The River City Blog #3

Today, I am watching River City as it goes out, on my parents' fancy HD TV. Usually I iPlayer it on my computer several days later. Will this make the experience more exciting? Probably not.

Dr Brodie can't sleep. He is wandering round in his dressing gown, sighing a lot and drinking milk straight from the bottle. What a sad parody of manhood. He needs to take some tips from the Old Spice guy. Meanwhile the reason for his stress, missing brother Leo, is suffering night terrors on hairdresser Hayley's living room floor just a few doors away. F'only they could be reunited. Or something.

On an unrelated note, Crazy Ruth is also up and about, scrubbing like a motherbitch to hide the fact she is pure raging about partner Andy's interview for a job in Dubai. Seems a bit premature - he might not even get it. But then she is called Crazy Ruth.

Over at Casa Del Mullen, Scarlett is dispensing wisdom re Big Boab's court summons, sporting grey leopard print jim jams with unmatching pink leopard print dressing goon. Does Montego Street have a secret Primark I don't know about? And in The Ship, the pointless subplot about Rrrraymond being annoyed with Eileen for sending him on errands all the time continues apace. Is there to be no comic relief tonight?!

Apparently not. Whilst Leo pops pain killers like a toddler with a tube of smarties, the Military Police roam the street(s?) searching for him, and his brothers bicker loudly about his welfare. Scarlett forces Boab to go outside, whilst Jimmy helpfully points out, "lawyers and doctors pick up prozzies all the time." Wee Boab and Theresa take him under their wings with similar insights - "I dinnae care aboot your urges, at least you didnae hurt anyone" - none of which seem to cheer him up. Mainly because he did hurt someone - poor fragrant Iona, the love of his life. Oh, for a family as sensitive as the Mullen-O'Hara brood.

Anyway, onwards and upwards. Her from Take the High Road points out that by keeping wee Eilidh prisoner in the flat instead of letting her go back to nursery, Crazy Ruth is behaving like a crazy person. But apparently everyone else ('everyone else' in this instance being Ruth's grandad and her pal Scott) thinks she should be given the benefit of the doubt. They're wrong, of course, but because HfTtHR - Liz, if you want to be pedantic - is such an interfering busybody 99% of the time, they ignore her. The consequences are due next week.

Over by the Delhi, Leo has somehow fallen down the stairs from Hayley's flat to exhort nephews Connor and Adeeb to help him steal sister-in-law Leila's car so he can go back to Afghanistan. Are you keeping up with this? Connor is well up for it, but the more observant Adeeb notices that if they allow him to do a runner he'll almost certainly die of septicemia. He therefore informs the nearest responsible adult. Good to know that not all kids are idiots.

By the way, can anyone tell me whether Leyla has had an affair with Leo at some point? Because she really hates him, and calls the military police on him whilst Dr B is off at the surgery locating drugs. This backfires slightly, however, when Leo gets off on the condition that he moves in with them till he gets better. What a plot device.

Somewhat dully, there's the little matter of why he went AWOL in the first place. Dr Brodie knows his little brother is hiding something, explaining,

"Ma IQ's above 150. I've had it checked."

Strong words, that cut right to the heart of the matter. It turns out Leo shot a ten year old civilian in Afghanistan thinking it was a sniper, and he can't live with the guilt. He ran away from military hospital so he can go back in a non-soldier capacity to atone by laying his own neck on the line. Cue some fairly unconvincing crying and a visit to the pub, during which he threatens Leyla with his eyes. They may be planning to draw this out for some time.

Telly

This year, to ensure I update this blog at least once a week, I will be providing a blow-by-blow account of the accidentally hilarious and occasionally very well acted River City, a soap overlooked by most people because it’s set in Glasgow and only on telly once a week.

This week, Stuart Baggs-like entrepreneur/spoilt child-man Fraser decides to build a factory next to Gabriel’s shop. When this fails to impress his rival, he shrieks in irritation, “AND we’re going to tartan week!” Strangely enough, this doesn’t have the desired effect. About five minutes later he loses the land anyway. To a church-run play park! Supported by his ain dad!

Meanwhile, an awkward line of exposition in the shop confirms my worst fears – Rosin moved back up North when I wasn’t looking. Gutted. But never mind, because in the wake of mum Scarlett’s cancer, Wee Boab has stepped up to the mark with some wide eyed, gurning acting to try and keep our minds off it. AND he gets to add some comical not-quite-homophobia to the mix, because Robbie the big gay hairdresser is moving in with him and Deek.

Big Boab is distracting himself from Scarlett’s condition by scaring the crap out of Iona with declarations of eternal love worthy of a teenage blog. On the first date. That goes about as well as you might expect. Fortunately, Scarlett is on hand with sage advice.

“That’s the hing aboot chances,” she tells him. “Sometimes you git mair than wan.”

“D’ye hink?” he asks, somewhat insensitively given her medical condition.

“Well here’s hopin’,” was the wry reply.

16 minutes in to the episode, Fraser decides that the only way to get the land for his factory is to dump a load of untraceable industrial waste on it. The church won’t be able to afford to clean it up, and he will step in to take it off their hands at a reduced rate. No, he did not try any other options first, and yes, for those interested, industrial waste looks like runny lemon curd. For some inexplicable reason, business partner Deek believes the stuff isn’t dangerous and helps out, acquiring a SUSPICIOUS BURN along the way which he can’t tell anyone about. Presumably he hasn’t had enough to angst about lately.

Next day, Gabriel sees Deek’s SUSPICIOUS BURN, as well as Fraser suspiciously advising him to man up about the agonizing pain rather than see a doctor. Gabriel wastes no time in making Deek reveal the oozing wound in front of half the pub. Why didn’t he just roll up the other sleeve to reveal the unburnt arm? Come on people, this isn’t some kind of farce.

