I was your sorry ever after

Hart Island. Lost territory, 900,000 bodies buried in pine boxes with only a concrete marker and a number allocated to each one. 

Did you find Bobbie?

Yes, they are looking into whether or not he can be disinterred. I can have him taken to a crematorium and then return him to my Mother before she dies.

This is too sad. How tragic. 

And then you get the maniacs who steal lives. How someone feels the need to cut short the life of another human being. What gives them the right?

Or take their own away. 

That they have the right to do.

I despair at the human condition Frenchy. But then you must have seen some terrible things on your journey. Too many.

I have a theory. The covered body in the car park.

What about it?

How about around 1975?

That's a precise year?

Yes, because of the way the remains were dressed. Very 1975.

What was happening in 1975?

October 1975 stands out for me. It was a culmination of events. It was the beginning of my Plan B. My escape was underway. Or the plans for it were. But it's difficult to put a timeline, it's not impossible. I'm working on it.

The body in the car park, who do you think it might be?

I have no idea who it was but there is a timeline. And one that doesn't make much sense. Until you piece together the fragments.

Was there any DNA?

Yes.

Partial?

Right now famalial.

That's a step in the right direction.

Especially when the suspect was potentially only 5 minutes away by car.

I was thinking about my ex boyfriend last night, he knew theguy who I think it might be.

What did he say at the time?

Nothing much, but he said the suspect was weird, a pathalogical liar, you know lied for no reason which could be embarrassing, especially as you knew he was lying when he was speaking. He behaved in a strange way, he was a little afraid of him. He knew something was off but couldn't quite figure out what. I remember once he said that we would be seeing this guy on the front of all the newspapers -  Quite prophetic but he's extremely cunning.

But cunning is quite different to clever and doesn't equate to intelligence.

No, he thinks he's smarter than the police. He believes he is of superior intellect.

They all do, until they get caught. Bunch of assholes.

Come on, we need some photo's of the church.

Why?

I don't know, but there's something, I have a hunch.

You and your hunches.

In the small town of Willow-by-the Edge, everyone admired their charming and charismatic neighbour, who seemed to have it all - wit, intelligence, and a magnetic personality. Little did they know, behind his facade of humour and friendliness lay a dark secret - He was a cold-blooded murderer. 

His lies and manipulation were so convincing that no one suspected a thing, allowing him to continue his deadly deeds without a second thought. But as the bodies began to pile up, the truth of his twisted nature would soon be revealed, shattering the illusion of his imagined superiority. He was about to be brought down by a quiet, determined hunter, the kind that dwells just beneath the surface of the water.

The deadliest predator of all.

 

Lonely Boy

 You're only given a little spark of madness, don't waste it.

But I don't want to remain here, this city is not compatible with my senses. You know how sensitive I am!

I will pull you along with me.

I'd rather you didn't.

You know what they say, it's better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring.

I'm going for the train.

We can't, not from Grand Central anyhow, some dude hung himself in  there, in front of all the commuters.

See what I'm saying? I can't deal with this shit. Why the fuck would you hang yourself in a public place? Kids around there and everything, it's a madhouse. New York is like one big open asylum.

I have a friend in Westchester, we can go there for a while. You don't want to go back to New Jersey?

Only to collect my stuff, I was then planning on going to the airport.

What about the Arab?

What about them? You know I really don't give a shit no more. Let people do what they will do. Leave me out of it. I am not the solution for everyone else's problems.

Westchester is okay, quieter. Here let me call him. His wife is a bit OCD though, if you're ok with that?

NO!! I'm serious, I'm leaving New York! Like I don't have enough shit without putting up with someone's mental health crisis, Jesus H., I have enough drama of my own to contend with!

Well sorry to piss on your parade my darling, but you are not leaving. You are staying with me. You are not safe alone. Oh, by the way little Miss Nosey Parker.  Last night. A strange case in Queens.

What happened there?

A murder suicide.

Oh yeah? Well who gives a fuck, not me. There's going to be a murder suicide right here in a minute.

So the husband kills the wife, they are both in their 80's.  Knife sticking out of her head. He strangles himself to death with a wire coat hanger.

No he didn't, that's not physically possible.

He garrotted himself. I saw the crime scene photos!

Bullshit. Why you smiling? This isn't remotely funny.

I knew you would be interested.

But I'm not in the least bit interested! How do you mean he garrotted himself? Like made a tournequet and strangled himself? With a stiff hard cold wire coat hanger? No, not having it. You ever tried unraveling one of those? I did when you clogged my toilet because of the amount of cheese you mix into your Spagbol.

Yeah, I remember... Haha! Je suis Desolee..  Anyhow then he stabbed himself through the heart.

What the actual fuck are you saying? How does a person do that? Like there's not easier ways of unaliving yourself? No no, it's all impossible.

I don't know, let's try and find out. But you know what? I don't think it's a murder suicide either, I think it's a double murder.

By who? Is there money involved?

There is, so it could be the son trying to get his inheritence earlier. But then why would the son pull his mother's nightgown up and over her genitals exposing them to the world, and why would her husband do that after killing her? There's no way a man would disrespect his wife in that manner. Makes no sense.

But it won't take long to solve if that's the case. If it's the son. Obviously we aren't legally in on this, but I can share my expertise, the DA is a friend of my Uncle in Paris. He was given the Legion d"Honeur by Mitterand you know? 

Yeah you told me a hundred times already. But what a horrible thing to happen. I wish I wasn't interested, but now I am.

And it's not the first time it's happened either. There are other similar crime scenes. Murder Suicides with a virtually identical MO.

Another serial killer?

Or the same one.

But who would hate on elderly people like that?

