 'In that way I do not have to exert the effort of manifestation.'

And Paul knew as he heard her words, that there was no question of challenging their validity. Of course ESP was possible, right here, right now, he was doing it!

The track followed the edge of the woods in the valley bottom, keeping roughly parallel to the stream until it came to a crossroads with a narrow tarmaced lane. Following the Magur's instructions, he turned left past a scattering of stone houses and barns and then right onto a main road which led towards a village.

Several cars passed him but Paul kept his head down, face concealed from view. They turned off the road past a derelict railway station, its wooden shutters and gables cracking and grey with age and neglect and onto a wide, grassy track behind, that must at one time have been the railway line.

'They will have difficulty finding your trail now,' the Magur said, as Paul found himself steadily pedaling into thick woodland, steep tree crowded embankments rising up on either side.

Carried in on the breeze Paul could hear the ominous whup, whup, whup of helicopter blades approaching in the evening sky. The Magur had been right to get them away so quickly he thought, staggered at the speed with which the Agents were able to track him.

He was fairly sure that concealed down here by the network of tangled branches, in the gloom of the settling dusk they had little chance of spotting him and by the time the Agents followed his trail, he would have put miles between himself and the stone barn.

Nevertheless, a buzz of adrenaline shot through his body and he pushed down hard on the pedals, picking his pace up .

Paul cycled determinedly along, as the gloom of the dusk settled more deeply, the yellow moon eventually rising on his left.

Looking up he noticed something strange occurring in the branches of the trees around him. They seemed to be flashing short, sharp blasts of green and purple light, which streaked directly towards him and then withdrew so rapidly he couldn't be sure if he hadn't just imagined them. But the more he watched, the more certain he became.

Not only that, but it seemed as if once they'd noticed his presence, more colored pulses were streaking down the track, passing the information on to the trees ahead.

It was indisputable to Paul in that moment that not only were the trees surrounding him alive and conscious but they were communicating with each other.

There was something so awe-inspiring about these tall, motionless beings, their consciousness so incomprehensibly different to his own.

'Wow!' Paul breathed, as the flashes of light rained down on him.

How could he have lived 40 years around trees and never had an inkling that they were conscious, thinking beings, he thought, gazing at the tangled branches, the gnarled and twisted trunks with a new trembling respect.

Imagine if everyone could have this experience, it would radically change the way humanity related to the forests of the Earth, he thought.

The track passed under an arched stone bridge and Paul pedaled through the deep blackness and back out into the dappled, silvery moonlight beyond. Suddenly aware of another presence, Paul saw perched on a long bough overhanging his path, a pair of large, yellow eyes staring with a piercing intensity down at him. Paul stared back, mesmerized, wondering what kind of creature it was and instantly, without him knowing how it happened, his consciousness seemed to shoot out of himself and he found himself staring down at a man on a bicycle in the moonlight below.

His beak opened, emitting a wild shriek into the night.

His vision was razor sharp, picking out every sodden leaf and blade of grass below in minute detail. Paul felt the power of his wings as they unfolded and spread, launching him into the air, adjusting his wing tips fractionally as the ground shot up to meet him.

And just as suddenly, he was back in his body, on his bicycle, wobbling from side to side erratically, the owl still visible through the tree trunks, swooping gracefully away into the night.

Wow!

That was amazing!

The Magur's voice sounded clearly in his mind,

'You see how easy it is to merge your consciousness.'

'Wow!' Paul repeated inarticulately, overwhelmed by his borrowed shamanic abilities.

'So could I do that again?' Paul wondered.

'Tonight you can,' came the reply, 'with your twelve strands of DNA and your chakras spinning you are free to explore the multiple avenues of existence.'

'So what about tomorrow and the next day?'

'That is what I am here to teach you,' she replied. 'Your genetic connections need time to reforge but by practicing maintaining a quiet mind, a clear intent and an open heart you will make rapid progress.'

It sounded to Paul like some kind of Buddhism but still, it would be worth the effort of practice to have that kind of power.

It was truly amazing, Paul thought, so amazing that words couldn't really encompass it. There was so much more to nature and to himself than he could have believed was possible and the potential of exploring the multiple life-forms of Earth was a truly exciting concept.

Could he do it with people too? Jump into their minds?

He answered his own question. Of course, wasn't that how the Magur could so effortlessly read his thoughts.

Paul's feet mechanically turned the pedals and he moved on through the night, the trees abruptly ending as the railway track emerged into open land, undulating fields bordered by crumbling stone walls, gently rising on either side of him. A pair of deer stood frozen on the track ahead of him, their heads motionless, ears pricked up alert and watching.

Paul focused clearly and sent out a message,

'It's OK. I won't harm you ... I'm just passing by.'

The deer stared back as he steadily approached, before picking their way leisurely off the track onto the verge, their heads swiveling and eyes riveted to Paul as his bicycle creaked past them, on down the track.

Paul restrained the whoop of glee he felt welling up in his chest.

He could do it!

He could talk to animals and not only that, they could understand him!

He looked up into the sky, struck suddenly by the brilliance of the stars above him. They looked like he had never seen them before, the band of the milky way, a million pinpoints of light arching over his head.

Keeping his hands firmly balanced on the handlebars, he tilted back his neck to better appreciate their staggering beauty and complexity, noticing that rather than being random, the stars were arranged in three dimensional clusters, connected by invisible geometrical pathways to each other.

Paul was struck suddenly by a realization that went deep into his core, that there was a meaning and profound purpose in the patterns of the stars. He couldn't clearly define why or how he knew this but knew he was seeing the expanse of the glittering galaxy strung out above him from a level of awareness that by-passed his rational, thinking mind.

He thought briefly of how he'd scoffed at Julie's interest in astrology but was it in fact him who'd been wrong, closed to the possibilities that his logical, conditioned mind couldn't understand?

There was so much more to the Universe than he'd ever considered.

It was so incredible, so perfect in its mysterious, incomprehensible harmony that all you could do was be grateful to have the privilege to be a part of it.

In that moment, Paul saw himself more clearly than he'd ever done before.

Here he was, a man wearing an assortment of clothes and oversized wellies riding an antique bicycle through the night. But none of that mattered, he realized, what you looked like, what you wore, or what your job was. All that really held any meaning was the quality of your consciousness, how you used that spark of awareness that made you alive.

He thought of his relationship with Julie and the kids and a flicker of pain passed through him, as he saw himself for who he'd been, a selfish, narrow minded, controlling and judgmental man.

Who was he to ridicule and belittle Julie's attempts to broaden her understanding of life? And why couldn't he just let Tara be who she needed to be, without forcing her into living his missed opportunities?

All Chris ever wanted was a dad to spend some time with, when all he got was lame excuses. From the 4x4 club to DIY jobs and overtime, everything was always more important, and Chris was left to grow more disillusioned in his father every day.

In fact, Paul realized, those empty promises he made were the same ones his dad had made to him, as he breezed off to the pub leaving Paul crestfallen in the hallway.

It was all so obvious, Paul thought, the trimmings might be different but inside he was nothing more than a carbon copy of his own father.

And moving to London? What was all that about?

It was nothing more than a self-centered, pathetic attempt at re-finding his youth, at the rest of the family's expense.

The epiphany rocked him and he vowed in that moment that if he came through this adventure alive, he'd be a new man, honest and unconditional. There was an excitement inside him as he imagined his potential, the husband and father he could be.

As the night wore on, the dew settled in tiny droplets on Paul's hair and the stars pulsed their unknowable wisdom from across the Universe down all around him and still Paul cycled determinedly onwards.

He could feel the experience the Magur had given him retreating as he noticed his habitual thoughts creeping back into his mind, clouding his previous clarity, but nevertheless, after the events of this night, he felt more open to the wonder and magnificence of the world he lived in than ever before in his life. It was an experience that would change his beliefs about reality for ever.

He hesitated to use the word, up until now never really having grasped what it meant but what he'd seen tonight was a spiritual revelation in its truest sense.

Human life would be revolutionized, he realized, if everyone could really see the depth and expansiveness of the natural world that was hidden there all the time.

There was no doubt about it, the Invaders had a lot to answer for in severing the human race from themselves and the rest of the planet.

The story was no longer an abstract tale from the depths of history but something that was affecting him and everyone else every moment of their lives.

If the crystal really had the potential to free the Earth from the Invaders and reopen this awareness to everyone, then he truly had, as the Magur had said, the most important mission in human history. Paul knew inside himself that the Magur had clinched her deal tonight.

Whereas before he had been going along with the Magur's plans, as much by default as anything else, now he had a clear, definite motivation to get the crystal to wherever the hell Alesia was.

Human life seemed so worthless, so irrelevant in its obsessions with money and progress and power when there was a world of true wonder, of oneness and connection with all of life just waiting to be discovered, that was of so much more value.

The long night wore on, but Paul, immersed in the profundity of his own thoughts didn't seem to notice the miles slipping by. It wasn't till the pale light of another dawn brought a dusky color to the landscape around him that he became aware of quite how hungry he was. His stomach felt a tight, gripping ache that was almost painful in its intensity.

Yesterday, before meeting Jurgis and Petras, he'd felt hungrier than he'd ever been before, but now, as he pedaled wearily forward, Paul realized it had been nothing.

Somehow, somewhere, he'd have to find a decent meal and somewhere to sleep if he wasn't going to pass out with exhaustion long before the morning of the 21st ever arrived.

Sleeping by day and traveling by night, Paul found he'd become confused, losing track of the time or the date. He tried to re-count the days since that fateful evening when Elodie had plunged him into this unreal adventure, thrusting the crystal into his unwitting hands.

That had been the 15th, he'd gone to Paris on the 16th, ending up that night at the Punk's farm. So ... Paul tried to remember, so much seemed to have happened in so little time. He'd slept the best part of the day away on the 17th, walked all night and slept again in the deserted barn on the 18th, so that would make this morning the 19th, he reasoned.

The sun was throwing its first dazzling rays over the horizon, lighting up a beautiful frosty morning, ice crystals sparkling magically on the grass on either side of the track, his tyres crunching a thin coating of ice on the puddles he rode through. He was certainly having luck with the weather, he thought, if it had carried on raining like it had that first night, he'd probably be dying of pneumonia by now.

With Crousti's heavy flying jacket zipped tightly around him, he knew he didn't have to worry too much about the cold. As he approached a high, stone bridge, the Magur's voice, absent for the last few hours suddenly spoke into Paul's mind.

'It's time to stop, here's your breakfast ticket.'

Paul squeezed his brakes and came to a halt, looking to each side, seeing no-one and nothing but trees and fields.

'Where?' he asked.

'Down below,' she replied.

Paul dismounted and looked over the bridge. He could see below him a handful of old trucks and a couple of brightly painted coaches parked up in a rough circle on a patch of graveled wasteland bordering the road.

Paul wondered if it was perhaps a circus or some kind of traveling show but on closer inspection the vehicles seemed just too scruffy. There was a Bedford lorry, with a horse box body into which the owner had added mismatched windows and a door with a panel of stained glass.

Opposite, across the blackened fire was another smaller flatbed truck with a tiny, romany red caravan hitched at an odd angle to its tow ball, so its back end was close to touching the gravel. Celtic knot work patterns were neatly painted across the back in yellow and green, and a thin column of smoke had just started to rise into the still, morning air from its chimney.

The coach parked directly below him caught his eye. It was painted a shiny, dark green with thin, yellow lines highlighting the curves of its bodywork. Half of its windows were paneled in with pine boards, the ones remaining draped in colorful Indian-looking curtains.

A woman in her thirties with a mop of tangled dreadlocks tied up over her head in a scarf and a heavy, black coat clumped out of the bus and busied herself poking broken bits of pallet between two smoldering logs. Paul looked on, wondering if he dared approach and ask for some food.

They must be travelers, Paul concluded, remembering pictures of New Age Travelers he'd seen years back in the early 90s, a collection of anarchists and drug-dealers if he remembered rightly, not the type of people he would normally want anything to do with.

But that was before, Paul thought, and if he'd learnt anything since arriving in France, it was that his judgements about people could be startlingly wrong. As Paul debated with himself how to approach and what to say, two skinny, mongrel dogs pushed out of the open coach door.

They sniffed around, raising their hind legs to urinate in turn on the coach wheels, before one of them, sensing his presence, looked up to the bridge and let out a series of short, staccato barks.

Well that clinched it, Paul thought, as the woman too looked up and saw him peering down from behind the stone parapet of the bridge. He'd risk it and hope they were friendly. The Magur hadn't been wrong yet in her choices.

Paul lifted the bicycle frame onto his shoulder and with difficulty slid and scrambled down the steep embankment to the vehicles below. The dogs ran to meet him, barking excitedly and wagging their tails and Paul wheeled his bike past them towards the fire.

As he got closer, he saw the caravan had a cardboard and black marker pen sign gaffer taped under its window, "HAND SIGNALS ONLY" and Yes! the vehicles had British plates. Well that would certainly make things easier being able to communicate in his own language, but even so, English or not, approaching a total stranger and asking for a free breakfast was not something Paul felt overly confident about.

The woman put a heavy, black, cast-iron kettle on the fire and straightened up to stand calmly watching him approach, hands on hips, a neutral expression on her face that was neither friendly nor hostile.