Anyway, Fraser does the evil thing and pretends to be as shocked as everyone else, as if the good people of Sheildinch will believe a scrawny house elf could carry out such a diabolical plan unaided. But Murray (Fraser’s dad) is suspicious and does some investigatory journalism to uncover the terrible truth. Just in time for a rainy ending, where Fraser loses the land once more, as well as his business partner and relationship with his family. One hopes that girlfriend Amber will have the good sense to dump him too.

Chapter Twenty Nine

I was name checked on Guardian Edinburgh this morning thanks to this nonsense. Here is the penultimate chapter, as promised! And here is a list of previous ones in order. This brings the word count to 51971... but is it any good? I talked about that briefly in an article on The Edinburgh Reporter here.

“You know,” Nicky said thoughtfully, “that actually makes a lot of sense. I had wondered why my downstairs mix-up didn’t look quite right.”

“Surely someone’s mentioned it to you before,” Tim said, “maybe in a urinal? It’s the type of thing that would get commented on!”

“I always use the cubicle,” Nicky said, “never knew why before, was just my gut reaction to head for cover.”

“Have you never had a girlfriend?”

“Well no. I’m too eccentric, girls round our way aren’t looking for that. They want guys like that one Nigella’s always going after.”

“Do you fancy girls?”

“I dunno. Never really thought about it too much, to be honest.”

“Which did Nicky like before you mucked about with her brain,” Bracken asked, “girls or boys?”

“How should I know,” Magenta said irritably, adding, “I’d have to look it up in the file.”

“Can you reverse it so she can go back to the way she was?”

“Does she want to go back to the way she was?”

“Hoi,” Nicky said indignantly, “does she take sugar? I’m right here, why don’t you ask me what I want?”

“Well,” Bracken said reasonably, “do you know?”

“Not a Scooby,” Nicky admitted, “I feel as though I’m not in full possession of the facts which makes it something of a tough call.”

“Are you getting all this,” Tim asked one of the camera crew bitterly, “I’d hate for you to miss out on a good telly opportunity, just because your boss has hired a mercenary to manipulate several people’s lives, which is probably against the human rights act and might see his BAFTA nomination revoked.”

“Actually,” Brian told Tim in his head, “the whole thing has been going out live since the beginning.”

“Totally uncut?”

“Totally uncut. Using the telepathic powers the amulet has afforded, I’ve been able to blow this thing wiiiide open.”

“You know,” Tim thought back to him, “I’m actually not sure how useful that is. People will watch, be outraged on Twitter for half an hour, then forget all about it. Such is the fickle nature of our modern society.”

The fire exit door clanged open with an almighty ruckus. Bert and the scarred guard appeared through it in a flurry of dry ice, he with his hair blowing dramatically in tht wind and she cradling the wean protectively. They looked like some kind of unusual crime fighting duo.

“Stop everything,” Bert bellowed boisterously, “we have important information to impart!”

“Really, though?” Bracken was unimpressed. “I bet you a fiver that most of it has already come up.”

“The woman who calls herself Esmeralda is in fact Esmeralda’s identical twin, Magenta?”

“Yep, we know.”

“Esmeralda has been dead for years, killed by her sister’s own hand?”

“Aye.”

“Posing as Esmeralda because her rogue methods have so incensed the global science community, Magenta has been conducting invasive brain experiments on unknowing people, with the full knowledge and financial backing of The Jeremy Kyle Show?”

“Tell us something we don’t know!”

“This little boy isn’t yours, Bracken.”

Her lip wobbled ferociously.

“I know that too,” she whispered, bravely biting back the tears.

“We have all the documentation to prove what’s been going on, so we can send these two down for a long time,” Bert informed them.

“Now that we did not know.”

Bert smiled victoriously.

“Here’s one for you then, Dad,” said Nicky. “Assuming that’s not a memory trick as well?”

“No,” Magenta drawled, “he is your father. The memory work there was mostly done by your mother, to be honest I just had to tweak it a little.”

“Right well, in that case… Dad, it turns out that I’m actually a woman.”

Bert looked surprised for a moment, then shrugged. “Now that you say that,” he meandered, “it sort of rings a bell.”

He pondered.

“I want to build up our relationship either way, assuming you still do.”

“Oh aye, definitely,” Nicky nodded. “I feel like I probably need to be supported through this traumatic time.”

“You’ll readjust surprisingly quickly,” said Esmeralda, “or at least, I think you will. Assuming you let me reverse the procedure.”

“Why does that not inspire me with full blown confidence?” Nicky asked scathingly. “Think I’ll just take it from here if you don’t mind.”

“Did you do anything to Nigella,” Bracken said suddenly.

“Who?”

“My cousin, Nigella. Well, I thought she was my cousin. Maybe she isn’t. She doesn’t know who the wean’s dad is, but she definitely thought he was mine.”

“Lanky girl, ginger, nasal?”

“That’s her,” grinned Nicky.

“Yeah, did some work on her,” Esmeralda confessed.

“Aaaaand here she is now,” said Kyle, “please welcome to the stage, Nigella!”

Nige appeared at the door, looking flushed and confused.

“How did I get here?” she asked Jeremy. “I was at home in the kitchen peeling a leek and then suddenly BAM, I was here!”

“Teleportation device,” Jez told her dismissively, “but that’s not important right now.”

“I disagree,” Nige disagreed, rather emphatically.

“You’re here today because you’ve got something to tell someone,” he bulldozed on in a vague sort of way.

“Erm, OK?”

“Well on you go then sweetheart,” he said, gesturing in the direction of the characters assembled before her, “spit it out.”

“Who am I meant to be talking to?” she enquired.

“That can be up to you,” he replied, “because at this point I don’t think it really matters.”

“Bracken,” she started, walking up to her cousin, “I’m sorry.”

This was the first time Bracken had ever heard her cousin apologise, and she was flabbersmacked. That’s a mixture of flabbergasted and gobsmacked – Peter Andre taught me it.