Someone who doesn't like elderly people obviously. 

Wow. A proper psycho. I will stay another few days, be interested to see how this pans out.

Ouai. D'accord.

The darkness harbours all the evil shit in this world, but I'm of a strong belief that eventually everything comes into the light. That all is eventually revealed. You fancy Pizza and Coke?

Coke is illegal here it gets you jail time, we will have Pepsi.

Ha fucking ha Frenchy. Hey Frenchy, do you think there's any connection with the other cases?

Who knows my Tiny Fair, who knows.

Rather than lurking in the darkness of the shadows, watching and waiting for his next victim, he chose to expose himself to the light, and hide in plain sight. After all, who would ever suspect this clean living, upstanding member of the community of committing such evil atrocities?  And so he was visible to all as he, and they went about their daily lives, never suspecting for a moment the evil that moved freely amongst them. 

 No one knew who he was or when he would strike next, but they all knew that his gaze was possibly upon them, ready to pounce at any moment. The fear of the unknown now consumed the innocent, as they lived in constant terror of the darkness, and the murderer with his deadly intentions. 

Moon child

In the depths of an oceanic sized mind, the vein of insanity runs deeply  throughout the imaginary creatures that dwell there. Deep turmoil, plagued dreams,  dark swirling waters surround each thought. But amidst the chaos, a bright light shines, offering a small glimmer of hope and clarity in the midst of the madness. 

And so, the creatures that fought against the darkness, striving to find peace and serenity in the midst of their turbulent world, eventually find their calm, their tranquility. Only achieved by releasing the poison and the restless demons that lie in wait just beneath the surface. 

Release comes as the opening of the glass bell jar, containing the live captured butterfly. The flight to freedom is a split second, compared to the many orbits of lunacy.

To acheive greatness it's necessary to first fight the raging fires within, and replace them with cool, tranquil waters. 

The quiet mind.

Not easily acheivable for a moon child. The moon is deceptive. It harbours deep fears and insecurities, no one wants to be in the shadow of the moon.

The conflict arising, being the element of Water and Fire. On the surface you embody the coolness of the water, but beneath you are a raging inferno. Water Sun, and a blood red Fire moon. The conflict arises within, You don't need the trauma bolt-on. 

But you know water is the strongest element, stronger than air, fire or earth. Water can and easily does destroy all of those elements.

Mad Bryan. He was hurt and rejected. I asked him what he was going to do. He replied he would destroy his enemies quietly and simply without the need for violence. His weapon of choice was water. That's no good I retorted, what will that do?

Ahh, you will see.

One night he crept outside and with the assistance of the moonlight, placed a row of small rocks and stones from his antogonists basement door,  leading into the neighbouring river. The following evening their house was flooded. Mad Bryan had exacted his revenge without a single shred of evidence. I really never forgot that, it was almost Biblical.

I often wondered if his days spent in the electric chair had given him magical powers, because he sure knew some weird shit.

One man's prison, is another man's sanctuary. 

'Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.' Kahlil Gibran

We're rolling around, rolling around in hyper schemes

 That's Ramona, there by the door.

Okay, let's talk to her.

Welcome to my party, I hope you'll be smart.

I think I'll go fix me a stiff drink.. I've had enough of this party already.

When were you last in London?

I don't know, 2 years ago? 

Ah, that's what they all say.

I'm in Barcelona next. I like it there. Though it's seedy and cold in November and the natives aren't friendly. You get offered blowjobs in doorways in front of your wife.

Darling!

Remember the Caipirinha's?

How could I forget?

I forgot. I really don't remember.

If you could chose your last meal, what would it be?

I don't know, maybe some duck pancakes. Washed down with a glass bottle of Coke. I fell in love with that while fishing with my father at an American Naval base. Not long after that I think he tried to kill me. I don't know why he did that, I remember I was slipping away, smiling, I was feeling no pain. I often wonder why I was smiling. He stopped killing me suddenly. I don't remember feeling relieved, I only remember I felt no pain, what he was doing stopped hurting so I think I was close to the edge, the line between life and death. Now I realise that dying doesn't hurt after so long, the pain goes away, then you slip away. It's a nice feeling, it is peaceful That is why I was smiling maybe?

That smile of yours probably stopped him. My god what a total jerk he must have been. Do you remember what if anything he said to you? Was there any explanation? Was he on drugs?

He was silent, just staring at me, I smiled up at him. I didn't stop smiling. As if I were trying to say It's okay Daddy, it's okay to kill me, you created me... His eyes were black. He was the devil. I was in some kind of shock as I got to my feet and ran away from him and into the house never looking back. I hid in my room.   Later that day there was a phonecall, he took that  and quickly left. It was the last time I saw him. There was no explaination, he just vanished. I have never told anyone how he tried to kill me. I can't do that, not even now.

but he was gone, disappeared. I was okay with that. I didn't need to get up out of bed at night to listen to his conversations any more asking if he should get a knife from the kitchen and slaughter my sister and myself. I needed to know when to get her up out of bed and run for our lives. That fear has never left me.  But at 7 years old, where do you run to? Into the arms of the police who would return you to this very sick and twisted man, and his friends,  a band of paedophiles and predators who knew you were fresh meat and ripe for attack. Sleep was something seven year old me tried to avoid.

He threw the kitten in the fire. He would kick the dogs and leave us kids screaming in terror. He was a psycopath. Some things you can't unsee. I doubt he died a peaceful death, and I don't know where he went, but he will be amongst his friends for sure. And the skinned cat hanging by it's neck in the garage.And the school called him and said I was going through some kind of trauma, I was catatonic most of the time. 