As Paul got to within speaking distance he said,

'Hi, erm, I don't mean to bother you but I was wondering if ... erm ... ' he knew he was sounding ridiculous but somehow he just didn't know how to spit it out and say what he wanted. It would have been a damn sight easier if he had some money or something to offer in exchange ...

A man about Paul's age poked his head out of the bus doorway to listen. He was wearing an old, tweed flat cap perched on his shoulder-length, black hair and an unlit, hand rolled cigarette dangled from his lip as he warily eyed Paul up and down.

Paul tried to carry on, feeling more self-conscious every second,

'It's just that I've had a long journey and nothing to eat or drink so ...'

The woman cut his pathetic monologue off, as smiling for the first time she said,

'You trying to blag a cuppa or wot?'

Paul grinned back with relief, feeling suddenly unsteady on his feet, his head starting to spin,

'Yes, p ... please, he stuttered.

'Well, why didncha say so then? Take a pew, kettles on.'

Paul lowered the bicycle and let himself sink onto the ground, breathing deeply till the faintness seemed to have passed.

'Come far have yer?' she asked conversationally, continuing to pull loose boards of wood from the pile of broken pallets beside her. She had a pleasant cockney accent that could have come from anywhere in the south-east of England.

'Ummm yeah, I guess I have,' Paul answered evasively, aware that he'd have to come up with some kind of a story to explain his exhausted appearance at their doorstep so early in the morning, with nothing but a vintage bicycle.

The man meanwhile, had slipped his feet into a pair of unlaced para boots and came to join them at the fire.

'I'm Rusty,' he said nodding at Paul.

'Kosmic Kate,' the woman added, looking up at him.

'Pleased to meet you,' Paul replied, 'I'm Paul,' realizing as he spoke that he should have given a false name but in his present state of hunger and exhaustion he'd forgotten to be cautious.

He wondered if he should offer his hand to shake but decided not to.

'You 'aven't come all the way from Blighty on that ol push bike ave yer?' Kate asked, glancing up at him again.

'No, I've hitched a bit and walked ... ' Paul replied and Kate nodded, seeming to accept his answer.

'So, going to Alesia are yer?' Rusty asked, pulling a burning splinter of wood from the fire to light his fag.

Paul's heart skipped a beat.

How could they possibly know about Alesia, he thought frantically?

Could this be a trap?

What should he say?

He realized his mouth was hanging open and abruptly shut it as Rusty continued.

'There's thousands of us on the move, the filth'll have no chance blocking this like they did at the Henge. It's gonna be the biggest fuckin' festival in history man!'

Something in Paul's mind clicked. Could this be the "party" that Crousti and Toxico had seen advertised on the internet?

'Do you mean the technival?' he asked uncertainly.

'Naw man, we're going to the End of Time Crystal Healing Festival. Alesia's at the centre of the biggest ley-line convergence in Europe.'

'We're gonna meditate in the New Age,' Kate told him.

Paul's mind reeled, a "crystal" healing! Could it be a coincidence?

And at Alesia too of all the places?

It was uncanny, but, he supposed if there were other people headed to the same spot as him, it could definitely give him some cover. But even more than that, he realized, with lots of minds focusing on crystals and Alesia, the Agents mind-reading thing would be useless, giving him the chance he needed to slip through their net.

Somehow events seemed to have turned very much in Paul's favor.

The kettle had started to boil, a thin plume of steam erupting from its spout into the cold, morning air and Kate disappeared into the bus leaving just Rusty and Paul sitting opposite each other around the fire.

Lowering his voice, Rusty leaned forwards and fixed Paul with a sharp look,

'Ere mate. Not on the run are yer?'

'No, of course not,' Paul blustered.

How could he know, he thought frantically? Was it that obvious?

Rusty smiled knowingly but said nothing and Kate re-emerged with a teapot and a collection of chipped mugs, milk and sugar.

Paul ladled several spoonfuls into his tea, sipping the piping hot, sweet fluid gratefully, as another couple joined them at the fire.

Dreadlocks, a weeks growth of stubble and rags seemed to be the fashion and Paul smiled wryly realizing he didn't actually look too much out of place as he was introduced to Denzel and Big Suze. They looked him over suspiciously from his oversized, green wellies to his grubby fur-lined jacket, firing a barrage of questions at him,

'Who are you then?

'You ain't a traveller are ya?

'Where you going? And where d'you come from?'

Paul did his best to reply, though his answers if anything seemed to deepen their mistrust of him. Rusty stepped in, changing the subject,

'So what the fuck was that roadblock about last night?' Rusty asked, passing Denzel a cup of tea, 'fucking mental these French pigs!'

'Why, what happened?' Paul asked, feeling instinctively that it somehow concerned him.

'Well, they pulled us over, a whole load of 'em,' Denzel started, happy to re-count the tale, until his eyes fell on Paul and he changed his mind, stopping in mid-sentence. Rusty carried on where Denzel had left off.

'They 'ad dogs, guns, you name it, but were they bothered about the vehicles MOT's or insurance?' he asked. 'Were they fuck! They didn't even look!'
Big Suze interrupted,

'Yeah, they found my blim tin and a jar of dried shrooms, I thought we were well in the shit. They just left it! But d'you know what they took?' she asked incredulously, 'my dowsing pendulum and that lump of rose quartz that Mad Maggie gave me!'

Paul wasn't surprised but kept his mouth shut. He knew he could explain the strange actions of the police and although a part of him would have loved to share his story, he knew it would be foolish and his best plan was to say as little as possible.

'You know what it is,' said Kate, 'Babylon's scared of our power. We're bringing in the Age of Aquarius and they know it. It's the same reason we couldn't get near Stonehenge or Avebury.'

Denzel chuckled,

'You ain't called Kosmic Kate for nothing!'

Paul finished his tea and Kate poured him another cup. Crazy as she might sound, she had half the story figured out, Paul thought to himself.

The conversation moved on.

'Well they've got no chance of blocking this party,' repeated Rusty. 'There's loads of people piling up from Spain and I heard there's a couple of sound systems coming from Prague. We're gonna be unstoppable.

'Yeah, if we can go more than ten miles without breaking down. We've lost half the convoy since the ferry,' Denzel added, 'and it's took us three days to get this far ... what with the TK losing power on every hill and your dodgy alternator.'

They drank more tea as the winter sun rose higher and more of the travelers emerged from their vehicles. They all reacted to Paul with the same suspicion, seeing straight away that, despite his scruffy appearance, he wasn't one of them.

'Sure he ain't a journo or undercover?' demanded a heavily built bloke with thick, blond dreadlocks snaking down his back but for some reason Paul couldn't quite fathom, Rusty seemed to have taken a liking to him.

'Na, leave the fella alone Welshy, he's all right he is.'

Welshy grudgingly backed off, ignoring Paul much as the others had done.

Paul was happy just to sit by the fire letting their conversation wash over him.

Big Suze brought a frying pan out to the fire and started cooking pancakes and Paul got his nerve up to ask another favor,

'Is there any chance I could get a lift with you to the festival?' he asked Rusty.

'Yeah, don't see why not,' he replied adding, 'you can chuck your bike on the flatbed, right Denzel?'

Denzel shrugged his acceptance. Paul couldn't believe his luck.

Concealed in amongst a convoy of travelers he'd be a lot harder to find and if they were going to Alesia, well, maybe it wasn't going to be as hard as he'd thought.

There was still the question of moving into the Magur's dimension when he got there, but, well, he'd just have to take things one step at a time and worry about it when he got there.

Paul accepted a pancake gratefully; hot, sweet fried banana oozing out of each end as he bit into it.

Rusty meanwhile had fetched a tattered map of France from the coach dash and he opened it up on the gravel, head bent in concentration.

'So how far is it to Alesia?' Paul asked.

'We're about here ... ' said Rusty, pointing to a stretch of yellow road marked D73 and Alesia's somewhere round here,' he pointed at another spot maybe 30 or 40 miles to the east. 'Thing is, they're not announcing the site till late on the 20th ... s'the only way they can make sure the old bill don't shut it down before we get there. There's a temporary site some place called St Germaine, however you pronounce that, a whole load of us are meeting there. So if we can make it there today, then we're all ready to pull on soon as the real site's announced.'

'Time to tat down, rev up and fuck off,' Denzel announced and the group broke up, everyone attending to their own vehicles, collecting and tidying their possessions away.

Rusty had unbolted the front grille of the coach and had his head and arms deep inside over the engine.

'Pass us the 1/2 inch spanner would ya mate?' he said as Paul wandered over to look.

Paul rummaged through the grimy tool box at his feet and passed the spanner to Rusty's oily hand.

'Ta. Alternator was playing up last night. We had no fucking electrics, no headlights, nothing for the last hour.'

With Paul's help holding a crow bar as a lever, Rusty retightened the pulley bolts and straightening up, he said confidentially, checking that no-one else was within earshot, 'Listen mate, I've had a bit of trouble with the law in my time, used to do a bit of direct action, know what I mean?' Paul waited apprehensively, not sure where he was leading.

'Well, I know you're wanted. Saw your face in the paper last week,' he tapped his nose, 'I've got a good memory for a face, however good the disguise.'

Paul kept silent, neither admitting or denying it and after a tense pause, Rusty continued,

'I think I'd know a terrorist when I met one and you ain't the type. I dunno what you've done and if you don't wanna tell me that's you're business right, but, all I'm saying is, you wanna come along with us, we won't say a word.'

Paul felt he really should say something, he just didn't know what.

'Thanks ... You don't know how much I appreciate it. It's just a bit of a long story and well, I don't think you'd believe me even if I did tell you.'

Paul wheeled his bicycle over to Denzel's flatbed, relieved that Rusty hadn't pushed for an explanation and busied himself lashing it on with a length of frayed polypropylene rope.

Soon the vehicles were ready to move, the fire had been doused with water from a plastic butt and the charred remains chucked in the ditch.

The Bedford horse box fired up with a blast of black smoke from the exhaust and maneuvered till it was nose to nose with the coach.

They connected both batteries with a pair of jump leads and with a wheezy rattle the coach engine was running.

'Come on mate, 'op in,' shouted Rusty from the drivers seat and Paul climbed in, stepping over a collection of coats, hats and wellies, a spade, bow saw and axe on hooks above them. Paul made his way back and sat on a low sofa facing an old fashioned, cream colored cooking range, behind the driver's seat.

The vehicles pulled out onto the road, the TK horse box in front, then Rusty's coach and the rest of the motley convoy of aging trucks, vans and caravans following behind. Paul made himself comfortable and took a good look around.

It was amazingly cosy and well designed, every bit of wall space that wasn't a window taken up with shelves, where jars of rice, beans, lentils and tiny pots of herbs and spices held in by wooden laths, rattled and chinked together as the bus swayed on the road.

Next to the range, Paul could see demijohns of different colored home-brews quietly bubbling through their airlocks and at the back, a bed as wide as the coach could just be seen behind heavy embroidered curtains.

Paul relaxed into the comfort of the sofa. It might only have been midday but for Paul it was well past his bedtime.

After a few minutes Kate came to join him, offering him the butt end of a joint.

'So, you into the Mayan prophecies then?' she asked.

'Er, no,' Paul admitted, feeling a bit ignorant, 'but I have heard of them.'

'Well, the Mayans made a calendar way back and predicted tomorrow to be the last day of this era. It's well exciting.' Kate leaned towards him, obviously on one of her favorite subjects. 'It all ties in with astrology, you know, the end of Pisces and start of Aquarius. But the Mayans had everything predicted, global warming and the crazy weather, earthquakes, hurricanes and shit like that, it's all coming true man!'

'Armageddon?' Paul questioned.

Kate opened the range door, throwing her roach into the fire box and turned back to him,

'It might sound crazy and everything but they reckon realities are gonna, like split, and the New Age will happen in, a parallel reality or something.'

Paul thought about her statement a moment. Yes, it did sound pretty crazy but not quite as crazy as it would have sounded last week. Paul smiled to himself as he listened to her talk, amused that he could now be so open-minded to her off the wall theories. He'd changed more than he knew in the last few days.

'Pluto's moved into Capricorn,' Kate rambled stonedly on, 'which is going to bring on the collapse of all structures based on lies and deceit. That's the Catholic church and the world bank out for a start! It's happening man! We're living in a historic moment.'

The bus slowed down to a stop and they both looked up.

The TK at the head of their convoy had pulled onto the verge, hazard lights flashing.

Rusty sighed,

'Not a fucking 'gain,' and they all climbed out to see what the trouble was.

Welsh Dave had lifted the flap on the side of the cab up and was fiddling with the lift pump on the engine block.

He turned as they arrived,

'Sorry man! Still keeps losing power on the uphills, engines just cutting out,' he said despondently.

'Must be crud in the tank,' Rusty volunteered.

'Yeah, or air in the fuel-line.'

They stood clustered around the TK, waving the occasional car past as Welsh Dave cracked the injectors open one by one. Paul looked nervously up and down the road, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable, standing around in broad daylight.

Just how long would it be before a passing gendarme turned up and then what would he do?

It didn't seem as if they were having any luck with the truck as Dave repeatedly tried to turn the engine over, without success. A memory from maybe ten years ago came to Paul's mind. He'd gone for a weeks off-roading on the green lanes of Derbyshire when he'd got his first Landrover . He'd punctured the diesel tank on a rock whilst fording a stream and they'd had to by-pass the tank and fuel-line to get going again.