“That’s alright,” she said, unsure what it is that she was apologizing for.

“Me and Al never done anyhin,” she continued, “I was trying to make you jealous so I wanted to make you think we spent the night together, sexwise. But we never.”

“That’s alright, even if you had done,” Bracken said magnanimously. “It’s not as if we’re going out.”

Nige smiled, and gave her a hug. Meanwhile it dawned on Al that maybe Bracken did like him after all.

“Nicky,” Nige continued reproachfully, “where the hell have you been? You had us worried. Thought the aliens had got you at last.”

“I’ve been in this place,” Nicky filled her in, “living in a tiny cell against my will for an as yet unexplained reason.”

“It’s because Esmeralda – sorry, Magenta – ” Bracken rolled her eyes, “thought that if she asked people whether she could experiment on them they’d say no. So she took them without asking.”

“Be fair though,” Magenta countered, “as soon as I gave her the option, she did refuse.”

“She?” Nige said, bemused.

“Oh, Nicky’s a girl,” Bracken explained.

“Oh right. Cool.”

“Really?” Nicky said, “why is nobody even remotely surprised by this news?”

“It’s because they knew you before,” Magenta yawned. “The residual memories cushion the blow of the shock.”

“Course they do.”

“So this woman here – what did you call her? Magenta? Locked you in a cell for two weeks?”

“Pretty much.”

“Was the wean with you?”

“Not physically with me, no,” Nicky said, “although he was in the building, as it turns out.”

“I was keeping an eye on him,” said the scarred guard.

“And who are you?” Nigella enquired.

“I am his surrogate mother.”

“That’s a bit over the top, its only been a couple of weeks. He won’t remember that in later life.”

“She means she was the surrogate womb for him,” Bracken said sadly.

“Come again?”

“The wean isn’t mine, Nige. That’s why I couldn’t answer your questions about the dad. I didn’t know, because I never had sex with anyone, because I’m not his mum.”

“So who is the mum, then?” Nige asked in a state of understandable confusion. “If you’re not, and this lady was just a womb for hire?”

“I am,” Nicky informed her.

“Oh. That’s odd. But I guess you two have always got on pretty well.”

Just as the conversation seemed to be in danger of getting awkward, there was a clap of thunder, and Dennis appeared.

“Oh, Christy,” said Tim.

The noise was high pitched enough to break Brian’s concentration, and he did a big amulet shaped poo.

“Yoink,” said Dennis, grabbing it.

“Did that guy just steal a turd fae under the dug?” Nigella asked.

“Yup,” Bracken confirmed.

“Is that a common Scottish phrase?” Jeremy asked with interest.

“It will be soon,” Nicky commented, “as soon as she puts it on her Bebo.”

“Dennis,” Tim said, “don’t be an idiot. Give me that.”

“Why does that guy want the poo?” Nige asked.

“He doesn’t want the poo,” Al explained, “there’s a magical amulet inside the poo, and that’s what he wants.”

“What for?”

“So that I can destroy it.”

“But if you don’t even like it, why not let the other guy have it?”

“Because it’s evil,” Tim told her, “and it needs to be got rid of before the evil spreads.”

He advanced upon Dennis and tried to forcibly remove the poo. Dennis flew up into the air and levitated just out of reach, which is one of the perks of being a ghost.

“Ha,” he gloated triumphantly, “now what are you going to do?”

“What are you going to do?” Tim asked, “if you can use the amulet to resurrect yourself?”

“I’m going to have a bowl of frosties,” Dennis replied. “Then I’m going to go to sleep in a comfy bed.”

Tim shook his head.

“I know that’s what you want to do now,” he said, “but honestly, all that will go out the window if you use that thing. Just look at it, for goodnessake.”

Dennis obliged, staring into the mottled glass surface. The piece of tentacle within seemed to pulsate ominously, and Dennis thought he could hear an insidious whispering noise. “Kill,” it said, “rip, tear, slash, inflate.”

“Inflate?” Dennis said aloud.

“Sorry,” said the whispering, “I got confused. Maim and hurt, destroy, poke out their eyes…”

“That’s not very nice,” he chided, inadvertently floating back down towards the ground.

“GOTCHA!” Tim shouted, grabbing his ankle with one hand and maintaining contact for just long enough to yank Dennis earthward and grab the amulet.

Dennis instantly vanished in a huff.

“Right,” Tim said, “now all we need to do is destroy it.”

“I wouldn’t be so hasty if I were you,” said a robotic voice from a fire exit which nobody had noticed until now.

Everyone turned.

It came from the mink caped, hooded figure. The boss, the man, the big cheese.

He or she had Adric in a vice like grip, with a flick knife tight against his neck, blade just millimeters from piercing the skin.

“Give me the amulet,” the figure said, “or your boy toy gets it.”

Chapter Twenty Six

47882 words. Aw yeah. Chronological chapter times here.

Tim and Adric arrived at the facility whilst Nicky and Bracken were chatting in the mysterious room the guards referred to as The Chamber.

Through the blind fold Time could make out that it was some sort of building with more than one floor. Not the highest vantage point he’d ever had, but it was something. There’s nothing worse than having your blindfold removed in a dingy room and discovering on your escape that you’re on a boat, or in the middle of a volcano. Sometimes, just knowing you’re in a normal building which will contain some stairs and possibly a lift, puts you in a position of great mental strength.

Tim didn’t have much time to enjoy this inner calm, though, because the heavies had parked in their allotted spaces in The Facility’s car park and were roughly manhandling him and Adric out onto the concrete.

“Alright,” he said cheerfully, “I’m going.”

He pretended to stumble so that El Nombre’s companions wouldn’t realize he could see where he was going, and stole a quick look at Adric. He was still completely out of it, his gangly frame propped up by the guy who was preoccupied with sausages.