I remember a newspaper clipping years later. He had been arrested and put in jail. There was a body of a woman found by the water's edge. She had been battered to death. I did wonder if it was him, but there were no answers. In the end you stop asking. Because even as a child you know when people are lying. There is so much more to this story. Now looking at it, nothing was good back then. There were screams in the night. The ghost of a young girl being burned at the stake. Her screams would permeate the house as everyone slept, only I could hear her. The madness was tangible. And there was always something else. 

What? What the fuck. I need a therapist..

The sound every night of an empty tin can being rolled down the driveway. I would hear it rolling, then stop. Then it was rolled down again. This would go on all night. Probably fair to say that as a young child it would terrify me.  At times I could hear a child crying, at other times I would awaken in the night to find a man and a woman staring down at me as I slept, I don't know if they were real or imagined, but they were real to me. I was awake within a nightmare.

There was an announcement in the newspaper, the auction of all goods, including kitchen, bedrooms, lounges and children's toys. The toys part got to me. I'd only ever had one doll, and there she was, going up for auction never to be played with or held tightly by me again. A mere doll, I know but to me she was my only comfort. I told her everything. She collected my tears. I was more upset about the doll. The newspaper mentioned fraud and conspiracy charges but I don't remember the exact details.

So, many years passed by. And I'm alone in an office. The man in front of me is kindly and engaging. He left the room just for a moment...And the answers to so many questions were laid out in front of me. 

Possesion of firearms. Impersonation of a doctor at the local hospital in an effort to obtain class A drugs, narcotics the list was endless. I think I stopped reading at attempted murder.  My father was a certified psychopathic bastard.  Now I knew who the man was in the vietnamese restaurant. He was my father's lawyer! A Jewish guy who I really couldn't relate to, imagine. He wanted me to be his mistress. I politely declined. He offered to buy me with me a diamond ring and a fox fur coat. The sports car would come later. He said i am a friend of your parents. Bullshit! I exclaimed!  I was never side bitch material though. Love is my drug. The mate for life shit. No affairs. Not until much later in life anyhow when I became someone's lover, but that was an intense once in a lifetime chemistry, and it almost destroyed us both. I am a married woman. I stay married.

I'm wondering how you ended up in Paris. The first time you were on a private Jet registered to Malta.

I was working for a Middle Eastern family. My husband had diplomatic status. Our circle of friends had security guards and private jets, no one spoke English in front of me. Strange thing. I was pulled over by the Gendarmes in Paris.  I asked them if they needed to see my ID, they said no, we know who you are. And then there's you. A General. So are you telling me you're not connected with me before I even knew you?

The Ninja's were tailing you back then. We are both looking for the same person.

The Arab. Well we'd better find him before he finds us. Any leads on that?

He was in Washington Heights.

Let's go there then. 

Better load your weapon comrade. But tell me.

Tell you what?

Are we going back to the farm?

Oh yeah, they're going to throw the key down the drain. We will ask for an adjoining padded cell, you will keep me amused with your tales as our brain cells are picked off one by one by the government issue psycadelic drugs administered to us despite our screams of resistance!

My Grandfather was in the Resistance. I have a leather Nazi Trench coat.

Ooh, do you have the leather high boots to go with it?

Fancy some Cosplay?

Yeah sure, why not. But we have to make it out of here alive to begin with.

And off Hart Island.

And out of Bellevue.

That's fine, we are safe there, amongst all the mad men.

The walls are high, not to keep them in, but to keep the world out.

Yes, the madness is right here on the street

Or sat in a church pew begging for forgiveness.

And despite being constantly abused, she was not one to be defeated easily. She used her intelligence to outsmart her tormentors, finding clever ways to avoid their wrath and taking an alternative pathway to one day escape her miserable childhood.

As the years passed, her resilience and survival instincts only grew stronger. She learned to navigate the treacherous waters of her abusive home life with grace and cunning. Her beauty may have been marred by the scars of her past, but her spirit remained unbroken. And when the opportunity finally arose for her to leave her tormentors behind, she seized it with both hands, determined to forge a new path for herself.

And so, she set out into the world, a survivor of child cruelty and abuse, but also a shining example of strength and resilience. Her intelligence and beauty now shone brighter than ever, a testament to the power of the human spirit to overcome even the darkest of circumstances. And as she walked away from her past, she knew that she was destined for greatness, her story a beacon of hope for all who had suffered as she had.

XXII The Fool

 All I can say is that I doubt I will die three streets away from where I grew up. Most of my peers cannot say the same thing.

How do you feel about that?

I don't envy their drudgery.

 Wherever I lay my hat.

Precisely.

 Reminded daily during my formative years I was living on borrowed time, there by the grace of someone else's benevolence, there by the grace of their God. A charity case. So be grateful - with whatever crumbs are swept from the table. 

Be it love, money - or actual crumbs.

You may keep your crumbs. 

I don't need them.

Nah, fuck that disgusting behaviour. 

  I had witnessed most of the evildoing mankind has to offer before I hit my teens. The proverbial fledging that had fallen from the nest. Most don't survive, I did.

But you were never afraid.

To live or die.

 I was never afraid to go over the edge of the precipice.

 The Fool of the upper arcana in human form.  That's why I'm here with you. 

And the house, where the bodies were found, you spotted something we missed?

Yes, I have studied the witness statements and the crime scene photographs.

And?

The clues are in the cars, and there are two cars. One car disappeared after one set of fatalities, there was also a second car.

And that one?

Disappeared after a possible second fatality. Blood on the windshield of that one.

The suspect then disappears.

But we don't have two cars.

But you do.

He is playing with you! Can't you see the cat and mouse game? He feels he is so, so much smarter than the cops, that is feeding his narcissism that you didn't catch him yet! I really wouldn't be surprised if the body count is near ten! Or even more! 