'What about putting it on syphon feed?' he suggested, trying to remember how it'd been done.

Everyone turned to look at him as he continued,

'We would just need a jerry can and a couple of meters of fuel-line.'

'Hey, not a bad idea mate,' said Denzel, smiling at Paul for the first time, 'there was a garage a couple of miles back the way. I'll blat back and see if they've got a bit. Coming?' he asked Paul, who although pleased to be asked, hesitated, unwilling to risk contact with anyone who might have seen the recent headlines.

Rusty stepped quickly in,

'You're all right mate. You stay with Kate and the coach,' he said, giving him a wink, 'I'll go.'

They unhitched the caravan and roared off in the little flatbed leaving the rest of the group milling around on the roadside smoking roll-ups and chatting.

The weather was getting colder Paul noticed and a bank of ominous looking cloud was amassing on the eastern horizon.

Twenty minutes later Denzel and Rusty were back with a length of plastic pipe. Jubilee clipping one end to the injector pump inlet and dangling the other into a jerry can of diesel on the truck cab floor they soon had the engine running and were ready to move again,

'More useful than you look ain't ya?' Rusty joked as the convoy rolled forward.

Paul settled back on the sofa, feeling pleased with himself for being able to help. It must be early afternoon, he thought yawning and his lack of sleep was catching up with him. The convoy rolled along, passing picturesque, stone villages where the few people out and about stopped and stared at their motley procession of ancient vehicles. Paul slouched down lower on the sofa not wanting to risk being seen and pretty soon found his head lolling and his eyelids dropping closed.

He was jolted awake from his doze by a loud exclamation from the front of the coach,

'Fuckin' bollox!'

Paul's eyelids flew open and looking forward he saw a column of steam rising up and obscuring the view out of the windscreen.

Christ! Paul thought sleepily. Not again! How long could it take to cover 30 miles.

The convoy again inched off the road, one wheel on the verge, precariously close to the ditch and everyone got out. The weather was definitely changing for the worse, and the cloud bank that before had been in the distance was now overhead obscuring the sun, and there was a smell in the air that foretold the arrival of snow.

Once the front grille was unbolted the problem was obvious. The fan-belt, brittle and cracked with age, had finally snapped.

'Where the fuck are we gonna get another belt?' Rusty asked, holding up the frayed length of rubber.

'I've got a spare but it ain't gonna be long enough,' said Jools.

'Got anything we could bodge one out of?' Denzel asked, scratching his mop of hair.

No-one answered as they all thought, a chill wind rising up around them, rubbing the bare tree branches overhead together, until Paul's sleepy mind had another brain wave.

'Would a bicycle inner tube be any good?' he asked.

Rusty's face lit up,

'Good one mate. S'gotta be worth a go. We've only got 15 odd miles to go to St Germaine and there's gotta be someone on site who can help.'

Climbing up on the flatbed, Paul un-roped his bike and unbolted the front wheel from the forks.

'Wish all hitchhikers were as useful as you mate,' Rusty joked as they levered off the tyre from the rim and pulled out the inner tube. Squeezing it over the water pump, alternator and cam pulleys, Rusty knotted the tube as tightly as he could and cut off the ends. They refilled the radiator from their water butt and turned the ignition key.

It looked dodgy, Paul thought peering in, the knot on the inner tube causing the belt to wobble erratically as it raced over the pulleys but maybe it would get them as far as they needed to go.

Once back on the road, Kate presented Paul with a sandwich of curried lentil burgers slapped between two wedges of whole-meal bread.

'Reckon you've earnt yourself some dinner,' she said grinning.

Paul ate gratefully.

As soon as the food hit his stomach, he was overwhelmed with a wave of tiredness that weighted his eyelids, slumping down into the softness of the cushions, Paul sank into sleep.

Paul awoke suddenly in darkness, the only light a cosy glow glinting out from the air hole in the range door.

Someone had taken his wellies off and draped a patchwork, wool blanket over him. Jesus! He must have been really deep asleep. There was no telling what time it was, Paul thought groggily, wishing for the twentieth time that his watch wasn't broken.

From outside he could hear a violin being played, the occasional voice raised in a call or a laugh and over and behind it all, a reverberating, deep, reggae bass-line seemed to hold all the sounds together. With so much going on outside, maybe it wasn't that late after all.

Paul lay for a moment in the warmth and comfort letting himself wake up, listening to the jumble of sounds washing over each other, blending and clashing at the same time.

There was something so beautiful and simple about this cosy bus parked up on a cold night, about the traveler's whole lifestyle, that it reminded Paul of the feelings of youth, before career choices and mortgage worries had drowned his sense of freedom.

His bladder was bursting and one thing he knew Rusty and Kate didn't have was a toilet. He'd have to go outside.

He sat up slowly, pulled back the curtain and looked out of the window. They were parked in a huge, tarmac car park, next to a low industrial building. Beyond it, Paul could see a town rising steeply up to a floodlit, stone church perched on the top of the hill, the houses haphazardly clustered on the slopes below it, their tiled roofs set at crazy angles as they spilled in a series of terraces downwards to the flat land around.

It was a beautiful sight, Paul thought, organic and medieval, the floodlights picking out the graceful yet mighty buttresses that surrounded the main body of the church.

But what really took Paul's breath away was the foreground, as on every side of Rusty's coach was a sea of buses, trucks, car roofs and canvas awnings stretching across the car-park in a random, chaotic sprawl, a couple of double-deckers poking out above it all. He could see groups of people gathered around small fires and smoke drifting up to the oppressive low clouds above.

Paul pushed his feet into his wellies and stumbled to the door. The night was cold, colder than it had been yet, cutting through his thin, mohair jumper and almost painful in his nostrils as he breathed in. Paul picked his way through the chaos of vehicles, past humming generators and the occasional growling dog, making his way through the maze to the edge of the car-park.

Once his bladder was emptied, he hurried back through the site, past a fire where a blond woman in a top hat was furiously playing an irish jig on a fiddle, accompanied by a couple of bodhrans. Further on, another group were pounding african djembes, whooping and laughing as the rhythms built up in speed and complexity.

No one spoke or paid any attention to him as he strode through the hubbub of the site, keen to get back to Rusty and Kate's coach at the far end of the car-park. Once inside, Paul slid the heavy door closed on its rollers.

The dogs raised their heads from the floor as he stepped over them, thumping their tails up and down lazily a couple of times before again falling asleep.

It was luxuriously warm in the coach and Paul settled himself under the blanket with a sigh of satisfaction.

Somehow, whether through blind luck or the help of unseen forces, Paul didn't know, but the last leg of his journey across France had panned out better than he could have imagined. The fact that the Magur remained absent, Paul reasoned, was a good sign, meaning that he must be on the right track.

Well, whatever happened next, this time tomorrow, for better of worse, Paul thought, his adventure would be very nearly over.

Listening to the sounds of the night, safe in the warmth and comfort of the coach, Paul again slipped into sleep.

Paul was awakened by a hand roughly shaking his shoulder.

His eyes opened and Rusty's gaunt, stubbly face swam into focus.

'Wake up mate! We've got trouble!'

Paul sat up, instantly alert. Looking out of the window he saw the cold, grey light of dawn laying over the sleeping site and a thin flurry of snow was falling from low, heavy clouds, starting to settle on the roofs and windscreens of the surrounding vehicles.

Parked along the road on two sides of the site, Paul could just see a line of blue gendarmerie cars and minibuses, protective steel mesh covering their windows, their blue flashing lights reflecting off the low cloud above. Piling out of the police vehicles and efficiently spreading into an orderly line surrounding the site, were dozens of armed, black clad riot police.

With their visored helmets, batons and perspex shields, they looked like they meant business.

'Might be time to make yourself scarce,' Rusty said, as Paul heard the shrill blast of a whistle followed by orders shouted in the cold morning air.

Paul didn't need telling twice. In a moment he'd jammed his feet into his wellies and grabbed his flying jacket.

'Thanks for everything. Hope to see you at Alesia,' Paul babbled as Rusty wrenched the coach door open.

Adrenaline pumping through his body and realizing that every second counted, Paul flung himself out of the door, hearing Rusty's,

'Good luck mate!' as he set off, running as fast as he could away from the police cordon towards the industrial unit, his only remaining escape route.

Paul ran hard across the car-park to the far side of the site, passing travelers who were emerging from their vehicles, oblivious of the falling snow, all eyes anxiously turned towards the spreading, black line. He reached the industrial unit and skidded round the corner, sprinting past a couple of steel skips and piles of stacked pallets to take a flying leap at the wire mesh fence. His fingers gripped the cold wire and in a couple of seconds he'd flung himself over to land on the snow covered grass of a large garden. But as Paul picked himself up and prepared to run he heard another piercing whistle blast. He looked over his shoulder, praying he hadn't been spotted and saw maybe 60 or 70 meters away, a gendarme with his arm outstretched towards him, shouting in rapid french

'Allez-y!

'La-bas!

'Allez-y!'

Immediately a group of black-clad riot police broke from the line, sprinting from the roadside toward him. The gendarme jumped into his car and sped forward down the road obviously hoping to cut Paul off from in front.

'Shit!' Paul cursed, increasing his speed, intent only on getting as far away as possible from his pursuers. He could see a prestigious house at the end of the garden, just visible through the bare branches of a tree-lined avenue. Paul realized his best bet was to keep away from the road and he altered his course, racing diagonally across the lawn for a low stone wall bordering the neighboring garden.

He scrambled over it, his breath coming hard and fast in the freezing air and decided to risk a glance back. Several of the police had scaled the wire mesh fence already and were running hard across the garden directly towards him.

The falling snow didn't help and even if he could find somewhere to hide, his footprints would be child's play to follow.

As Paul's feet pounded across the next garden, the sound of his pumping blood loud in his ears, he tried frantically to think of some kind of plan.

Heading towards the town would be suicidal, he realized, as the police would soon have the roads cut off but going the other direction towards the open countryside didn't seem to offer much more hope.

The second garden was bordered by a higher wall with a steep drop on the other side down to a stream choked with brambles and elder bushes. Paul scrambled over the wall, the cracks between the stones providing easy foot and hand holds and jumped down into the soft earth. He leapt the stream, landing badly with one foot in the water and pulled himself up, his fingers clawing at the icy mud on the opposite bank.

Making a rapid decision, Paul dropped back down into the water and splashed his way upstream. At least in the water he'd be obscured from view and leave no trail to follow.

The stream was shallow, the water-level staying just below the top of his wellies as it flowed languidly over a bed of flat-stones and he made good progress. He brushed the undergrowth that bent over the stream away from his face as he waded along, searching the banks for a hiding place.

Suddenly a familiar voice sounded in Paul's mind.

'Paul,' it said, 'remember you must focus. Remember what you have learnt.'

About time you turned up, Paul thought, splashing his way onwards. 'What do you mean by focus anyway?' he asked.

'Reality is fluid. Embrace that knowledge and let your molecules align with the natural world.'

Just ahead, an ancient walnut tree spread across the stream and grabbing onto the rough bark of an overhanging branch, Paul swung himself up to stand, his back pressed against its trunk.

'They are only human police,' came the Magur's voice, 'you have the power to beat them.'

Paul, realizing that despite his instinct to keep running the Magur's advice was worth taking, concentrated on calming his racing heartbeat and trying to find that connection with nature that had been so strong the night of his bicycle journey.

'Remember, you, the tree you are holding, the stones beneath your feet, are all just atoms in vibration.'

Paul willed himself to focus, feeling a deep calm rising from within him as he did so. He directed his mind towards the tree, asking fervently.

'Please help me ... I need to access you.'

As the verbal request passed through his mind, Paul felt that strange shift in energy take place and instead of being a scared, hunted man flattened against the trunk of a walnut tree he felt his identity start to fade and then vanish. He was no longer Paul Sutherland, accountant, father, he wasn't even necessarily a human but instead, if he could define it, he would have said that he was a point of consciousness, without either form or identity.

Three, black clad men were now splashing toward him. As they drew nearer he could see their faces beneath their helmets, their eyes intensely scanning the banks on either side. They carried automatic rifles loosely in their arms and as their soaked, gortex trousers splashed past, Paul could hear the staccato crackle of voices from the closed circuit radios strapped to their belts.

Yet despite their proximity he felt no fear, just a clear, composed awareness as their eyes slid over his figure in the shadows against the walnut trunk and passed onwards.

Paul, watching their backs disappearing into the undergrowth surrounding the stream, murmured a word of thanks and as he did so he felt his sense of identity slide silently back into place.

He'd done it! Somehow he had succeeded in merging with the tree but now was not the moment to sit back and congratulate himself, he thought. The first hurdle might be over with the police search now concentrating further upstream, but he still had to get himself away from the town, without being seen and back to the obscurity of the woods and fields. Could he just stay here, hidden all day, he wondered, till their search had moved on. No, he'd freeze, his only choice was to keep moving.

Paul lowered himself into the water, wiping away the snow that had settled on his eyebrows and lashes and preparing to backtrack, when he stopped, his ears picking out an ominously familiar noise just audible over the gentle murmur of the flowing water. His eyes turned automatically upwards to the skies, searching the chaos of falling flakes but he could see nothing.