They formed a convoy and entered the building, each balaclava-wearing figure stopping to have his or her retinas scanned and fingerprints checked. In actual fact, none of this information was relayed anywhere, or even backed up onto a floppy disc (remember them) or pen drive. It was all set up to create the illusion that The Facility was a fortress, with unbreachable security. ‘Nobody ever gets out or in without our say-so,’ the scans seemed to imply. But if you wanted to, you probably could, Tim suspected. He wondered whether El Nombre knew, and was merely playing the game.

Once inside, Adric was whisked away to a cell a couple of doors down from Nicky's and put to bed by the nurse with the scarred face. Being the kindest of the guards, and the only one with actual nurse’s training, she was required to deal with all the new arrivals.

Meanwhile, El Nombre secured Tim in a basement room. Well, that was what he told his colleagues. In actual fact, he only walked Tim down to the basement. No securing occurred, as such. He merely removed the blindfold and said

"I dunno which cell they'll have put him in to sleep off the effects of the sedative, but all those rooms are on the second floor."

Tim nodded his thanks. El must have known the whole time that the guy they were kidnapping was the guy he wanted to rescue.

"Want to chum me on this one, for old time's sake?" he asked hopefully.

"I can't," El replied regretfully, "I'm busting out of this joint, right now. It's time to do what I set out to when I became a mercenary."

"Pack it all in for a life of leisure?" Tim joked, like the jokey joke-maker he often was in times of stress.

"Find and destroy Wizard Chinnigan," El Nombre explained, missing the humour like Arnold Schwarzenegger in the Terminator movies.

"If you'd only hold on a couple of hours for me to rescue my friend, I could come with you," Tim offered, partly for old time’s sake and partly to repay the debt he had accrued by getting El to bring him here.

El shook his head no.

"This is something you need to do alone, huh?"

"It is."

"What if you get yourself killed? He's tricksy, that wizard."

"Tim, I know his ways better than no one. No, wait. Nobody knows the ways of that wizard better than I. You know this to be the case.”

Tim nodded reluctantly, feeling his hair swoosh against the back of his neck. It was getting too long.

“However, if anything in the way of mortality does happen up in my grill, I will expect you to avenge my death.”

“In the usual way?”

“In the usual way,” he agreed solemnly. “Death by cupcakes.”

Tim blinked.

“That isn’t the traditional – oh, I see. El, I do believe that you just cracked a joke.”

El smiled, and his perfectly white teeth dazzled out of the darkness of his balaclava till Tim was nearly blinded.

“I have been practicing, since that first quest. It was funny, yes?”

“Oh yes, very funny. Although death by cupcakes is too good for that old goat.”

“It is,” El agreed. “But in actuality I suspect that it will not be the way the wizard will go.”

They hugged awkwardly, in the manner of men who became close under extenuating circumstances, lost touch for a couple of years, then met up again just briefly, only to be parted once more by further potentially life threatening circumstances. There were a lot of complicated emotions at work in that hug, and it was a beautiful and touching thing.

“Give me a ten minute head start,” El muttered into the hug, “then head for the second floor. You will find your young man there.”

“Thanks, El, I will. Good luck with finding and murdering Chinnigan.”

“It sounds so distasteful when you put it that way,” El realized, pulling out of the hug. “And yet, it is what it is, and what it is must be done. The badger must kill the fox before it can truly find peace.”

“Is that an old Chilean saying?”

“No, I saw it on Autumnwatch.”

And with that, El bounded off up the stairs, wearing two balaclavas, never to be seen again. Probably.

Tim leaned against the wall and looked around him.

It wasn’t one of those interesting cellars that you hear about in some books, like ‘The Kid in the Cellar’ or ‘Get Me Another Chianti’. It had never been used as a dungeon, or a gym, or a place to keep wine. In fact, it was all but forgotten about by the people who owned the building, truth be told, even though it wasn’t plagued by damp or rats or unusual smells. It just sat there, quite a nice space, albeit a bit on the dark side, almost entirely empty apart from an old wheelchair with a broken seat and only one wheel; and several enormous piles of dust.

“Passing ten minutes in this place is probably going to be my biggest challenge yet,” Tim told himself with a chuckle. A mouse inside the wall rolled its eyes, and proclaimed him a goner. The mice had the run of the building, and knew how the owners perceived intruders, adventurers, and people who thought they were funny when they weren’t. It didn’t look good for someone who ticked all three of those boxes.

He heard footsteps above and to his right, and moved towards the tiny, grimy window to peek outside.

Dawn had broken, bathing the outside world in a pinky blue hue that would have made quite a nice colour for something that would look good in pinky blue. Tim enjoyed it for a moment, before remembering the footstep situation.

There were iron bars on the outside of the window which were totally in the way, but he was pretty sure he could make out the figure of Aloysius advancing towards the door of the building along with some sort of animal. Tim wasn’t all that great with nature, but was moderately sure that this one was a sheep dog of some sort.

“What is he doing,” he groaned, watching as Al strode purposefully towards the front door, “they’re gonna get him! And apparently, they’re gonna get his little dog, too!”

Tim grabbed the wheelchair and pulled it over to the window, intending to try and force his way out or at least attract Al’s attention so that he would not pursue this hideous course of action.

Unfortunately he wasn’t quick enough, and from his precarious position atop the rickety frame all he saw was the door closing behind Al as he entered the building.

Tim jumped down with a ker-thunk.

“That’s probably been ten minutes anyway,” he reasoned aloud, one assumes for the benefit of the mouse as there was nobody else present to hear him.

He bounded up the well-worn steps and out of the cellar as El had done some moments before, pulling the door open with a careful yet enthusiastic creak. Once out in the relative brightness of the corridor he made to travel back in the direction he had come, which wasn’t too difficult as he’d had years of practice at going back the way he had come.