I can't get the timeline into context. I'm struggling with the timeline. But there are two major events very close together, they are days apart, not months or years, mere days.

Oh! The fucking drama.

It was of my opinion that Laurence Olivier over acted immensely, he was oh so much on stage, too fucking much. Grand fucking gestures from one side of the stage to the other. Why act so hard to convince your audience? They believe you anyway. No need for all that grand posturing and theatrics. 

What a fucking nuisance. A bit like our suspect..

It got me thinking.  That murder was overkill, so it was personal. The scene was overplayed.

 If it was emotional. What was the motive?

Notoriety, no. Psychosis, possiby. Jealousy? Greed? 

I was thinking of Mark Chapman, and the set of coincidences that put him outside The Dakota building that day, that took him to the upper west side. his thought process as he made the journey. Gun in pocket. 

His obsession with Holden Caulfield. A fictional character. The transfer of personalities. 

How do you become a non-existent persona? Breathe life into a line of text? Turn a figment of someone's imagination into a real life, living, breathing being?

I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around – nobody big, I mean – except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff – I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all.

Chapman wanted to be Holden Caulfield.

Did he have an urge to kill? He had never had any prior convictions.

Was it that he wanted the notoriety? He was diagnosed with psychosis. Paranoid schizophrenia. He had no reason to kill other than his inner voices  instructing him to do it. He had a hit list after Lennon. David Bowie, Elizabeth Taylor, Paul McCartney, Jacquie Kennedy amongst others. He was a psychotic killer.

Our man is different. 

His motive was guilt. Fear. Fear of being discovered for what he is. A serial rapist. Now turned murderer.

There was a statement from a witness, the only son of a wealthy couple who lived in a mock Tudor down on Bellingham. He left town right after the murders so wasn't interviewed. 

I didn't put the two together at that time. The missing persons report and the killings.  I can't say the first incident didn't cross my mind, because as I read the reports, there was something. Something I couldn't quite grasp. And then the faces of the victims staring back at me from the wall poster in the office as I conversed on the telephone... They kind of looked familiar you know?

Okay.. And?

It gets interesting. The suspect. His only sister, she was only 14 years old, and she was officially a missing person. A police report had been filed. They had reported her as being vulnerable. The day after the murders, but before the bodies were discovered, she had turned up at a house near the murder scene early in the morning, shortly after daybreak.

What's interesting about that?

She was soaked in blood.

Jesus. Vraiment?

The friend, a schoolfriend ushered her indoors, took her bloody clothes from her and threw them into the lounge's open fire. She then collected some of her own clothes and helped her dress and wipe clean the blood on her hands and face. The girl gave her one of her mothers cigarettes but told her she would have to leave as she wasn't allowed to bring anyone into the house when her mother wasn't there.  So the 14 year old left.

Where did she go from there?

She was still evading the police, so disappeared into the ether,  but was by now obviously badly traumatized. 

She was in the house at the time of the murders?

Hiding under the bed. The murdered couple were harboring her. She had apparently taken refuge with them the night before in a local bar and returned later that evening to their home, it was later that night the murders were committed.

And the motive?

Mistaken identity.

The girl had been raped and she feared she was pregnant. She was the intended victim but she survived. And the suspect is non other than her very own brother.

But in a world where survival meant tapping into the 5th sense, a sense 

of darkness and insanity loomed over those who were neglected and 

subjected to cruelty. The survivors, with their sharp wit and intellect, 

navigated through the darkness, fighting against the insanity that 

threatened to consume them. Despite the neglect they faced, they stood 

strong, refusing to let the cruelty of their circumstances define them. In 

the end, it was their resilience and determination that allowed them to 

emerge victorious, proving that even in the darkest of times, light can 

still shine through.

And the woman stood by the door?

She's a very famous courtesan.

She will know?

We need to get some DNA here.

Ah yes, she will do it.

The Living Dead

 What the hell... Is this the place?
Yes, or was. It's being turned into offices and luxury apartments.
It looks interesting! But it looks quite intimidating at the same time.
Well you didn't want to be a patient there, 50 percent of patients who 
were operated on died within a month.
Of what?
Post-op infection.
Fuck.
Ouai.
And Bobby? Was he here?Yeah he died here. They gave him 
electroshock therapy to cure him of his homosexuality. Since he couldn't 
be reached by therapy, and he wasn't amenable to other treatments, 
they thought adminstering electric shocks to his brain would cure him. 
They would take him to the farthest part of the hospital where no one 
could hear the screams, give him a shot of whisky and shove a rag in his 
mouth. Then electrocute him.
Oh my god. He died from that?
No, he died of AID's. Behind steel doors. Alone. It was the epidemic. No 
one knew what was happening. So no one claimed his body. They 
threw him in a wooden box and buried him on Hart Island in an 
unmarked mass grave.
How did you find out?
His boyfriend.  He managed to locate our address in Paris 
amongst his belongings. He sent a polaroid of him in the hospital, he 
was smiling - his teeth were too big for his head. it was grotesque, I 
didn't recognise him. 

In the dimly lit asylum, the young Bobby lay huddled beneath the covers, his mind consumed by the torment of his illness. How he wished his mother could hold him, but she was in Paris unaware of what was happening to her beloved youngest child.