The sound however was swelling and he knew with a sinking feeling in his heart that up above him, somewhere in the swirling whiteness, choppers were closing in. No sooner had Paul thought it, than he saw them, descending suddenly through the cloud cover, they banked round in tight formation and then broke up, spiraling and circling lower and lower as they prepared to land.

The Magur's voice was loud and urgent in Paul's ears as she vocalized what he already instinctively knew,

'Agents are here. We must get out!

'Make for the church on the hill.'

Paul blinked in incomprehension.

Was she crazy?

Heading back into the town would be madness, the streets crawling with the police he'd just succeeded in evading.

Why not the other way, away from the manhunt and off into the distance?

'The church is built on an ancient earthworks, it is an energy accumulator. If you can get there we can use the power of its energy matrix to escape,' the Magur's voice explained.

'What do you mean escape?' Paul queried, 'escape where?'

'To the other side, the dimension of the ancient people.'

Suddenly in that moment, as Paul watched the snowflakes vanishing into the water swirling around his feet, it all just felt too much, too difficult.

Sure he'd had plenty of luck but could he escape the ruthlessness and power of the Agents again? He doubted it.

Reaching into his pocket he pulled out the crystal and holding it out in front of himself he stated bluntly,

'You take it ...'

'I've got no chance now. It's yours ... '

The snowflakes silently settled and melted on the dimly gleaming crystal sat in his upturned palm, as the Magur's voice sounded loud again in Paul's ears.

'Paul,' she urged, 'without you the crystal can do nothing. I have told you it must be done in your reality, if you give up you condemn the Earth and humanity to another cycle of exploitation. Come on! You can do it!'

Paul could hear the drone of the helicopter's rotors as one of them swung in low over him, pulling his attention back to the present. He shrugged, pocketing the crystal again. There was nothing for it but to do his best and if they caught him, well, at least his conscience would be clear in the knowledge he'd done all he could.

Paul set off, climbing out of the stream bed, up the bank and into another garden. From here the town rose steeply in a series of terraces and Paul, looking upwards, figured he'd keep to the gardens for as much of the climb as he possibly could, though it felt like sheer madness to head back into so much danger.

Paul heaved himself over another wall and skirted a long stone barn, keeping as low as possible. There was only one helicopter in the sky above now, circling over the rooftops, which meant the others must have found places to land.

Paul wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. Knowing there were Agents ahead on the ground, possibly waiting for him, wasn't a reassuring thought.

At the gable end of the barn, a narrow, paved alleyway wound upwards and Paul stopped to catch his breath and reassess his options.

All around him, behind the reverberating racket of the searching chopper, Paul could hear the sounds of whining sirens and shouts carrying across the softness of the snow-laden morning air. Maybe his best bet would be to make directly for the church, he thought, after all, creeping from back yard to garden was going to take ages and with this many police around it was only a matter of time before he was spotted.

Forcing himself to make a decision, Paul glanced quickly up and down the alley to check the coast was clear, put his head down and pelted as fast as he could up the steep incline.

He'd gone maybe 50 meters before the alleyway was intersected by a small road. As he labored towards it, his breath coming in rasping gasps, he heard the sound of running feet. Instantly Paul flung himself into the recess of a small stone doorway, shrinking himself back into the shadows as a dozen uniformed gendarmes ran past only a couple of meters in front of him.

His breath partially recovered, Paul stepped out into the open, ready to continue, when two vans tore down the street, in the direction they still believed he'd run.

Paul froze but the vans roared by in a blur of dark blue leaving their exhaust fumes hanging amongst the snow flakes and he was fairly sure they'd passed too fast to have noticed him. Waiting till the glow of their taillights was out of sight, he set out on another fear-filled sprint. The alleyway suddenly became steeper, giving way to a series of shallow, stone steps, the ancient, wooden houses crowding over his head, letting only the occasional snowflake find its way down to the shadowy steps below. Paul took them two at a time until they ended abruptly, opening out onto a spacious, paved, market square.

On three sides stood tall, timber framed houses, their upper stories cantilevered over the square, creating a covered terrace supported on sturdy oak posts. Clustered in small groups at shop doorways all around the walkway stood anxious villagers, gazing upwards through the mist of swirling flakes as the helicopter swooped in low over the square and sped off again, disappearing behind the roof-line.

Opposite Paul, with an imposing sculpted crucifix dominating the square in front of it, squatted the impressive, towering bulk of the church, flanked by enormous, aged buttresses, its tower rose up, vanishing into the snow.

Despite the amount of people about, Paul thought, scanning the far edges of the square, surprisingly he could see no uniforms, so putting his head down and squinting his eyes against the snow, Paul set out on his final dash.

On reaching the massive oak doorway, Paul grabbed the latch, flung himself through and slammed it closed. An array of candles stood in front of an alcoved altar opposite him, their flames guttering in the draught of the opened door.

Paul bent over double, breathing hard for a moment before straightening, he spotted a heavy iron bolt.

It might buy him a few precious moments he thought as he slid it closed behind him. He gazed down the nave of the church feeling the sense of solemnity it's high, fluted columns and ornate stained glass windows exuded.

'Magur?' he questioned into the empty silence. 'What next?'

Instantly her voice was there,

'You must go to the crypt. There is our source of power.'

'Well, where the hell is it?' Paul demanded impatiently but as the words came from his mouth, he heard the helicopter's deafening drone closing in and looking up he saw its shadowy silhouette through the altar windows.

As Paul gaped, momentarily frozen, the centre window shattered into a thousand flying shards of colored glass raining down over the altar below. Paul could see the figure of an Agent descending smoothly on a wire dangling from the belly of the helicopter.

'The small door beneath the organ,' urged the Magur. 'Move! Now!'

Paul snapped into action, obeying without thought, he turned his back on the Agent, now clambering through the stone mullions and pelted towards the high, shining cylinders of the organ. He skidded to a stop on the polished stone floor, wrenched the door open and flicked on an antique, brass light switch. Instantly a string of bare bulbs illuminated a narrow, spiral staircase with a metal handrail leading downwards. Paul followed the pools of light down, supporting his weight on the handrail and vaulting three steps at a time until the staircase ended at the start of what Paul presumed was the crypt. It was a long, low-ceilinged, arched room built of large blocks of rough-hewn stone. Shadowy recesses containing inscribed, stone tombs opened off to each side and at the far end he could see another low, wooden door.

Paul ran the length of the crypt, stooping slightly to avoid hitting his head and lifted the door latch. He flicked on another light switch revealing yet more stone steps leading downwards. There was nothing for it but to go on, he realized, bolting the door behind him whilst trying to suppress the feeling of suffocating claustrophobia that this lower, narrower staircase gave him. He knew he was heading like a rabbit into a dead-end trap and prayed the Magur had a good trick up her sleeve, when he reached the end.

The staircase abruptly ended, giving way to an even more confined tunnel which sloped steadily downwards, twisting spookily as it went. Paul found himself strangely disorientated as he ran, hunched forwards, balancing himself against the dripping, slimy walls of the tunnel with his hands. It went on an on, the dim hanging bulbs placed so far apart that as one pool of light faded behind him, he could only just make out the start of the next as the tunnel continuously curved, spiraling ever deeper underground. With every step downwards, Paul's sense of oppression and dread seemed to grow, keenly aware of the Agent only a minute or two behind him at the most. He must be off the hill and deep inside the Earth by now, he reckoned, when suddenly the tunnel opened up into a larger, circular, domed room, built of impeccably smooth and closely jointed grey stones. Paul stood up to his full five foot ten inches with a sense of relief.

In the centre of the floor, a mound of rough granite seemed to erupt upwards and he made his way instinctively towards it. He stopped in his tracks open mouthed as the tiny, gnarled figure of the Magur shimmered into existence in front of him. He'd seen her miraculously appear before but it didn't make it any less spectacular.

'Come to me!' she commanded, as squatting, she placed one bony hand on the granite lump and extended the other towards Paul.

As his hand made contact with hers, several things seemed to happen at once.

Watching the Magur's hand on the stone, Paul was aware of another reality sliding into place, so that for a moment, like two photographs superimposed over each other, Paul could see not only the Magur squatting in the underground stone chamber but also crouched on a grassy hillside, the clear blue of a winter's sky above her.

At that moment, behind him, an Agent burst from the mouth of the tunnel into the chamber, an automatic pistol held on steady arms, pointing directly at Paul.

His heart lurched in terror, the reality of the chamber asserting itself more strongly over his vision as the sight of that other open-air world wobbled and faded. From a thousand miles away he heard the voice of the Magur,

'Focus on me Paul! Trust yourself and follow.'

And with a supreme effort, Paul wrenched his attention away from the grim faced Agent and back to the Magur's liquid eyes.

As he did so the stone walls and domed ceiling of the chamber, the gun and the Agent faded rapidly from sight, leaving Paul stood on the cropped grass of a hillock, the Magur squatting serenely beside him and an enormous, tapering shard of granite rising upward into the pale blue of the wide open sky.

Back in the empty chamber the Agent let the weapon drop to his side whilst his other arm reached to a tiny, electronic gadget concealed behind his ear.

He slowly removed his mirrored glasses, revealing a pair of oval, slit-pupiled eyes which stared grimly at the spot where Paul only moments before had disappeared and his dispassionate tones echoed eerily around the walls of the chamber as he said clearly,

'He jumped.'

The Commander: December 20th

The Commander paced steadily from one end of the chamber to the other as he listened to the Agent's report. He stopped abruptly, his heels clicking together as he turned to face the waiting line of Agents. He raised his head and looked them over imperiously, the tense silence stretching as they stood rigidly to attention, nervously anticipating his reaction.

'You say he was assisted by one of the ancients?'

He slammed his hand into his fist exclaiming,

'Of course, it has been staring us in the face all along! Paul Sutherland is no more nor less than an ordinary human.'

The Commander turned to pressed a button on the console behind him, a life-size image of Paul springing to the screen to illustrate his point.

'Since the feats of evasion he has performed are clearly beyond human ability, the conclusion that he has inter-dimensional assistance should have occurred to us days ago.'

The line of Agents stirred slightly, heads nodding, only one hesitantly raising an objection to the Commander's logic.

'But Sir, the ancient ones were successfully eradicated shortly after the conquest.'

'So we believed,' the Commander replied, 'but is it not possible that using their archaic magic some have survived, waiting for this time to attempt to undermine our power?'

The Agents remained silent and the Commander answered his own question.

'I believe it must be so,' he stated. 'We have responded like fools. This circus at Alesia is a set-up, nothing more than a smokescreen designed to lead us away from the truth, the truth that the real danger lies within the old frequency. And since that is the case, I will go there and personally attend to the destruction of the crystal myself.'

A humorless smile stretched the Commanders lips. He paused again, obviously coming to a decision.

'He may be able to jump dimensions but we have the advantage. Get my ship ready, lasers armed and programmed for the original Earth frequency. I have a rendezvous with Mr Sutherland at sunrise.'

At once two Agents broke from the line, efficiently attending to his orders.

'In the mean time of course we will take no chances.' The Commander turned to the Agent at the far end of the line.

'I am leaving you personally in charge of the situation here. Maintain internet surveillance. I want the Alesian power point sealed and guarded until the moment of danger is safely passed

The Agent looked up questioningly,

'Shall I deploy the military sir?' he asked.

'No, the internal French police force should be adequate. I want this situation dealt with in the least conspicuous manner possible. Am I understood? Then do it!'

The Agents instantly turned on their heels and filed from the chamber, leaving the Commander standing alone, thoughtfully gazing at the image of Paul revolving slowly in front of his eyes.

Paul: December 20th

Paul stared in amazement. The Magur, her hand resting on that towering, granite megalith, stared implacably back at him.

His gaze moved from the rough, granular grain of the rock, flecked with wide veins of opaque quartz to the expansive landscape around himself.

They were sat upon a cone shaped hillock of short, cropped grass. As it descended downwards he saw it was ringed by smaller, pointed stones embedded in the soil. Beyond this circle, dense woodland sprang up and lifting his eyes to the horizon, Paul could see the unbroken canopy of forest stretching away in all directions.

His mind formed a question, although he already knew the answer.

'Where are we?'

'We are in a parallel dimension, in my world, the world of the Magur as it was before the invasion.'

How could that be possible, Paul thought? Another complete reality existing alongside his own? Even if he could accept the idea intellectually when she spoke of it, to actually be here blew his mind.

He knew it wasn't even worth asking how it could be as he wouldn't understand the explanation. It was enough to accept that he was here, therefore it must be possible and thankfully, miraculously he had escaped what only moments before had seemed like certain capture, possibly even death.

There was something profoundly different between this world and the one he had so recently escaped from. It wasn't so much the absence of civilization; of people, buildings or traffic but a powerful feeling of vitality that imbued everything in it. Even though here too it was winter, there was a tangible, energetic emanation rising up out of the land, the trees and most particularly, the giant finger of stone next to him.

This whole world seemed imbued with that fantastic sense of connection he'd felt the night of his bicycle ride.

Paul stared fascinated at the space around the imposing megalith, aware of a dancing vibrancy within the transparency of the air, as if every molecule was electrically charged, buzzing with power, creating an ever changing, complex dance of geometry, cloaked like a halo around the stone.