To begin with he pressed himself against the wall like people do in action films, but then he decided there was little point, as there was nothing to shield him if someone did come the other way. He stuck out like a sore thumb against the holographic underwater scene they had used to decorate the place. It was an interior design nightmare, he thought to himself, not even a child would find this appealing and their taste in décor is bizarre.

Up ahead there was an archway, which he remembered led to a lobby area at the front of the building. Now at least he could hide behind something if the need arose, he thought with a satisfied nod.

He could hear voices a little way further, and recognized one to belong to Al, but the other was unfamiliar.

“If you’ve got to go,” Al was saying sympathetically as Tim drew nearer to the sound of their jibber jabber, “then you have to go, that’s all I’m saying.”

“I can’t go here,” the other voice said, “there’ll be hell to pay.”

Tim risked a look-see around a pillar that conveniently stood by the archway.

Al was the only person there, and his only companion was the dog from outside. That breed was called a collie, Tim remembered now. They got their name due to something about only eating cauliflower.

‘Talking animals, eh,’ he thought to himself. ‘The plot thickens.’

“I’m not talking,” the dog said patiently, looking in Tim’s direction as if waiting for him to come out of his hiding place. “I’ve set up a telepathic link between myself and anything living within a half mile radius. Heard you coming before we even got here, your thoughts are that loud.”

“Sorry,” Tim said, not really sure whether an apology was required but deciding to err on the side of politeness.

“It’s eaten the amulet, before you say anything about me mucking up the quest,” Aloysius told him defensively.

“I wasn’t going to slag you,” Tim replied, “I’m sure you did your best.”

“But my best wasn’t good enough.”

“Well, we’ll see. This thing isn’t over yet, there are four days left in November after all.”

Al looked confused, but didn’t say anything for fear of humiliating himself further.

“I’m not an it,” the dog said suddenly, “I’m a he. My name is Brian, actually.”

“Nice to meet you Brian,” breezed Tim, “I’m Tim Mahogany-Barnes, and this here is Aloysius Hunkington Smythe.”

“Tim Mahogany-Barnes,” Brian said, or thought, if you want to be pedantic (in which case, why are you here? Go and do something less first draft-y.) “why do I know your name?”

“Not sure,” Tim reported, scratching his nose.

“You’re not a relation of Cassius Mahogany-Barnes, by any chance?”

“Why yes,” said Tim, “he’s my uncle. Do you know him?”

“Know him? He was my owner, till I was dognapped a couple of years ago. Best old man I ever knew.”

“You’re the dog that went missing? Well that’s great, I’ll tweet him and say you’ve been found! He’s never given up the search, you know.”

“I know,” Brian said with a mixture of pride and sadness, “I saw the reports on Crimewatch. But he’ll never take me back now.”

“Whyever not?” Tim puzzled, “he misses you dreadfully. Never got another dog after you were taken from him.”

Brian’s lip trembled, which for those of you who’ve never seen a sad dog, was simultaneously the most adorable and the most heart wrenching thing you are ever likely to see.

“Because I’ve been a bad dog,” he moaned mournfully.

“I’m sure he’d forgive you,” Tim replied dutifully, although he wasn’t really sure. He didn’t know Cassius brilliantly well, as he was an eccentric old chap who liked to keep himself to himself.

“No,” Brain asserted with his tail between his legs. “Ever since the clan of the cape recruited me… Well I don’t want to go into it, really. But it’s been dark times.”

“Well how about you redeem yourself now, by giving us the amulet instead of letting the clan of the cape take it?”

This was Al speaking, using his famous logic to manipulate an animal into doing what he wanted. How like a human.

“I can’t,” Brian quaked, conflicted like a girl choosing between the sexy bad boy and the safe, dependable husband type. “They’ll kill me if I do. Or worse.”

“So the clan of the cape have a penchant for inflicting fates worse than death, eh,” said Tim, stroking his chin as if this information had in some way made him think. It hadn’t. “That’s no good at all. We must stop them, Aloysius.”

“How are we going to do that?” Al asked, logic to the forefront once more. “We know literally nothing about them, other than they want that magic amulet, and they have a base here. We don’t know how many there are, we don’t know whether this is their main HQ or just a holding place, we don’t know whether they’re sanctioned by any authorities in this country…. We’d be going in totally blind, with no weapons, and no idea whether they want to kill, maim, or let us go.”

“Well, I think it’s about time someone got you guys that information,” pealed a tiresome voice from one of the doorways.

“And as usual, that someone is probably me.”

And that was how Tim and Al were introduced to Jeremy Kyle.

Chapter Twenty One

Chapters 1-20 here.

Esmeralda led Nicky and Bracken through a warren of marble corridors, each more ornate than the last.

One had life-sized marble peacocks stalking around the skirting boards, their tails containing what looked very much like a collection of precious stones – emeralds, rubies, sapphires and suchlike. Another was decorated with an intricately carved frieze of scenes from medieval times. The next was home to a safari, which involved a lot of taxidermy and made Bracken feel like she shouldn’t have stopped her monthly donation to the RSPCA, even though she couldn’t really afford it at the moment.

“Well,” Nicky said to Bracken under his breath, “at least it’s not ostentatious or anything.”

She sniggered.

Esmeralda looked back at them sharply over her shoulder.

They met her gaze with the patented steady McCracken glare.

“Here we are,” she said tightly, stopping at an enormous mahogany door. There was a gold plaque on it with her name carved in.

She gestured for them to sit down in two plush red velvet bucket chairs, and busied herself at a nearby counter making a pot of tea.

Bracken engaged herself in listing adjectives that would describe the room. She found that sometimes listing things helped to calm her down in times of stress.

‘Elegant,’ she started. ‘Fancy, glamorous – ostentatious – ’ she nodded her thanks to Nicky but he wasn’t paying attention – ‘expensive, powerful, intimidating, excessive, ambitious, stylish, coordinated, cultured…’

“Is rooibos tea OK?” Esmeralda was asking.