His mind consumed by the torment of his mental illness. The weight of his AIDS diagnosis only added to his distress as he grappled with the fear of rejection and isolation. But amidst the chaos of his thoughts, a figure of hope emerged as he found solace in the kindness of a nurse who saw beyond his illness and offered him a sliver of umanity in his darkest hour. And in that moment, Bobby realised that even in the depths of despair, there was still a flicker of light that could guide him towards healing and redemption. However, it was to be shortlived. And as his breaths drew shallower and more infrequent, as his light began to fade, he was placed roughly on to a gurney by two men in Hazmat suits who had approached him suddenly. As they placed over him a cold white sheet he heard the voice of one of the men. take him down now and leave him outside the morgue, we need the bed. He's virtually gone anyhow.

Bobby was wheeled down to the morgue.

He died on the gurney alone, in the corridor.

Salem's Lot

You know him?

Yes I met with him already, he tricked me into the elevator in London, I 

wasn't concentrating. I was off guard.

There are no warheads in those rockets, this I know. You did not need 

to go all that way to ask him, you could have just asked me. What did 

his face look like?

His face was like the moon, all round with no features, it glowed, pale 

green and when he smiled his teeth were translucent. His hair was there 

and it was long, but you could hardly tell that he had hair. He was the 

man who wasn't there.

There were no warheads. But he was the warlord.

He said the same thing. But actually he was pretty disgusted by me. I 

wore sweats and trainers, my hair was a mess, my breathing was 

erratic. I ate with my hands, he had never seen or done that. He was 

from another world. From a world of silver spoons and the Officer's 

mess.

As I got off the train he hid behind a concrete pillar. He made me 

nervous, but I was drawn. I'd come too far, and it was too late to back 

out. A man in blue jeans came up from behind me, he said yes... yes I 

fucking knew you were up to something. He startled me. The concourse 

began to spin. Now I was afraid. And alone. Then he suddenly appeared 

out of nowhere, well from behind the concrete pillar to be more accurate.

He made me a drink but I left it. I couldn't hold the glass I was too 

nervous. I kept thinking about the woman dressed in middle eastern 

garb with the facial tatoo's, like what was she doing here? In the west, 

with that terrified expression?

Did you read the material I gave you?

No, well I read one passage. I could identify, but in reality it was bad 

advice.

If one's different, one's bound to be lonely.

I want to know what passion is, I want to feel something 

strongly. Besides hate.

Stability, darling, isn't nearly so spectacular as instability.

I like being myself, myself and nasty. And sad and catatonic.

You got rid of them didn't you. Yes. that's just like you, Getting rid of 

anything you don't like instead of learning to put up with things.

Can you believe this? Nothing costs enough here. Life costs nothing here.

Do you have a soul? Or do you have immortality? The Huxleyon 

prophecy is that Big Brother does not watch us, by his choice. We watch 

him by ours. 

In the depths of the mind, where madness and instability reign, there 

flows a deep river. The currents twist and turn, carrying with them the 

fragmented pieces of a fractured soul. As the waters rush and swirl, the 

boundaries between reality and delusion blur, leaving those who dare to 

navigate its treacherous waters lost in a labyrinth of their own making. 

Only the bravest souls dare to venture into the depths of their own 

madness, seeking to find the elusive thread that will lead them back to 

sanity. I'm not certain I want to be lead back to reality. I kind

of like it here, with all the mad men.

Is anyone ever really satisfied to be merely themselves? We seem to 

spend a lifetime aspring to be someone else.

And this is the basis of the insanity?

No. 

This is the beginning of the death trip.

Ok. Now mind that street chicken.

Street chicken? That's a fucking pigeon.

Yes that thing. Have you ever been handcuffed?

You mean sexually or by law enforcement?

You on Facebook? I can't find you.

Oh yeah, I put my name in Russian characters so they can't find me. I'll 

add you.

Can you imagine marrying someone without having had sex with them first?

I can't imagine having dinner with someone without having had sex with them first.

The conductors here, get your ticket app on display.

Tickets for New Jersey! Or hell... whatever you like to call it.

Hell is fine.

You wouldn't be an antagonist if you made deals that didn't involve marrying me

I really need to speak to you about something.

So speak. What is it?

The guy in the football stadium, he shook your hand and said what? I can see he is saying something.

You saw me at the stadium? I was dressed in red, I was virtually in a sea of red sequins, I thought I was invisible!'

The cameras found you. What did he say to you?

He told me his name was Franck, he wanted to know where I came from. He wondered what I was doing there. He said why are you English and watching this?

I told him I didn't know, I was sorry I came. I left shortly afterwards, I 

spoke to two uniformed police at one of the exit tunnels, they directed 

me into a waiting car and I went back to the hotel. I ate venison which I 

usually hate, and drank a cold glass of Laurent Perrier Rose, which I also 

don't like. I was doing things as if by clockwork, I didn't want to leave 

the restaurant as I didn't want to go up to my room alone. I was 

fortified after several glasses of champagne to ask the concierge to 

accompany me to my room, which he did. He stayed longer than he 

should.

What did you talk about?

I talked about the tall trees outside of the window, of the people going 

past on bicycles, astonished by the fact they didn't get hit by cars. I was 

saying nothing particular. I ordered aperitifs, some Vodka and freshly 

squeezed orange juice with an ice bucket, oh and some scrambled eggs 

from room service. He sat in the armchair by the window and lit a 

cigarette.

What happened after the cigarette?

He pushed me down on the bed and fucked me.

Okay, but you didn't speak about the man in the navy suit who dropped 

you at the hotel?

No, I didn't. Where is Franck? Where is Franck now?

He died.

He died?

Yes he died. He died not long after the trip. I read it in the newspaper. I was shocked.

So you know what happened then?

Not really.

They found him. He was murdered. Captured. Tied to a park bench, in 

the dead of night and shot. Assailants unknown. Do you know who did 

his?

The man in the restaurant who gave me the venison and champagne?

No, the man who fucked you.