The Magur rose to her feet saying,

'I was seen. I do not believe it will be long before they deduce where we are. It is time we were moving,' and without another word she set out down the incline, using her staff to steady herself.

Paul, looking over her shoulder toward the distant, tree-shrouded horizon, observed a pathway of incandescent, vibrating light flowing away from the hillock on which they stood, across the expanse of the forest toward a far point in the shimmering distance, and he knew without being told that there was Alesia, their journey's end.

Paul hurried to catch up with the Magur, bounding down the hillside after her. He felt energetic and strong as if a part of the indefinable power of this landscape was rubbing off on him and lending him its potent life-force.

They passed the ring of standing stones and entered the forest on a narrow trail which wound haphazardly around the mighty trunks of oak, ash, elm and beech trees, the ground at their feet soft with fallen leaf-mould and the air alive with the chatter of birdsong.

As Paul walked, he perceived eyes watching him from the shadows of knotted roots, from the depths of thick bushes and from the laced canopy of branches over his head.

Yet as hard as he tried, he couldn't see the invisible watchers.

The Magur was reading his wonder with amusement.

'They see you, yet you do not see them,' she stated enigmatically.

'Who don't I see?' asked Paul.

'The elementals,' she replied smiling.

'What?' Paul was confused. 'You are going to have to explain ... what's an elemental?'

'The elementals are the energetic embodiment of the spirits of nature,' she stated, 'they are shy and wary beings even here. In your world, sadly, they are becoming extinct and are only remembered in folklore and children's stories. Their fate is tightly interwoven with nature. As you bring destruction to your natural world so the elementals in turn are lost.

'I hope you're not talking about fairies,' Paul replied, 'because if you are, I am definitely ... '

The Magur cut him off,

'Not wishing to over-stretch your limited credulity, I can tell you how to see them. It requires practice. You must look at them indirectly, focusing on the space around them. Try it,' she suggested.

As they walked deeper into the woods, Paul gave it a go.

When he felt the uncomfortable tingling sensation of being watched he let his vision slightly blur, not focusing in on anything too specifically and within a couple of minutes he was sure he could see something. Tiny, flitting shapes jumped from branch to branch and wrinkled, grotesque faces peered out from the crevices of tree trunks, yet as soon as he moved closer, intrigued, they resolved themselves into twisting roots, rotting branches or sticky clusters of fungus.

The Magur laughed as Paul dashed around perplexed by these elusive entities.

'The Elementals live between dimensions and will not be so easily caught,' she said smiling.

As they walked the pathway they followed winding playfully past towering tree-trunks, Paul could feel right through himself whenever their way meandered off the ley-line and away from Alesia.

In this world, a ley-line was something so real and powerful, so evident to his senses that it couldn't be ignored. He could see it in the molecular dance in the air. He could feel it resonating inside the cells of his body, enlivening and stimulating him from his toes to his scalp and he could smell it in the pungency of the soil, in the cycle of rot, decay and re-growth.

Why had they not simply entered this dimension before and made their way unhindered by pursuit through this peaceful, magical world, Paul thought to himself?

In fact, couldn't the entire mission be completed from this side, free from the menace and threat of the Agents?

The Magur promptly answered his thought.

'You are only able to maintain physicality here by following the concentrated power of the ley-line.'

'How do you mean?' Paul asked.

'I can show you,' the Magur replied as they approached a large pond on their left.

It was densely ringed with a border of straggly willows and tall bulrushes and just beyond them, Paul could see a couple of moorhens swimming in single file and a stately heron, balanced on one stick like leg, it's eye fixed on the water below.

'Walk to the pond,' she suggested.

Paul did as she asked, leaving the path and striking out at a right angle towards the water. He hadn't gone more than twenty paces before he felt a weakness in his limbs and a slight nausea in his stomach. His vision was odd as if he was seeing everything through a clouded veil. He looked back at the Magur, standing, watching him from the pathway, staff in hand. Her form he noticed was becoming unfocused and insubstantial as if seen through a heat haze.

Paul forced himself to take a few more steps, with every one the mist increased.

He remembered his experience back in the Gare du Nord when she had dragged him through that unreal, soupy air.

This must be what it's like between worlds, he realized, neither fully in one nor the other.

As Paul peered into the hazy mist, he became aware that superimposed over the pond in the woodland he could see the semisolid images of cars moving in front of him and the sketchy outlines of house roofs. He stopped dead. The Magur was right. Any further from the ley-line and Paul would find himself once again in his own reality. He hurried back to the Magur and they resumed their journey.

'Besides,' she said, 'you are forgetting the placing of the crystal has to come from your reality. You have no choice but to return.

'But,' Paul thought, 'how will I do it, get myself back to this dimension?'

'As I have shown you. By harnessing your powers of belief and intention and letting your vibration rise to meet this version of reality.'

She made it sound so much simpler than it was, Paul thought. 'But I didn't get here, you did it! Can't you help me again?'

'You will be on your own at solstice,' the Magur replied, 'I will be needed on this side to open the door for you and make the dimensional crossing easier.'

Paul sighed, she had an answer for everything and he may as well enjoy the safety and beauty of this world for as long as he could, after all, every step was bringing him closer to Alesia.

In this world there was no traffic, no industry, no pollution and no warfare and Paul would never have believed without being here that it could feel so profoundly different.

He thought of Julie, wondering yet again what she was doing now. She would love this place, the sense of tangible magic it contained.

Maybe, one day, somehow, when they'd overcome the pettiness of their differences they could stand here, hand in hand, in the vibrant wonder of this ancient land.

They walked in silent, companionable contentment, the leafless branches stretched above them seeming to rain down a benign peace on their heads. It was not just the elusive, ethereal elementals but the woodland was also filled with animal life.

He saw a troupe of hairy black pigs trotting in single file through the trees ahead and a small herd of deer cropped the grasses of a clearing. Rabbits scampered across the path in front if their feet, their white tails bobbing up and down. But what was strange about the animals, he realized, was that they paid him no attention, merely looking at him for a moment, before carrying on about their business.

It was as if, Paul mused, he had entered a world without fear, or pain, or separation, a world where everything; tree, rock, plant, animal and human, was imbued with a sense of connection and inner power.

Suddenly the Magur stopped dead in her tracks, her head cocked, listening, the forest around them falling strangely silent.

Paul felt it too. There was a change in the air, something was different. As they stood transfixed, their senses straining to pinpoint the disturbance, it came, like a wave of dread, rippling through the air, washing across the forest.

Seconds later Paul heard it, a discordant, mechanical whine blown in on the gentle breeze and then, suddenly, shockingly, it was there, powering towards them over the treetops.

A huge, gleaming, black craft, skimming swiftly over the canopy, so bulky it's flight seemed a technical impossibility.

Multiple rotors whirred at each end as the craft banked round towards them.

At its front was a bulbous cockpit protruding like the giant eye of an insect and Paul felt in every cell of his body its malevolent intelligence scanning the forest below.

The Magur turned quickly to Paul, surprise and fear in her eyes,

'You must go back!'

'What's going on?' Paul started to say as the Magur, seizing his shoulder with one hand, hit him hard between the eyes.

Instantly the forest, the Magur and the looming space craft dissolved from his vision and Paul found himself thrown back through the world of intangible shadows, vague, shifting forms swimming around him, till suddenly he was back, sprawled on a carpet of virgin snow in his own familiar reality.

The light was fading and the snow had stopped falling, the sun a milky disk sinking behind horizontal bands of cloud low in the west.

Elodie: December 20th

At that moment, 250 kms to the north, a group of motorbikes, heavily loaded with sleeping bags, tents and bulging panniers, pulled off the motorway and onto the Services slip-road. Riding in a pack they cruised past the few cars in the main car-park coming to a stop outside the central entrance to the shop, cafe and restaurant. They cut their engines and flicked down their side stands.

Elodie shook off her gloves and flexing cold, stiffened fingers, she unstrapped her helmet and unwound the woolen scarf from her chin and neck. Riding a bike at 100 kms per hour in December was tough, especially against the bitter headwind that had sprung up as they'd approached the French border at Strasbourg. The heavy Belstaff trousers she'd bought in Frankfurt were proving indispensable.

It looked like there might be snow ahead, Elodie thought, eyeing the heavy, grey cloud to the south but who knew, maybe that would work to her advantage?

The rest of the gang, chatting and laughing, pleased to be taking a break from the tarmac, made their way in twos and threes into the cafe and Elodie followed.

She looked drained, her face drawn and haggard as she pushed the swing doors open, the welcome rush of warm air enveloping her.

A bearded biker dressed in leather trousers and a greasy denim cut-off turned towards her asking.

'Du kommst mit essen, ya?'

Elodie smiled,

'Ya, in zwei minuten, bis glei.'

He gave her a thumbs up, following the rest of the group into the buffet restaurant.

Elodie turned in the opposite direction towards the shop where she'd spotted a rack of newspapers.

Her eyes scanned the headlines for anything relevant, stopping to read an article entitled,

"Burgundy invaded by revelers."

Beneath it, in smaller print she read,

"The Internet masterminded mystery party locations are still unannounced as thousands of revelers swamp the peaceful Burgundy countryside. Local residents have expressed concern as ..."

Elodie had read enough and flipped the paper back on the rack. She was pleased to see no further mention of the name Paul Sutherland. As far as that was concerned, no news was good news.

There were still so many unknowns in the whole equation that Elodie could only pray that her decision to give him the crystal had been the right one and he would make it to Alesia on time. But the thought that worried her most, though she tried to suppress it from her mind, was, even presuming Paul was there and she could find him and get the crystal, with her body so loaded with toxins, would she be able to create the necessary energy to make the leap?

She knew that the closer she got to Alesia the more essential her vibrational disguise would be.

She shrugged, wise enough to know that doubt and worry would not help her now. She must do what she needed to do.

Elodie made her way into the restaurant and pulling a plastic tray from the rack she ordered a plate of chips and went to sit with her boisterous, traveling companions.

The chips tasted dry and dead, sticking in her throat like sawdust. The quantity of amphetamines she'd taken in the last 24 hours had killed any desire she might have had for food. But still, her body needed energy to function, she thought, forcing her mouth to chew and swallow.

The gang of German bikers had finished eating and after visiting the toilets made their way back out to their waiting bikes.

Elodie leaned forward, speaking to the group in front of her.

'Einen moment,' she said, 'Ich komme glei.'

It was time to set the final phase of her plan into motion.

Turning quickly she went back to the main foyer, past small, circular tables and stools and a line of coffee machines. Spotting a smartly dressed sales rep sipping from his plastic espresso cup, his phone and car keys next to him on the formica table top, Elodie casually approached as if on her way past him to the loos.

When she was two paces away, she bent down, straightening up with a 2 Euro piece held between her finger and thumb.

'Excusez-moi Monsieur?' she asked, 'Ca peut etre le votre?'

The man looked up and then smiled,

'Ah oui, merci,' he said, extending his hand to receive it but as Elodie leant forward to give it to him, the sleeve of her donkey jacket caught the rim of his plastic cup, tipping the contents onto his starched, white shirt and creased trousers.

He jumped up from his stool in shock as the liquid spattered over him with a shout of anger and surprise.

'Putain, merde!'

Elodie moved towards him exclaiming,

'Oh Monsieur! Je suis vraiment desole,' and reached forward in an attempt to wipe his shirt with her head scarf, whilst her other hand surreptitiously swept the man's blackberry across the formica and into her jacket pocket.

The man irritably waved off Elodie's attempts to help and apologizing profusely she backed off towards the loos, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Crime wasn't really so difficult at all, she thought. She quickly closed the lock. Considering the opium had made her constipated, she seemed to have spent half the week inside toilet cubicles. Sitting cross-legged on the lid of the toilet, she pulled the shiny blackberry from her pocket and logged onto the internet.

It took her less than three minutes to update all of her web sites;

"The End of Time Festival,"

"The Alysian Crystal Healing ceremony,"

"The Solstice Techinval" and finally "Armageddon rocks."

She tapped feverishly with her fingertips at the tiny keypad till the site co-ordinates and links to Google maps and facebook were all in place.

It was time to get moving, Elodie knew, aware that the blackberry's location was even now being traced.

Elodie cautiously opened the toilet door and dropped the phone into the waste bin beneath the hand driers. She hurried outside into the cold wind, where her friends were waiting, cylinders firing, keen to get some more tarmac under their wheels.

The bearded biker parked next to Elodie's scruffy, black Harley, raising his mobile phone jubilantly in his hand shouted over the racket of his engine,

'Hey Elodie! Wir hamm's!'

'Sehr gut!' she replied, squeezing her helmet back over her head and fastening her chin strap tight. Information certainly travelled fast, Elodie thought smiling.

As they passed the garage, accelerating hard and banking into the bend of the slip road, Elodie looked back and saw a gendarmerie car speeding towards the restaurant. She smiled to herself again. They might be fast but they weren't fast enough for her.

Paul: December 20th, late afternoon.

Paul picked himself up, brushing the snow from his legs and tried to get his bearings. It was disorientating being so suddenly in completely different surroundings, yet he could see that the two dimensions shared the same underlying landscape.

Paul knew the town of St Germaine must be somewhere behind him though the dense pine branches surrounding him, sagging under their weight of snow, gave him a minimum of visibility.