“No idea,” said Bracken, “I only drink water.”

“That’s fine with me,” Nicky interjected, his eyes fixed on the window. There were thick drapes drawn, but he got the distinct impression that it was dark outside. The clock in the room was notable only for its absence, so he couldn’t say what time it was.

‘Flashy,’ Bracken continued inwardly, ‘decadent, grandiose, materialistic, luxuriant, ludicrous, sophisticated…’

“Here you go,” Esmeralda interrupted, putting a glass of water in front of Bracken and a cup of tea before Nicky.

“Now,” she said, “I expect you’re wondering what the shit is going on.”

“Not really,” Nicky replied, “it all seems pretty straightforward to me. The whole thing’s a dream, JR isn’t really dead, we’ll wake up and hear him taking a shower.”

As someone who feared and hated popular culture references, however outdated, Esmeralda decided to pointedly ignore this outburst.

“I suppose I ought to begin at the beginning,” she said, removing her white lab coat to reveal the jumpsuit underneath.

“Hold on,” Nicky exclaimed in slow motion, “you’re wearing the same uniform as Bert.”

“So?”

“So that means you’re not the one in charge of this place.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, the big cheese wears that ridiculous cape and the carnival mask.”

Esmeralda snorted unattractively.

“If you say so, Nicholas.”

“What, so you’re in charge really, but you let Cloaky McMysterious take all the credit? They get to bask in the fear of the inmates whilst you –”

He paused, unsure of the best way to continue, then finished lamely, “do whatever it is that you do.”

“And why would I want to bask in people’s fear when I’ve got science to be getting on with,” she asked patronizingly. The question was barely even rhetorical.

“Why would you kidnap people and lock them up if you didn’t want to bask in people’s fear?” Bracken countered, satisfied with her mental list of adjectives and thusly much more calm.

“I told you already,” Esmeralda replied smoothly, “when I tell people what I need them for, they refuse to come.”

“Alright,” Bracken sighed in feigned boredom (for in actuality she was quite interested in the answer to the question she was about to pose), “what is it you do here that you can’t tell people about because they run away screaming?”

Esmeralda paused for dramatic effect, like Chris Tarrant on Millionaire or Anne Robinson on The Weakest Link or Noel Edmonds on Deal or No Deal or any other TV presenter you care to name whose job consists of pausing to create a feeling of tension. Dermot O’Leary does it on X Factor, Davina McCall used to do it on Big Brother – you know the sort of thing I’m talking about, right? Good. That’s what Esmeralda did, but because this is a book not a film I had to fill in the space somehow. She’s ready to spill the beans right about now though, I think.

“Brain experiments,” she announced.

“Come again?”

“I experiment on people’s brains. Memory is mostly what I’m interested in. I did a course in hypnotherapy and it sort of snowballed from there really. Fascinating stuff.”

“Riiiight,” Bracken said slowly, as denoted by my use of italics and more than one ‘i’. “OK hen. Can we go now?”

“No,” Esmeralda replied sanguinely, “you can’t. I’ve barely begun expounding my complex theories on the science of the brain. And you are to be one of my most interesting case studies, once I reinstate your real memories. I wonder if you’ll both be able to remember the lives you have currently? I wonder if you’ll miss them? How exciting!”

“Bloody hell,” Bracken commented. “Alright then, start at the beginning. What’s hypnotherapy?”

Esmeralda clapped her tiny hands together in childish glee.

“OK,” she said, “hypnotherapy is when you are hypnotized and then whilst you’re in a dream like state, you can find the answers to your problems. Like one time, I treated this lady who had a terrible rash, but it wasn’t an allergic reaction or anything like that, it was a manifestation of some deep inner turmoil she had been suffering subconsciously about the death of her grandson.”

“So what did you actually do?”

“I put her into a trance and we were able to talk things through, and access parts of her mind that were normally buried deep down as she went about her daily routine. Once she knew what the problem was she was able to deal with it head on, I put her in touch with a counselor, and she was fine.”

“And where do the brain experiments come in?”

“Ah,” Esmeralda grinned with relish, “that is indeed the question.”

“Pretty much,” Bracken agreed, “so how about you answer it while we’re young.”

“Keep your hair on,” she retorted, amused. “You said you weren’t even interested two minutes ago.”

“Oh get on with it,” Nicky reiterated.

“Fine,” she blustered, taking a sip of rooibos and making a face that implied she felt somehow refreshed, “I will.”

“I had returned from the first leg of my travels in the wilds of South America, which is where I learned the art of hypnotherapy in the first place. I was taught by a wise old witch doctor with very pointy fingers. Always pointing at things he was.”

She paused a moment for them to laugh. They disappointed her.

“Anyway, I wanted to practice a bit. So when I met up with my dear boyfriend, Al, I decided to see what I could do with it. At first he was quite skeptical about the whole thing, which wasn’t great, as your mind needs to be open to the technique for it to work. Then on Shrove Tuesday I accidentally hit him over the head with a frying pan whilst tossing blueberry pancakes, and it must have shoogled the cortexes of his brain a little bit because from then on he was very superstitious and, most importantly, totally open to the concept of hypnosis.”

“This sounds like a case of domestic abuse,” Nicky whispered to Bracken out of the side of his mouth.

“Nothing was ever proven,” Esmeralda snapped.

The McCrackens raised their eyebrows in unison.

“So I discovered I could make him do things,” she said, “using little triggers. For example, if I clap my hands in a certain way, he will ask me to dance. There doesn’t need to be any music, and it doesn’t matter where in the world we are, he’ll go into a trance and he’ll dance and he’ll dance, until I signal him to stop.”

“Wouldn’t you prefer that he actually wanted to dance with you?” Bracken asked sourly. “Rather than having to force him? Maybe if you didn’t spend all your time gallivanting off to South America and then learning unnatural ways to control his mind, he’d ask you to dance all by himself.”