Oh my god, I knew I hated him. But he was kind of attractive.

You are not right in your mind, you know that?

No, I am definately not. And I don't mind either, I don't actually care 

until I see the laughing man. He scares me.

You need to stay away from him.

I can't, he follows me.

We have to go across the river tonight.

But it's dark and cold, there are no boats, the trains have stopped!

We will walk the bridge.

What if they see us?

If they see us, we will fight them.

In the heart of New York City, there was a bridge that spanned across 

the dark, murky waters of the Hudson River.  Legend had it that a 

mysterious man lurked in the shadows beneath the end of the bridge, 

his presence striking fear into the hearts of all who crossed it. Some 

said he was a ghost, others believed he was a deranged hermit seeking 

solitude in the bustling city.

Later that night, they found themselves stranded on the bridge, the rain 

pelting down around them. As they hurried across, they caught a 

glimpse eyes filled with a haunting sadness. And in that 

moment, they realised that the man hiding in the shadows  

was not a monster, but perhaps a lost soul seeking refuge from the harsh realities of the world above. Or was he?

She peered closely at the light flickering 

across his tortured face.

It was her father.

But you are dead, you died  a long time ago!

I am here with you, right here, right now.

Please leave me alone, you tried to kill me! I was your daughter, and 

you tried to kill me!

I was stupid, I am sorry.

No, you are not sorry, and if I let you live, you will do it again.

The French man reached into his pocket and slowly retrieved his gun, 

holding it now in  outstretched arms.

Pull the trigger Frenchy, pull the fucking trigger.

So he did.

The shot rang out into the night. 

How many more before the end?

The man slumped to the ground. She turned and gently kissed the 

french mans soft cheek. He had the most beautiful complexion for a 

middle aged man. 

Frenchy. You know what? I once saw a man on a bike who wasn't there. 

If you marry me, I will save you.

Yes, I will marry you. 

And send you to hell with no extra charge.

You know what?

What.

If you ever leave me, Im coming with you.

23andme so I guess I'm fucked now.

I wouldn't believe you if you told me you were lying

 Do you think the arab is dead?

No, why would they be?

They said they had cancer. So technically they should be dead, right? Like who has terminal cancer for twenty fucking years? What a crock.

Cancer of what? Why would anyone believe a word out of that piece of shit's mouth?

Well we know what a liar they are, so no I don't think they're dead. Probably didn't have cancer, but if they did, you're right. They most certainly carked it by now.  But if they're alive on the othehand they are lying coiled up like a snake in long grass, getting ready to spring as soon as they find us.

I think maybe you're right, but I am not 100 percent certain.

Last contact was when? Over ten years ago?

Something like that. No proof of the shitterling being dead or alive.

If they're dead they are keeping it quiet. Infact a lot of people are keeping it quiet, and that's the problem. It's not possible to keep a lot of people quiet. Keeping one quiet is one too many.  

Perhaps they're in jail or something? Or in the big Dutch Nutella pancake house.

The lawyer says they are alive.

It suits their narrative, the lawyer is a lying bastard as well.  I think they could be in it together, and so it suits the lawyer that the arab is alive, in actual fact if the arab is dead it changes everything. It complicates things.

How so?

There are some legal implications. Not to mention a lot of money. Why do people commit atrocious crimes in the first place?

I have a theory on that, there are only three root causes - Love, sex and money, or all three! Hmmm maybe envy... Greed... but then that comes under the love and money label I guess.

Correct. The lawyer was receiving the cash late at night in Paris, stumbling through the streets in the dark, full of Pastis, shit scared someone would recognize him. He's been shaking people down for a long time. He's looking at 20 years if this shit hits the proverbial. Minimum. 

In his Hermes belt.

He will Epstein himself with that. He may have to. 

Let's hope so, but not quite yet. Something I noticed.. Not 100 percent but I think he's possibly a closet gay too. I have found a mysterious guy who seems to stalk him all over social media,  cloning his media accounts but using his own personal profile photos, and man oh man is he a pretty boy, straight off the Trocadero. I've got a theory that Mr Lawyer was using pretty boy as a salope, and dumped him when his rented by the hour ass  started to become a nuisance. Hence the revenge media posts, which whilst they aren't accusatory or defaming, god no he is dealing with a lawyer, the posts are obviously an irritant, you know, the sand to his Vaseline?

 The pretty boy has been dumped by the family man lawyer.

So where do you think the Arab is? Here in NYC?

No of course not. I think they're in Paris. Hiding in plain sight.

I'm not sure, visa's aren't that easy to obtain. What about the Swiss connection?

It's gone quiet. There was a ping from near a millitary base there which was worrying, but nothing since. Could've been bots.

Hmm. And so now what?

I think we should investigate the Hart Island connection. And plus you owe it to Bobby. He's still on there.

Oh God, please don't.

Come on Frenchie, I'll take over everything that needs to be done today. You take a breather, because I think things are going to get messy. And for a hardline cop, you are as soft as a sac au mierde.

You know what? 

What?

Tu es fou mais je crois que je t'aime.

Yeah, whatever.

In the bustling streets of Paris late at night, the highly respected lawyer who had a penchant for alcohol and a weakness for cocaine and young men, especially after indulging in one too many drinks,  found himself in a seedy alleyway with an unusually beautiful, intelligent rent boy. In a drunken stupor, he convinced the prostitute to help him collect a large sum of money from a wealthy businessman. 

As they made their illicit transaction, the Lawyers excitement released within him a torrential flood of adrenaline.  Now he was unable to resist the temptation of cocaine, and more boys, and  as they both got high on the drug, laughing, and celebrating their ill-gotten gains spread out across the luxurious bed at the  George Cinq, sipping the Cliquot,  soon there was another smooth skinned runaway joining them.   Life was good.