Now he was back in his own reality, the shimmering ley-line leading to Alesia was no longer visible but strangely still tangible as a feeling inside the cells of his body.

It was as though, Paul thought, a part of the magic of the Magur's world was still retained within him and he knew with a certainty, that went deeper than thought, that Alesia lay directly ahead.

It was a bizarre sensation and one that was hard to put into words but it felt as if he was now perceiving the world around him, not only from his usual material view point but from a more subtle energetic perspective as well.

Paul let his gaze wander the wooded hillsides for a moment, until, following that inner conviction, he set off, walking briskly down the deeply rutted forestry track aware that if he was to do what needed to be done at sunrise tomorrow, the miles between himself and Alesia needed covering today. It wouldn't be too long before the light faded and he wondered how much time he had spent inside the Magur world.

The forestry track led Paul on a long, upward curve and hemmed in as he was by the tree's dense, snow-laden branches, he would have found it hard to maintain his sense of direction if it were not for the peculiar, tingling vibration he could feel inside himself.

Paul could tell, as the track swept across the hillside, exactly where Alesia lay as if his body itself had become a compass, magnetized to the pathway of energetic power.

At last, after a long, steady walk, Paul emerged on a promontory, the land falling steeply away to the south, giving him a view into the distance. Far off beyond the pine woods, Paul could see a high plateau of land and circling above it like vultures waiting for their prey, three, tiny, tell tale specks.

Paul smile wryly as he watched the distant choppers. Even if he couldn't instinctively feel the way to go, he could hardly go wrong with them so clearly marking his destination.

He rested a minute looking down over the tranquil, snow-cloaked treetops. The heavy, grey clouds were dispersing now, breaking up and blowing away in wisps and swirls, giving Paul glimpses of the clear, blue sky above.

The last rays of the sun illuminated the cloud tips and high up airplane vapor trails in a beautiful display of delicate pinks and mauves.

The evening held the promise of a cold night and Paul's breath rose in puffs of steam, the snow crystals already frozen and crunchy beneath his feet.

He wondered briefly about the ominous space craft that had so rudely broken into the beauty and magic of that ancient reality, recalling the fear that had passed across the Magur's wizened face as it loomed towards them.

He spoke her name out of curiosity,

'Magur?' even though a part of him knew that for now she was unavailable and he was on his own.

A flurry of snow fell from a branch behind him and Paul span around apprehensively. But no ... it was probably just a bird or squirrel startled by his voice.

Well, he concluded, turning back, there was no sense in worrying, if anyone could look after themselves, it was her.

For now, his job was simply to keep walking, putting one foot in front of the other, drawn forward by the just tangible feeling of the ley-line and the sight of the distant helicopters.

Between himself and the plateau of Alesia was a steep, tree crowded valley and beyond, another hill similar to the one he was now descending, rose up in his path.

It was difficult to calculate the actual distance, but, however far it was, Paul knew, the journey would be made much longer by the difficulty of the terrain.

As Paul eventually neared the valley bottom he could hear the sound of a car engine in the distance. Obviously there was a road as yet hidden from his sight and he decided to approach with caution. He leapt the drainage ditch at the edge of the track and scrambled up into the trees. He picked his way forward laboriously, the brittle branches scratching at his face and snagging his hair. After ten difficult minutes, Paul reached a point with good visibility of the road and saw he had been wise to be cautious.

Through the valley bottom, running parallel to the road, a wide, turbulent river rushed foaming over the scattered, granite boulders in its way.

Further downstream, where the river dipped beneath the ribbon of tarmac, he could see a high, steel bridge and strategically placed on either side of it, Paul could just make out in the fading light, the figures of four, uniformed gendarmes, their state of the art, BMW motorbikes parked alongside them.

With a shock that made his heart leap, Paul saw that one of them, leaning on the rail of the bridge, had a pair of binoculars trained on the woodland in which he was hiding.

Paul dropped to his belly on the frozen pine-needles, keeping himself well concealed and let his heart beat settle.

This was not going to be easy, he realized, eyeing the foam-flecked, churning water of the river.

It might be shallow enough to wade but getting soaked through in these freezing temperatures wouldn't be a sensible move. But then again, attempting to pass the police on the bridge wasn't even an option.

Paul lay for a long-time on the hard ground of the forest floor, the coldness working its way into his body.

As he lay there, caught in indecision, he watched a succession of vehicles drive along the road toward the bridge.

The gendarmes flagged them over thoroughly searching each one before finally letting them go on their way. Would they stay there all night, he wondered, and how long could he wait before he died of hypothermia?

The last shreds of cloud were breaking up now, dispersing away to the west and a swollen silver moon, surrounded by a resplendent halo was just rising over the hills. Paul drew some courage from the beautiful sight and forced himself to think of a plan.

Maybe, he thought, looking at the structure of heavy, iron girders that made up the bridge, maybe he could wait till night fell and climb beneath it, hidden from the gendarme's eyes.

It wasn't the greatest of plans he had to admit but without the Magur here to give him advice, it was the best he could come up with.

Well, the least he could do was get closer and take a better look.

It was getting too cold for him to sit still for much longer and any plan was an improvement on cowering here, feeling the freezing numbness seep into his fingers and toes.

Paul crept closer, staying well concealed in the cover of the dense plantation till he was only fifty meters from the bridge and eyed it uncertainly.

Closer up, the idea seemed even less feasible.

He knew he was reasonably fit, his body trimmed and muscles toned by the last five days of meagre diet and hard walking but did he have the strength and agility needed to cross those iron girders without slipping into the icy turbulence below? Somehow, he wasn't so sure.

As he considered, squatting behind the wide trunk of a pine tree, he saw one of the gendarmes lift a radio from his belt.

Moments later he replaced it and within seconds the four of them had mounted their bikes and sped off down the road. Paul couldn't believe his luck and as soon as the gendarmes had disappeared from sight, he pushed through the remaining trees, jumped the bank and set out at a hard sprint straight for the bridge, his oversized wellies making his feet cumbersome and clumsy.

The bridge was a lot longer than it had looked from a distance and his footsteps reverberated through it as he ran. He glanced back over his shoulder, aware that if they should return now, he was well and truly caught without any cover, his only escape the rushing rapids below. But the road remained empty and Paul reached the cover of the forestry woods on the other side, collapsing in a heap and gasping the icy air desperately into his lungs.

The woods on this side were older and taller than those across the bridge behind him, with fewer side branches to impede his progress and as soon as he'd recovered his breath, he set off, up the incline, struggling over the rough ground and through the tree trunks.

It was a long and laborious climb and by the time he finally stumbled on a track near the hill's summit he was tired and hot, his sweat making his clothes unpleasantly damp and clammy.

He could still feel that gentle, tingling flow of the ley line beneath and around him, but he was aware of another conflicting energy that had been steadily increasing since he'd crossed the river. If he'd had to describe it, he would have said that it felt like the exact opposite of the ley line. Where the ley-lines felt flowing and harmonious to his body, lending him strength and enticing him onwards, this new energy was agitated and discordant as though tiny needles were poking into him.

Paul followed the track upwards, the negative feeling growing stronger with every step until he came to a spacious clearing.

Directly across from him was a wire mesh compound encircling a low, concrete building and towering up from the centre of it was a high mast with the vertical tubes of mobile phone transmitters securely bolted to it.

On either side of the clearing, huge piles of logs were stacked ready for loading and Paul, after scraping the frozen snow off the nearest log, sat himself down to rest a moment. He gazed upwards at the top of the mast, wondering if it could be the source of the jarring, antagonistic energy he felt and as he did so he perceived a strange phenomenon.

By looking at the star-studded sky around the masthead and shifting his eyes slightly out of focus, as he had done to see the elementals, Paul could see that in fact the mast was emitting an energetic haze. It was as if it was broadcasting short, jagged blasts of energy which shattered and ricocheted chaotically into the air around it.

Paul stared, transfixed, wondering if he was now seeing firsthand what the Magur had referred to as "the frequency net."

She'd described it as a vibration sent out with the intention of blocking both the Earth's power and human genetic evolution, and feeling this, he was inclined to believe her.

It wasn't the right place to rest, as if the energy was draining his positivity and resolve, wrapping his jacket tightly around himself and thrusting his hands deep in his pockets, Paul got back on the move.

There was no track from here leading down the far side of the hill and not wanting to deviate, Paul decided to plunge onwards through the trees.

He could see in the moonlight that at the next valley bottom, the miles of forestry plantation that he'd crossed ended and the final climb up to the plateau of Alesia would be over fields of grazed land.

Paul set off, shouldering his way past the needle tipped, spruce branches and made his way zigzagging down the hillside.

After an hour or so of steady descent, Paul emerged from the trees, finding himself unexpectedly on the top of a small but steep limestone cliff with a wide view over the valley. He looked down in amazement at the scene spread out below him.

As in the previous valley a road ran along from left to right, but here, a smaller single track road turned off and climbed up towards the plateau. Positioned at the start of this turning was a roadblock composed of two, mesh windowed police vans, brightly lit with portable floodlights and a couple of sections of galvanized fencing weighted down with lumps of concrete.

The main road in both directions was totally congested with queues of cars, vans, trucks and coaches, obviously all attempting to turn up the road.

Dozens of people could be seen milling around in the glare of the halogen lights, a few arguing with the handful of police who stood out in the freezing air, manning the roadblock, while police bikes cruised up and down the line of vehicles in a futile attempt to keep order.

With all the congestion there was no way anyone could leave and from what Paul could see from his vantage point, more cars were arriving every minute from both directions. From the right, Paul could make out flashing blue lights as more police vehicles attempted to wind their way through the chaos.

Before Paul had had much time to consider his next move, he saw a huge, four wheel drive, flat-fronted, army lorry pull out from the jam on the left and ignoring the whistles and orders of the gendarmes, trundle steadily towards the roadblock. Immediately behind it, three other vehicles pulled out, following closely. Paul looked on, wondering whether they'd given up and were attempting to leave.

But as the leading truck came under the harsh, white glare of the floodlights, Paul could see a roughly painted, black anarchy "A" daubed over its front and what looked like an RSJ beam welded in place of a bumper. The truck, turning onto the road-blocked lane changed up a gear, Paul watched open-mouthed as its speed increased, forcing the gendarmes to jump out of its way as it ploughed straight into the police vans, effortlessly caving their front wings and bonnets in and pushing them out of its way. The mesh fences crumpled, were caught for a few seconds on its battering ram, dragged along the road, sparking and grating on the tarmac, before falling, discarded onto the verge.

A roar of triumph erupted from the crowd and as the police clambered out from their crumpled vans, the truck was followed by a stream of smaller vehicles, horns blaring wildly into the night, winding jubilantly up the lane.

The police appeared dazed, aware that they were hopelessly outnumbered, they watched as the convoy of vehicles rolled past.

Now was the moment to act, Paul realized, before back-up could arrive to reconsolidate the barrier.

Paul moved along the top of the cliff, peering desperately down into the darkness, looking for the least hazardous route. He settled on a spot where a few stunted trees clung to the cliff-face. They'd at least give him some hand-holds for the first, steepest part of the descent. Throwing caution to the wind, Paul lowered himself over the ledge. The first ten meters were even steeper than he'd thought and he was forced to go slowly and carefully, his fingers wrapping tightly round the slender trees and feet scrabbling blindly, searching for footholds.

But soon the gradient became shallower and Paul found he could slither and slide, his jacket riding up his back and the loose shale descending in an avalanche around him.

On reaching the main road, Paul set off walking fast alongside the stream of traffic crawling toward the T-junction. He realized quickly that if he wanted to save himself a long, uphill hike, now was the moment to hitch a lift. The flustered police were hardly going to recognize him amongst so much mayhem. Just ahead he spotted a flatbed truck piled high with bundles of sapling poles, rolls of tarpaulin and a heap of building site salvaged firewood.

Crammed in amongst all the clutter, facing back from the cab was an old sofa on which sat a group of crusty looking youths, passing a bottle of spirits between them and yelling with drunken glee into the night.

As Paul inched towards them, the queue of traffic accelerated and he had to break into a jog, his feet pounding over the icy slush on the road.

The crusties laughed, shouting encouragement as Paul reached forward, his fingers stretching for the top of the tailgate. With an almighty effort, Paul leapt and managed to hook one leg over the side. Helpful hands hauled him in and grinning, passed him the bottle as he found himself a seat on a rolled up carpet.

Moments later they'd taken the turn past the destroyed roadblock, the gendarmes now urgently talking into their radios, watching the crazy convoy with stony expressions.

'Viva la libertad!' shouted one of the guys, a colorful, wooly hat with ear flaps pulled low over his pierced eyebrows.

'Y coja la policia!' shouted the skinny girl next to him and they erupted into peals of raucous laughter.

Paul took a swig at the bottle, the fiery liquid sending a pleasant sensation of warmth down his throat and handed it back.

The convoy snaked up the hill for several minutes, their headlights illuminating the frozen ice crystals on the roadside trees, until the convoy again ground to a halt.

Shouting, 'muchas gracias,' Paul scrambled over the drop sides and strode onwards up the hill, past the column of idling vehicles. He had no problem knowing where he was going now. There was a power in the land, an inaudible hum that he could feel reverberating inside his bones and when he reached into his pocket and touched the crystal he could feel a corresponding tingle within it. But quite apart from that, the trio of whining helicopters could still be seen, hovering like guarding sentinels high over the plateau.