“Maybe he would,” Esmeralda said lightly, “but it was an interesting experiment. And very successful, which got me to thinking.”

“Oh God,” Nicky said, “there’s more.”

“Tons,” she told him sweetly.

“See, there were times that Al remembered the dancing, and there were times he did not. It depended on the depth of the trance. So I thought, if I could engineer a particularly deep state of hypnosis – perhaps with a little bit of chemical help – imagine what I could get him to do. Because if he was delving that far down, when he woke up he would never remember. Of course I wouldn’t dream of using it for evil… but it’d be interesting just to find out how far I could take it.”

“I have to admit though, I was getting a little bored of Al by that point. We had a few arguments about this and that, and then when he announced that his family was destitute… well, that was a bit of a deal breaker for me at the time. I had some pretty old-fashioned values instilled by my father and I was hoping that when we got married I would be able to use his money to fund my research. But he was essentially saying I would have to pay my way! It sounds silly now that I know how easy it is to fund one’s own secret research but at the time I was frightened that I’d never have my own lab, or access to illegal chemicals, or very clever minions to help me out.”

“Is Al from a wealthy background, then?” Bracken asked.

“Oh yes,” Esmeralda said, “they’re practically blue blooded.”

“I thought everyone’s blood was blue,” Nicky said.

“Well yes, in the completely literal sense,” Esmeralda concurred, rolling her eyes. “But I meant that he was from aristocratic stock so high up that he was nearly royal. Unfortunately his dear papa ballsed that up.”

“How?”

“I don’t entirely know,” she admitted, “I was so angry that I didn’t really listen to the full explanation.”

“Anyway, off I went to Peru to continue my work, leaving a broken hearted Aloysius behind. He still hasn’t forgiven me, poor thing.”

“You should have stuck by him,” Bracken pointed out.

“Well yes, I probably should. But I was young and impetuous, and the brains of Peru were waiting.

So, I went to Peru and set up a small hypnotherapy clinic in the back of a farmer’s cottage. I professed to help people give up smoking and the like, which was true, but I was also experimenting with getting people into deeper and deeper trances.

It was three or four months before I was confident enough to conduct my first replacement. I didn’t want to rush it.”

“Replacement? Of what?”

“Memory, of course.

I chose a young woman to be my first subject. A few years previously she had given birth to a stillborn baby, but she had not been allowed the time to grieve and so she was suffering some psychosomatic after effects. I was able to convince her that the baby was alive and well, and placed into her arms an orphan of the right age. She believed then, and still does now, that he is her son.”

“That,” said Nicky, “is an ethical minefield.”

“Pfft.”

“Did the lassie remember you after?” Bracken asked, her mind cogs turning inexorably towards a horrible conclusion.

“No,” Esmeralda said, “she didn’t. I felt it best that she be able to start afresh.”

“Esmeralda,” Bracken said, “did you do the same thing to me?”

“I used the same technique, yes.”

“Did I have a baby who died?”

“No.”

“So why did you do it then?”

The phone rang.

“I’ll tell you in a minute,” Esmeralda promised.

Chapter Four

"What are you doing here?"

"I live here," Aloysius said, "what are YOU doing here?"

She smiled like an infection, lips curling back to reveal her forlorn looking teeth one by one.

"Fine, don't tell me," he said nonchalantly, "I don't care, anyway."

He tried to look away from her, into the middle distance, all enigmatic and broody like. But his eyes didn't seem to be under the control of his brain. They kept coming back to the golden curls of her chestnut hair, the perfect circle of her aubergine lips, and the sensible curve of her gargantuan norks.

"They're new," she explained with a sparkle as she caught him looking. "I had a brief stint as a glamour model in darkest Peru."

"I didn't think the glamour industry was thriving in Peru."

"It isn't," she said bitterly, "but I had to fund my top secret research somehow."

Aloysius frowned in the manner of someone remembering something.

"Weren't you struck off, though?"

She narrowed her eyes, and sniffed,

"Wasn't your face struck off?"

"Oh yes, that's very mature isn't it. For someone with a triple masters in medicine, psychology and international law, you can be very childish."

"Well I've got to cater to my audience," she pointed out. "And you aren't exactly the brightest button on the woolen boater."

"Isn't that a type of hat?"

"Exactly."

“Made of straw?”

She said nothing.

They stood a long time like that in the thickening moonlight, shadows collecting about their elbows like moths.

Eventually Esmeralda broke the silence, which was just like her, he thought bitterly. Always ruining perfectly good moments like silence, and holidays, and scones.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?" she was saying, not very originally.

"No,” he said grumpily, “cause then you'll be able to come in whenever you want, and you'll slaughter my loved ones and leave roses about the place."

She laughed, a tinkling sound like crystal smashing into a thousand totty little pieces on a kitchen floor.

"This isn't an episode of Buffy The Vampire Slayer," she pointed out, truthfully.

"And you're not coming in," he retorted, also truthfully. There was a lot of honesty going on in that garden.

"But Al," she pouted silkily, "I promise to be good. I have missed your dear mama awfully you know. I take it you two are still living together?"

"Actually, Aloysius is just on his way to the flat he shares with his new girlfriend," came the voice of Mrs Hunkington-Smythe from the doorway of the house. "He was just kind enough to pop by to see me after work, that's all. Such a good son."

"Laying it on a bit thick, aren't you?" Esmeralda drawled disinterestedly, licking her thumb. "I've never met a more self involved man than him. And the three of us know better than anyone exactly how much of a 'good son' he's been to you."

"I can't believe you just used air quotes," said Mrs Hunkington-Smyte disbelievingly. "What do you think this is, 1997?"

Esmeralda glared, her soupy eyes flashing with hidden steel and scary wombats.

"Shall we dance?" she asked unexpectedly.

"Don't be absurd," said Aloysius, "why would we do that?"