But as the night wore on, his lies began to unravel, and as the stolen money slipped through his fingers like sand, and the paranoia of the cocaine binge descended oupon his head like a dark cold concrete block pounding his brain, he began a desperate attempt to cover his tracks, Mr big shot lawyer abandoned the salopes and fled into the night, leaving behind a trail of lies, promises and shattered dreams of the two young men. 

And as the sun rose over the city of Paris, he found himself alone and panicking, who in the hell sent him the message saying she knew what he was doing and she was about to reveal his secrets? 

A woman? Which fucking woman?

Under the Lilac Tree

 In the quaint town of Provence, there lived a French man named Jacques who had a penchant for indulging in lilac wine. One fateful evening, as he sipped on his favorite vintage, he began to experience vivid hallucinations. 

In his intoxicated state, Jacques believed he was a secret agent on a mission to uncover a government conspiracy.

As the night wore on, Jacques' delusions grew more elaborate and fantastical. He was convinced that he was being pursued by enemy spies and that only he could save the world from impending doom. With a mix of courage and confusion, Jacques embarked on a wild adventure through the villages of Provence, all the while under the influence of the intoxicating lilac wine that fueled his hallucinations. In the end, Jacques woke up the next morning with a pounding headache and a newfound appreciation for the power of imagination. So yes, lilac wine is real.

Lilacs are amazingly fragrant, but I couldn't drink myself into a stupor with it's nectar.

I'm going to give you some, to see what memories it evokes. Then you can puke it up. It won't kill you. But it might. Toss the coin.

The car. You are stood looking at it, what can you see? What color is it?

Black.

Any damge? smashed lights, broken or missing fenders?

No, it looks normal.

And yet it was in a head on collision?

Was it?

Yes, according to the driver.

Open the door and look inside. What can you see?

Nothing. I can't distinguish the colour of the interior at all. It could be a 

reddish brown.

Ok. Broken windshield?

No. Nothing. Oh here.. I see something. Inside.

What do you see?

Blood, I see blood.

D'accord.

I'm now standing behind some iron gates. The weather is damp and cloudy yet it's not raining. I look at the door of this huge building, it's a house, gothic,  the door is large and painted black. I'm waiting for someone to answer my knock but they don't come.  I look at my watch and it's three thirteen pm. It's cold but not freezing. I look in my bag for a cigarette, place it between my lips and light it, taking a long hit and exhaling slowly as I look around at my surroundings. The trees have lost their leaves, the concreted path is dark with this morning's rain. There is a tree behind me, I turn to look, still waiting for the door to open. Something catches my eye. Behind the tree there is something. Leaning against the brickwall behind the trunk of the tree.

What is behind the tree?

A white plastic carrier bag. It is stuffed with clothes. Like really stuffed, not with neatly folded clothes, like dirty laundry... It's unclear to me what the clothes are, I think a man's clothing, I see a white shirt on top, maybe some black trousers rolled up underneath, I think there's some shoes. But I instinctively don't want to touch the plastic bag. It feels strange and out of place. I try to think who may have put the bag there.

Go look in the bag. What do you see.

The white shirt is.. Oh.. the white shirt is stained with something dark.It is blood. It is definately blood. Oh my god.

Come, you are going to vomit.

Please stop taking me to these places.

Was there a weapon in the bag? 

Such as?

I dunno, a knife or a hammer, gun perhaps?

No I didn't see.

Did the door get opened?

No. But the man who lived there was living in fear, that's why I would visit him, not frequently, but whenever I would walk past.  He told me that strange things were happening to him. Once when I called to see him he told me a man had been in his garden that night, peering through his windows. He had been very afraid, but didn't call for help. Another time I remember he had black eyes after being attacked in his house, but he wouldn't open up about it. Oh jesus, I'm gonna throw up.. Did something happen to him?

Yeah, he was killed by his son for his inheritance.

Oh my god. How?

Suffocation. 

But the blood?

you heard the term serial killer?

Yes.

Did you know the son?

Not really, I was a little uncomfortable around him, he made me feel 

uneasy so I would usually avoidhim where possible. He's a serial killer?

We think so,  we are closing the net. You feeling better?

I'm feeling that I survived a murderer.  

Not quite.

He's in jail no?

No he isn't, he never got caught, and he's looking for you.

Living by Gaslight and Blue Oranges

 I saw Vittorio last night, which surprised me

Really why?

Because he died a long time ago. He said he had a message for me, but I didn't understand what he was saying so I left. Not before checking out his lacklustre restaurant. It all seemed like a big comedown from his London and Marbella heyday.

Were you wearing fatigues?

No. Why? Why the fuck would I be wearing fatigues? You and your 100 stupid fucking questions!

Because I saw a message on your phone while you were sleeping, it was 

from Jean - Luc in London.

What did it say?

He wants to know if we can shift some firearms from Zurich. Don't sweat it, they're antique. Or so he says.

What? What are we now? Arms dealers?

Hahahaha!

I wonder who's behind this? The Saudi's? 

The hotel in Geneva. The art gallery in St Jame's Place. I am so tired of all this shit, I have been since the Middle East. The hyperbaric chamber crap. Please look at me and tell me what you see?

I see you, as very interesting.

I wondered about you Mr Frenchie,  as you sipped coffee in my kitchen after accidently knocking at my door looking for someone else. Someone else really? How quiet and genteel you were, stirring the sugar and sipping at the hot liquid so discreetly, so politely, so sophisticated. So mysterious. You made me think alright.

What were you thinking?