Then, rounding a bend, Paul spotted a familiar looking, yellow renault 4, its suspension low on the road under the weight of bodies inside.

It couldn't be, could it? he wondered, as reaching the drivers door he peered in to see Crousti's grinning face.

'Hey my Eeenglishman!' Crousti shouted, jumping out and wrapping Paul in a rough bear hug, 'you make it! It's gonna be crazy party yeah!'

Paul laughed, surprised at how genuinely pleased to meet him he was. The rest of the gang piled out, clapping Paul on the shoulder like a long-lost friend.

'Hey, is lucky Babou tell you fuck off,' said Toxico, his lanky frame and spiky mohican towering over Paul.

'Crousti and you go Troyes sell acid ... Pigs come, find nothing, house clean!' he grinned delightedly at his own story as Crousti interrupted, pointing back down the hill.

"Hey! You see pigs faces? Ha! Very funny thing!'

He looked Paul up and down approvingly,

'Nice beard man. Hey! No more shit shoes!' he pointed at Paul's wellies before his expression became serious,

'Watch out for Babou yeah, he real pissed ... they his top jeans!'

Paul couldn't help smiling, Babou wanting his jeans back would have to wait as he definitely didn't fancy dimension jumping in nothing but his underpants.

'Listen guys, I've got to go. I'll see you at the festival yeah?' Paul said.

He could feel a sense of inner urgency drawing him onwards but Crousti grabbed his shoulder as he turned to leave,

'Hey, you want Ecstasy?' he asked, 'I make you good price. Acid? Mayan circles, we make it special for tonight?'

'Big Mindfuck man!' Toxico said, adding his personal approval.

'Err, ... no, but thanks anyway,' Paul said, giving Crousti a parting, friendly slap on the shoulder and striding on up the hill.

As he walked past the line of stationary vehicles, watching out for the almost continuous stream of motorbikes and scooters weaving their way through the jam, he was amazed to see number plates from all over Europe.

The big, outlandish traveler's rigs were mostly British, whilst the french vehicles were a scruffy collection of old peugeot and Citroen vans, a lot of them scrawled with scribbled graffiti tags.

But also, mixed in amongst them, were more respectable looking Mercedes and Audis on German and Swiss plates.

Whoever had organized this festival, Paul realized, had done an impressive job of the publicity, attracting so many people to this isolated spot in the eastern hills of France.

The further up the road Paul got, the more people he saw abandoning their vehicles, grabbing bags and rucksacks of essentials and joining Paul in the walk up the hill. Very soon he found he was part of a multi-lingual, advancing tide of people moving like an unstoppable wave, onwards and upwards.

From listening to snatches of conversation around him it became clear that there were at least three or four festivals all billed to take place tonight on the same spot.

It was definitely too weird to be a coincidence, Paul thought, and whoever was behind it's organization, he reasoned, was more than likely trying to help him succeed in his mission, under the cover of so much chaos and confusion.

Could it possibly be Elodie? he wondered, doing a double take as he passed a funeral hearse with a gigantic, inflatable banana in place of a coffin.

And if it was, would she be here tonight?

By the time Paul had walked another kilometer or so, he could hear the distant pulse of techno music behind the chug of idling engines and the whine of the choppers high overhead.

The narrow lane wound on between crumbling stone walls and Paul could see picked out in the headlights the shadowy outlines of gorse and small, stunted oaks in the fields to either side. Finally the road leveled and opened out at a three-way intersection of lanes, seven or eight stone houses and assorted barns and sheds made up a generously spaced hamlet around the junction.

All three routes here, Paul noticed were jammed with solid traffic.

Just beyond the hamlet, on the open heath land of the plateau, Paul could see a buzz of activity illuminated in the random glare of headlights as trucks and buses were unloaded and the festival got set up. Beyond that again, he could see a bright, white glow of light above which the choppers incessantly circled.

That, it seemed clear, was where his destination lay.

As the mass of walking people passed the bottlenecked traffic of the junction, one of the choppers swung free, dropping fast to swoop low and threateningly over the heads of the crowd.

Paul could see curtains twitching as the anxious faces of the villagers peered out at the invasion outside.

They'd soon passed the hamlet and were swarming through the narrow gateway onto the open land beyond.

Paul squeezed past a route master double decker, painted in a profusion of stars, planets and flying saucers, wedged diagonally across the gateway, one back wheel suspended dangerously over the ditch.

Well, that explained the congestion, Paul thought, watching as an ancient, army tow-truck backed up over the frozen, compacted ground to the decker and a heavy-duty tow-chain was unrolled from it's winch.

Once on the site, Paul could see that people had obviously been arriving for at least the last few hours, maybe longer.

He could see a curtain side trailer where shadowy figures were busy stacking speakers and amps four high and plugging them in from a tangled spaghetti of cables and wires.

Beyond, Paul could see the long, straight poles of skeletal teepees as people hauled the canvas covers over their frames, illuminated in the flickering, dancing orange light of a huge bonfire. If he'd thought the site at St Germaine had been big, it was nothing to the scale of the gathering he was now looking at.

Overhead, the ever present choppers whined like angry wasps in the cold, starry sky, and Paul touching the crystal in his pocket yet again for reassurance felt glad to be so well concealed in this mass of people.

He picked his way through the mayhem, drawn forward both by the sense of power he could feel in the land and by that mysterious glare of white light he could see ahead.

There really were a staggering number of people who'd found their way to this remote spot; freaks, hippies, and weirdoes of every description.

In fact, he'd never realized that that many people from the fringes of society even existed.

Attracted by the heat of a roaring fire, Paul stopped to warm his face and hands.

A gang of bikers were sat around it, drinking beer and laughing uproariously at jokes in a Scandinavian language he didn't understand, maybe Danish or Norwegian.

They moved over to offer Paul a log to sit on and he accepted, glad to take the weight off his feet for a minute.

They reminded him of a horde of viking raiders from the past, with their shaved heads and mustaches and beards up-lit in the light of the dancing flames.

A bottle of whisky was passing the round and as it came to Paul, he heard a firm voice inside his head say, 'No!"

He passed the bottle on untouched, realizing with a smile that it wasn't the Magur's voice but his own.

Paul knew he was right. He had to stay focused and drinking alcohol was not going to help him in any way with the task he had to complete in just a few hours time.

Paul moved on, heading towards a rigid lorry that had been transformed into an instant stage.

A guy was standing on the truck bed, tapping a mike,

'Testing, testing, one ... two ... one,' and ear-splitting blasts of feedback erupted as guitars were tuned and amps adjusted.

The sides of the stage were colorfully painted in fairground scrolls and spirals and above, in huge circus lettering was written

"Wango Rileys Traveling Stage"

All around it was grouped a semicircle of british plated trucks and buses, canvas awnings and marquees stretched in front of them.

Paul wandered through, looking for Rusty and Kate's old, green coach.

He would have liked to let them know he'd got here safely and hear about what had happened in St Germaine after he'd escaped.

But with quite so many people here, he soon realized his chances of coming across them were slim.

Besides, there was still that powerful inner urge drawing him forward towards the glare of light above which the choppers threateningly hovered and he couldn't afford to waste time.

As he walked on, Paul could feel the charged atmosphere of excitement bubbling through the diverse crowds gathered here and he wondered if they too were picking up on the tingling power of the ley-lines beneath their feet. Now, at last, Paul could see that the source of the white glare came from a collection of large, oblong halogen lights, suspended from tubular, metal scaffold poles.

The crowd of people around them was so dense he could see nothing through the silhouettes of their heads and shoulders.

If Elodie was here, Paul knew, that was where she'd be and where he had to go.

He was soon shouldering and squeezing his way deep into the throng, until, on finally pushing through to the last rows of people, Paul's eyes widened in wonder at the sight in front on him.

Maybe thirty meters from the goggling eyes of the bemused festival goers, Paul could see a ring of uncoiled razor wire, gleaming wickedly in the halogen glare. It rose waist-high, viciously sharp and impenetrable.

Inside it was a loose circle of riot police in full, black, body armor. Behind perspex shields, their visored faces stared back blankly at the crowd.

Paul's eyes took in the bizarre scene and he scanned the outlandish hairstyles and ragged clothes of the crowd, feeling as if history was repeating itself and he was standing within the amassed ranks of the Gaulish tribes, facing off against the might of the Imperial Roman legions. But what was really crazy about the scene, was that, enclosed by that formidable barrier of silent police, there was nothing but a brilliantly illuminated, empty expanse of sheep cropped grass.

Of course, Paul realized, it was just as the Magur had told him, the stone-circle of her time had long ago been destroyed. Nevertheless there was something pretty damn surreal about the sight.

Suddenly, behind the orderly ranks of the police ring, Paul spotted the slicked grey hair, angular face and mirrored shades of an Agent, and then another, and another!

Shit!

There were three of them and from where he stood, it appeared they were all staring directly at him. How he hadn't noticed them before he didn't know.

Paul quickly ducked and slunk back a couple of rows, his heart pounding, before he dared to look back.

A helicopter loomed down like a predatory beast, its searchlight swooping across the heads of the crowd towards him. Paul realized his vulnerability so close to so many Agents and remembered the Magur's previous advice.

'Change your thoughts,' she had said.

Spotting a sound system surrounded by a crowd of dancing people, Paul moved closer and forcing himself to concentrate on the hypnotic beat, Paul let himself go to the music.

As he moved his body to the electronic pulse, feeling the melody sway through him, the helicopter veered upwards and away and the Agents heads continued their steady scan of the crowd. Paul breathed a long sigh of relief.

A pretty, teenage girl dancing next to Paul, nudged him saying,

'Ils sont fous ces Romains, non?' and tapping her head with her finger, she pointed at the helicopter. Paul smiled in response.

From her perspective, he agreed, it did look pretty crazy but from his, it was a formidable barrier to cross and sent thoughts of doubt and anxiety racing across his mind.

The magnitude of what he was about to attempt struck him more strongly than ever before. He realized that all the risks he had taken and close escapes he had survived over the last five days would count for nothing unless he could pull off the flying finale of jumping into the ancient dimension when the crucial moment came.

Did he have what it would take to do it?

Alone, without the help of his mentor the Magur?

Well, he was going to make a fine fool of himself if he got sliced to ribbons on the razor wire in front of this massive audience, he thought, trying to shake his anxiety off. He could feel the crystal in his pocket, vibrating as if it knew that it was now only steps away from it's source.

He remembered the first vision he'd seen, of the tribe of Magur creating it, awed in the knowledge that he was now standing in the very same place, so many thousands of years later. Paul made his way out of the crowd of dancers, magnetized unwillingly back to that heavily guarded circle. Although just being so close to Agents was dangerous, he felt compelled to have another look.

The helicopters were still cruising the skies above and Paul knew that they almost certainly contained more Agents, scanning the minds below in their search for him. Now he was so close, he must be more cautious than ever. Fiercely keeping his mind on the music and body bouncing to the beat, he moved forward again through the crush, when his eyes were arrested by the sight of a very familiar face.

Was it really her?

At that same moment her eyes made contact with his, in a flash of recognition.

It was!

Paul's heart leapt.

She was about one-third of the way around the circle and knowing that running to greet her across the shadow-less space of no-mans land between the wire and the crowd wasn't an option, Paul started pushing his way around the ring towards her, trying to keep her in sight as he went. She was also dodging towards him and a minute later they were facing each other. There was so much to say that Paul found himself lost for words.

'Elodie,' he said.

'Paul,' she replied, giving him a brief embrace, 'You made it!'

'Well, if I'd known what your little delivery job involved, I think I might have stayed in bed.'

Taking his hand in hers she led him back through the crowd away from the Agents and police, to the safety of the festival beyond.

They stared at each other intently again for a moment, oblivious of the party raging around them, as Elodie said,

'I cannot believe it is really you ... You look so different.'

Paul shrugged, self deprecatingly, knowing she was referring to more than his change of clothing.

'Yeah, I guess I am different. A lot has happened in the last five days.'

As his eyes rested on her face, he knew he could say the same about her. She looked exhausted, an air of total depletion and fatigue surrounding her, from her roughly cropped hair to the bags under her almond eyes.

'It looks to me like you've been missing out a bit on your yoga and tofu ...' he said and Elodie smiled tiredly in response, choosing her words carefully.

'Yes, I too have had an eventful week.'

As she spoke, Paul realized what he'd guessed all along.

'It was you, wasn't it?' he asked, waving his arm to encompass the scene around them. 'You made this happen!'

It was a statement and not a question. Elodie smiled, a gleam of smugness lighting up her tired eyes.

'It was important to provide you with cover,' she said, at once her face becoming serious.

'Paul? You have it still?' she asked, her voice betraying the intensity of emotion she felt.

Paul's hand reached automatically to his trouser pocket and he pulled the crystal out to hand it to her, when an impulse from somewhere deep inside stopped him.

His hand paused in mid-air, the crystal entangled in the necklace he'd bought for Elodie so long ago, clasped in his fist.

'No,' he said, shocking even himself, 'I'm doing it.'

Elodie's eyes widened, boring into him,

'But do you know how?' she asked in a whisper.