I was wondering if you were watching me, if you were some sort of agent come to find out who I was. It all seemed very strange. I wondered why you were here in front of me. The fact that you said you thought I was German. 

I did think you were German, possibly Dutch. You don't look English really.

People used to think I was Russian. I would get my menus in Russian when I was at any Restaurant.

Ahh. That equates.

It very well may equate, but it used to irritate me.

You, so easily irritated my tiny fair. Now tell me. Who is the dumpy short legged scruffy dressed woman who used to come here, the one with the fat ass who's sit down air used to stink?

I don't know, she has no background, only lies and a fictional past. I cut her loose because I didn't trust her, why? Sit down air? Jesus... but yeah you're right.

She's the quintessential loose cannon, heroin junkie, ex-hooker - you name it. Think of the junkie mentality, say or do anything to get their next fix. Keep the door closed on her. Keep her fried brained fucked up logic out of our business. She is the enemy. Because above all else, she is jealous.

Or whatever, yes she used to try and gaslight me, convince me I needed therapy with her friend! Can you imagine! Alors!! But aren't we all dealing on a short circuit somewhere? I am, you aren't so tightly wrapped yourself! Are wenot damaged goods?

Yes, but her damage is chemically induced, so it's a short circuit on a whole different level. Investigate it.

Oh I see. Okay. Oh god, I need to go back home at some stage, I can't stay here, I don't like it. I don't like it at all. 

No, me neither. But we have to go back to the cafe.

I'm telling you there is something going on in the back of that cafe. The owner is very suspicious. He looked us both up and down, he thought we were undercover. He was selling food with no food avilable.

What do you think is going on?

The curtain sheilding the back room, he's very guarded over it, doesn't risk you seeing what's behind it when he has to walk through.

What's your opinion?

At first I thought porn, or gambling or an illegal place of worship sheltering a radical hate speech type of Iman. But no. I discounted all of that after what I saw in Barcelona.

What did you see in Barcelona?

A sleeper cell.

In a world where danger lurked around every corner, he knew the risks 

of going undercover as a radical Muslim to bring down a violent extremist 

group. But when he met her - a beautiful and cunning female who 

seemed to see right through his facade - things became even more 

complicated. As their cat-and-mouse game unfolded in the gritty streets 

of New York City, he found himself torn between duty and desire, unable 

to deny the growing feelings he had for the very woman he was 

supposed to be hunting down. With no escape from the web of lies and 

deception they had spun around each other, he realized too late that his 

heart had already been captured by someone who could never truly be 

his.

Cider with Rose

 I was there, looking around, trying to figure out where I was.

Where were you?

On an unfinished road, a dirt track. There was a row of houses at the top, I could just make out the word 'Avenue' in the middle of the row of terraces built into the brickwork in stone, there was a pub called The Sun on the bottom of the hill, the bar area was there, I could see it lit up through the window, but the lounge area had been made into a domestic  kitchen. There was a woman in there, preparing something. 

It was obviously closed and had been remodelled into a HMO, I remember being there so well. I remember the actual night, the people. God I even remember what I was wearing. And a man called Alan. Well he was a very young man, maybe 20. But I was a very young teen. 

What was his significance?

He wanted me to be his girlfriend, but I said I couldn't, I was scared of the girlfriend he had already. She had short mousy hair and greasy skin.  She wore a leather jacket and looked rough. She looked at me through ice cold slitted eyes and told me not to speak to her boyfriend. I was terrified.

What happened next?

I walked back up the hill with them, I had drunk a glass of Cider with blackcurrant juice to disguise the disgusting,to me anyhow, taste.  I felt a little drunk after only one small glass.

I don't think he had anything to do with the body in the bushes.

I don't think so, that was much later. How did you feel when you realised that what you uncovered was a body? And it was how you say? Wrapped?

Yeah, well not really wrapped, kind of covered up. But then I saw the skull and I stared at it for such a very long time as my brain tried to process what it was seeing, I simply couldn't process it. Like when you see a huge snake coming towards you but it takes an age before you can make a sound, you simply freeze. And finally you scream.

It's like a bizarre carnival.

You want to walk back down there someday? Back down that lane? Drink cassis with Cider? Champagne yes, but Cider? Alors..

No, not really. I just get these random thoughts, you know? Like something submerged underwater and the water level suddenly starts to subside, revealing the submerged object. My memories are like that. Sudden and not for any particular reason.There is no trigger.

You remember your rock in the ocean?

That was my safe place, I only swam from underneath it when the tide got high. I could hear people calling my name having seen me walk into the ocean and disappear. They thought I was drowned, but I was inside my rock.

Some things are worse than what we've actually gotten ourselves into.

Are you afraid? I mean like right now.

In the depths of his soul, this quiet, unassuming emotionless French man felt a gripping fear clawing at his chest as he stood on

 the precipice, unsure if he could make that final leap into the unknown 

abyss below with her. 

The world seemed to blur around him, his heart pounding in rhythm with

 the tumultuous emotions swirling within him - a conflicting mixture of

 love and hate for the surreal sensation of falling for her. His mind raced

 with thoughts of regret and longing, each one tearing at him like a

 jagged knife as he grappled with the overwhelming weight of his

 decisions. 

And yet, despite it all, there was an undeniable sense of liberation in

 letting go, in surrendering to fate and trusting in the tenuous thread

 between life and death. The fear whispered its sinister promises in his

 ear, but somewhere deep down, a spark of defiance ignited within him -

 propelling him forward into the unknown with a steely resolve born from

 desperation and determination.

This was pure madness.

She was pure madness.

But it was too late. His watch had stopped. 

We need to take guns.

I can't kill anyone!

Oh, you will my tiny fair. You will.

It's either them or us.