'Yes,' Paul replied, surprised at his own confidence, adding, 'I think so. I've just done a five day crash course.'

Elodie gaped in incomprehension,

'What? Who taught you?'

'It's a long story ... ' Paul replied, 'let's just say it involved some pretty scary aliens and a 78,000 year old mind-reading dimension jumping old lady.'

A charged silence hung between them for a moment as their eyes locked together, until Elodie's head suddenly dropped, breaking the eye contact and looking down she said,

'Maybe you are right. Maybe it is meant to be like this.'

She looked up at him appraisingly.

'Your aura is strong,' she said, before adding sadly in a low voice, 'and I'm in a mess. I do not know if I could raise the power.'

Paul slowly disentangled the heart-shaped necklace entwined in his fingers, saying haltingly,

'I was going to give this to you after dinner.'

Elodie smiled,

'Yes, I was worried you might do something foolish of that sort.'

Paul continued, 'well, that moment never came ... '

He paused, lifting the necklace towards her, 'but, anyway ... just as a friend ... here it is.'

Their eyes met again and a current of understanding passed between them as Elodie accepted the necklace and smiled, saying simply,

'Thank you Paul.'

They embraced again for a long moment, not needing to say anything else, until Elodie finally withdrew from his arms and led him back through the crowd towards the traveler's encampment.

They approached a bus painted in garish, psychedelic swirls, with a wide, striped awning stretched along its length. A brightly painted, plywood sign hung off it saying,

"End of Time Cafe"

and a menu sandwich-board was propped underneath. Thick carpets and cushions crowded with people eating and drinking were laid out beneath its awning and a long-haired, smiling couple about Paul's age were serving from a laden trestle table.

Paul and Elodie ducked under a string of tibetan prayer flags to warm their hands at the heat of an oil-drum brassier, running their eyes down the neatly chalked up menu board:

Mushroom tea 1 Euro/cup

Irish coffee 2.50

Hash brownies 1 Euro each

The bearded owner gave Paul a broken-toothed grin,

'What can I do yer sir?'

'Er, you haven't got any normal real tea have you, by any chance?'

The man turned to a simmering kettle on a gas ring behind him and plonking tea bags into the mugs said,

'Two cups of normal reali-tea coming up!'

Paul smiled back seeing the aptness' of the pun, while Elodie reached into her pocket to pay.

Clutching the comforting warmth of their cups, they made their way to the corner and sat on a pair of worn leather cushions.

'So ...' Paul stated, 'you were just saying, you've had an "eventful" week?'

'Yes,' Elodie smiled at the understatement.

'What happened, after you disappeared in the loft?' Paul asked.

'I used one of my false identities and took a private jet directly to Holland.'

Paul grinned at the contrast with his own penniless journey.

'One thing we are in the society,' she continued, blowing on her tea and looking up coyly, 'is very-well connected.'

'You know what happened to the others ...?' Paul asked and Elodie quietly nodded her head her eyes dropping to her cup.

'Your mum sends her love, by the way. She's quite a character ... I'm not sure if she totally took to me.'

Elodie had to laugh and pointing at his clothes, she replied,

'Dressed like that, I'm not surprised.'

They sat next to the warmth of the brassier, drinking numerous cups of tea as the festival gathered momentum around them.

They each recounted the events of their week, Paul's tale finally bringing their minds back to the final task that was rapidly drawing nearer.

Elodie's expression became thoughtful as she said,

'I may not be able to dimension jump in the state I'm in but I can still help you.'

'How?' Paul asked.

'With all these people,' she gestured outside the cafe at the enormous festival site beyond. 'Together we can raise the energy, build a bridge of power to help you cross.'

Steadily, but imperceptibly the sky was lightening through shades of blue away to the east, the vehicles and the crowds taking on gradual definition.

They downed the dregs of their tea and stood up.

'The moment approaches,' Elodie announced seriously, 'and we both have work still to do. We will talk later, when it's all done. Good luck Paul!,' she said, before turning and walking away to vanish in the confusion of people, leaving Paul to walk slowly back on his own towards the floodlit police cordon.

The crowd surrounding the police circle had massively increased since Paul and Elodie had left, and was now, emboldened by numbers and perhaps sensing that here was the true centre of the festival, edging closer to the immobile police ranks, held back only by the menace of those tangled rings of defense.

The light in the eastern sky was rapidly increasing now, the stars fading out one by one as the pale blue of day engulfed them. How long could it be until sunrise, Paul wondered, as he stood concealed within the crowds.

Suddenly Paul spotted Elodie's diminutive figure carrying a huge, african djembe and leading a snake of people holding crystals and drums to the front of the crowd.

Paul, clutching the crystal tightly in his hand knew the moment was drawing inextricably closer and he must start to prepare his mind as he'd been taught. It would have been handy if the Magur had given him some real training. All she'd really taught him was to focus his mind, hope for the best and run!

A bit more of a step by step technique would certainly be helpful now.

Still, there was nothing to do but stay calm and wait for the moment.

He watched Elodie's lithe figure squat over her drum, her hands starting to bang out a slow and steady rhythm like the pulse of a heartbeat.

Immediately other drummers joined in, each one adding a new complexity to the sound.

Paul could hear voices raised in a chant, the words lost to him under the helicopter's drone and the sound systems beat.

Paul listened, feeling the energy of the crowd building as people moved forward into no-mans land, stamping their feet and dancing to the pounding rhythm. He slowed his breath, willing that space of inner silence into himself. He had to remember now everything he'd experienced; the solid reality of that ancient world, how he'd slipped his consciousness into that dolmen on their long night walk and again into the walnut tree in the chase through St Germaine.

If he'd done it before he could do it again!

Paul edged closer to Elodie and the drummers, saying a silent prayer as he went.

He calmly pulled off his clumpy wellies and socks, they wouldn't make running any easier, besides, the frozen ground felt good on the soles of his feet, connecting him to the hidden power coursing beneath. He unzipped his bulky jacket and laid it folded on his boots. He hadn't permitted himself to worry all night but now standing here, it occurred to him that if anything had happened to the Magur, he knew he wouldn't have the power to make the jump on his own. If the Magur reality wasn't there, he'd be ... No, he didn't even want to think about it.

The scene, lit up now in broad daylight looked even crazier than it had at night. Somehow he hadn't imagined that he'd be performing his show to quite such a big audience.

The moment he'd been striving towards was here, the moment in which the destiny of Earth would hang in the balance. Dramatically, the first rays of the sun, beamed up from the eastern horizon. As Paul watched, he could see them spreading out through the morning mist, fan-shaped, brightening the sky. And then suddenly, the first tiny sliver of the rising sun rose red between the hills and the crowd erupted in raucous whoops and shouts.

Paul looked at Elodie, their eyes locked together and she nodded once.

This was it!

It was now or never!

Breaking free from the crowd, he set out running directly towards the ring of razor wire the police and the waiting Agents. Willing the Magur reality into existence with all his strength, he ran, his bare feet springing from the frozen ground and his baggy jumper billowing behind him.

Paul felt as if time had slowed down and although he was physically involved in the action, he was also watching it from a place of spacious calm. He saw himself charge, a lone figure pelting through the empty space of no-man's land as one of the circling choppers peeled away, dropping like a stone through the sky.

He saw the three Agents heads swivel round to watch his approach and saw their arms rise, hand guns smoothly following his trajectory as they took aim.

'Come to me!' came the voice of the Magur, overriding everything else. 'You have the power!'

Relieved to hear her voice and know that she was safe, Paul found new courage and in that moment he knew the jump was within his capability. When he was only three of four meters from the coiled razor-wire, he heard the resounding cracks of the Agents shots in rapid succession, at the same moment noticing the sudden purity of the air passing though his lungs and the increased power of the land under his feet, propelling him forwards.

The fabric of reality shimmered like a gossamer curtain blown by the breeze and Paul could see the riot police. He could see the explosions in the Agent's guns. He could see the bullets streaking towards him and behind them all, an imposing circle of grey megaliths glimmered into view in the first rays of the sun.

In a moment, the ancient reality pulled itself into sharper focus, the wire, the police, the Agents and their bullets fading into insubstantial shadows and he sprinted onwards without resistance, hearing shouts and gasps of wonder erupt from the crowd behind him.

The pounding drum beat had receded to be replaced by an eery vibrating tone, its melody weaving and resonating around the stones and into the depths of the earth and Paul saw a circle of Magur seated within the ring of granite menhirs. But above them, hovering low over the entire scene, Paul saw the massive bulk of the enormous, gleaming spacecraft he'd fled from in the Magur world.

It hung, almost motionless just above the stones, it's multiple rotors throbbing a beat of dread into the morning air and whipping Paul's hair across his forehead.

Through the bulbous windscreen of the cockpit, the helmeted head and armored shoulders of the Commander could be seen, hands on the controls, laser guns targeted on the slab stone, ready and waiting.

Even in this moment of action, the incongruity of the image; the ancient, peaceful, tribal people from a forgotten past and the futuristic, high-tech, aggressive weaponry of the Commander's craft, struck Paul in its stark, shocking contrast.

Why was the Commander waiting? Paul wondered fleetingly as he ran, intensely aware of both his own vulnerability and the likelihood of his imminent death.

But now was not the time to think, now was the moment to run. He pounded on, between the towering, grey stones, leaping past the Magur, heading directly for the centre of the circle where the squat slab stone sparkled in the first shafts of sunlight.

The moment felt timeless and momentous to Paul as the weak sunbeams gently touched his face. He could feel the vast galaxy that encircled him stretching into the spinning infinities of space and he could see himself only steps away from the slab stone now, the crystal held in his outstretched hand, enacting his part in a drama that would be part of humanities and planet Earth's history from now till forever.

He reached the slab stone, fueled by the surge of adrenaline rushing inside him and thrust the crystal into the indentation on it's surface.

At that exact moment, a solid blast of laser fire erupted from the guns beneath the space craft and Paul was thrown backwards onto the grass, momentarily blinded by the searing light and heat. He rolled over, opened his eyes, blinking in amazement.

The crystal, he saw, was now glowing a brilliant, magnesium white, absorbing into itself the power of the Commander's continuous fire.

He heard the voice of the Magur,

'Get out! Your job is done! Go!' and he picked himself up and stumbled backwards, unable to tear his eyes from the solid beam of laser fire still blasting into the glowing crystal. And then suddenly, in a flash of dazzling intensity, it exploded!

He saw the tiny crystal shatter into a thousand pieces and then the enormous, slab stone beneath it cracked and splintered, the soft soil all around flung up and sprayed outwards obscuring his vision.

Paul felt his body picked up like a rag doll by the blast and flung through the air, the flying shrapnel of granite chips and soil all around him.

As he flew, he felt himself once more crossing that indefinable shadow world between the dimensions, to land hard on his back, firmly in his own reality. The breath was knocked from his lungs, his shoulder and hip bruised by the impact but he was essentially and amazingly unhurt.

The exploded slab stone, the Magur and the Commander's craft, had all disintegrated, fizzling away to non-existence as he been thrown through the air, and looking to where the stone circle had stood such a short moment ago, Paul saw a strange phenomena occurring on the sunlit grass.

A ball of rich, golden light was steadily growing from the spot where the slab stone had been. It spread, its glow emanating from the Earth, until suddenly as if it couldn't be held any longer, it streaked away in all directions, like a shooting star trailing rippling waves of golden light to the distant horizons.

Paul heard the cries of wonder from the crowd and saw the police clustered in groups, their weapons dangling at their sides, staring in confusion and utter disbelief around them.

It wasn't just him who'd seen it, he realized, the Magur had been right and he had just witnessed the ley-lines of Europe kick-started back into life.

Paul noticed suddenly that the Agents amongst the police had literally vanished and the helicopters had veered off into the skies beyond the limits of the festival, leaving a refreshing silence in their wake.

Could it be as the Magur had said, that the Earth had moved into the new age of accelerated energy where the Invaders could not follow?

It would explain their miraculous absence, he supposed.

But what had happened to the Magur, he wondered?

Could they have survived the incredible force of the explosion? He doubted it.

Had they sacrificed their lives to help him fulfill his mission? He just didn't know.

Paul became suddenly aware of the crowd clustered tightly around him, staring down at him in awe. An iphone was pointed into his face, it's owner gabbling excitedly,

'I got all of that ... stone circle, spaceship and everything! This is going straight onto youtube.'

He could hear other voices too chattering over each other.

'Wow! That was far fuckin' out!'

'T'as vu ca? C'était énorme quoi?'

'Was that the acid or what?'

Suddenly Elodie was there, pushing through the throng and kneeling at his side, her eyes seeking his,

'Are you hurt?' she asked, pulling him up to his knees. Paul shook his head and her concern turned to delight,

'You have done it! I was so right to trust you!' she beamed radiantly at him.

Paul sat up, dazed, smiling with relief, hardly daring to believe he'd really succeeded. His hair and clothes were covered in dust and tiny fragments of granite that had been blasted with him, out of one reality and into another. He reached down to his jumper and picked out a teardrop shaped shard of granite, shot through with a diagonal vein of quartz that had become enmeshed in the weave of the mohair.

As he held it between his trembling fingers he knew that this was Julie's Christmas present and that, at last,

'It was time to go home.'

The End