"You always used to enjoy a bit of a dance after a few beers. How about one more, just for old time's sake?"

"I haven't had a few beers," he said, irritated, "and I wouldn't dance with you if you were the last woman on earth."

She smiled the sinister smile of a shark with above average intelligence that's just hit upon a plan.

"I wouldn't be so sure if I was you," she said, clapping her hands together in the rhythm of 'clappity clap'.

Aloysius's mother was alarmed to see that upon this signal, a cloud seemed to cover her son’s violet eyes, and he moved towards Esmeralda wearing a smile that was seemingly not quite his own.

"You dancin'?" he asked, placing a hand on her waist.

"You askin'?" she replied coquettishly.

"Ah'm askin'," Aloysius said, in a (very) rough approximation of a Glaswegian accent.

"Ah'm dancin," Esmerelda concurred, placing one hand on his shoulder and the other in his hand to embark upon a strange waltz around the moonlit garden.

"What have you done to him," Mrs Hunkington-Smythe wondered aloud as they nimbly dodged around plant pots and snail trails. "There isn't even any music. He needs an accompaniment when he dances.."

Esmeralda laughed, and without warning did the 'clappity clap' move with her feet on the patio. 'Stampitty stamp', she went.

"Urgh," Aloysius exclaimed, pulling away in disgust. It seemed to his mother that he was back to his normal self.

"What happened," he asked, "one minute I'm refusing to dance and then all of a sudden I'm dancing?"

"And you asked her, too," his mother said sadly.

"The hell I did," he spat.

"It’s true, my petal," Esmeralda cooed "you did. But it’s not altogether your fault. Shall I tell you about my little secret?"

"Tell me, and then get out of my life forever," he said, impassioned.

"Oh, I think this revelation is going to require you to be sitting down."

Aloysius's face looked murderous, which was probably because he wanted to kill her.

"So," she ignored him breezily, "Who's for a cup of tea?"

Mrs Hunkington-Smythe reluctantly moved back from the doorway, and they retired to the kitchen to discover THE TRUTH.

“It’s like this,” Esmerelda began, placing the teapot on the table and removing a packet of lemon puffs from her coat pocket.

“I’m allergic to those,” said Aloysius.

“No you’re not,” said his mother, surprised.

“Yes I am. They bring me out in spots. Don’t you remember when I was small and I had one of those at Auntie Vivica’s house and then I broke out in spots?”

“That was measles.”

“Anyway,” Esmeralda interjected in the manner of one who had thought her audience might be a tad more receptive to what she had to tell it, “it’s like this.”

They gazed at her, expectant but preoccupied by the fact she had got into their house again.

“…. Basically I learned hypnotherapy and practiced on you.”

“Is that it?”

“Well, yeah, in a nutshell. Sorry, it sounded more dramatic than that in my head. I guess its because I’ve been carrying it about for years, never telling a living soul, and the guilt has weighed heavy on my mind and made the crime seem disproportionately large.”

“Well no, its still a huge invasion of privacy,” said Mrs Hunkington-Smythe, “I just thought there would be a lot more preamble than that.”

“Yeah,” said Aloysius, “I was banking on another six hundred words or so, for my part.”

“Meh,” she said, sipping her tea.

“So have you programmed him to do other things as well,” Mrs Hunkington-Smythe asked slowly.

“Course I have,” Esmeralda grinned, “but nothing bad. I wouldn’t make him rob a bank or punch a granny.”

“Undo it,” Aloysius said angrily, “un-hypnotise me at once or I’ll call the police.”

“I wouldn’t trust her to do it,” said his mother, “what if she just conditions you to react to something else?”

“Fair point,” Esmeralda admitted, “I’m entirely capable of doing that. And given I’m not really sure how to undo it, I’m more inclined to have a bit of fun with you whilst you’re under my total control.”

Aloysius shivered, and not with the cold. It was because he was anxious and freaked out and stuff. Which you would be, if your ex girlfriend – or boyfriend – had access to your brain.

“What can you make me do?”

“Well, there’s the dance. Aaaaand… I can make you buy me cocktails. Aaaaaand… turn off Match of the Day because you think you’re having an allergic reaction to it.”

“Are all of these going to be things that make him a more attentive boyfriend?” Mrs Hunkington-Smythe enquired, interested in spite of herself.

Esmeralda looked at her feet.

“Yeah, totally,” she said.

And she seemed to get away with it, for the time being at any rate.

“This could be a huge money maker you know,” Aloysius’s mother said thoughtfully. “If you marketed it right. Ooh, you could be the saviour of celebrity relationships – charge them extortionate amounts to condition them into doing little things that make them stay the course.”

“I know, right? But then the magazines would be gunning for me because they’d have nothing to print.”

“Oh yeah, that’s a point.”

“Get out,” said Aloysius.

“But I haven’t finished my tea,” she said, pointing at the cup somewhat needlessly to illustrate the fact.

“Take it with you then.”

“That’s my good china – never mind,” Mrs Hunkington-Smythe protested.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Moira,” Esmeralda expostulated extravagantly, I’m not stealing your china. And I won’t be hanging around either.”

“Why did you bother to come in the first place?” Aloysius asked bitterly. “If you hadn’t, I’d never have known there was a problem. And now I do know, its like I can never escape you.”

Esmeralda smiled.

“Oh,” he said, in realization. “That is why you came.”

“Well done,” she said, getting up to leave. Her pockets squeaked as she moved. “That’s basically it. Well, there was one other, little thing.”

“I actually couldn’t care right now,” he said, “get out.”

“I think you’ll be interested though, genuinely.”

“Send me a postcard.”

She nodded her assent. “I might just do that. Unless you want to swap email addresses…”

He snorted derisively, and a bit of snot came out. It wasn’t hugely attractive, but sometimes people aren’t when they’re angry. That’s just a fact of life, which you’ve probably observed yourself when you’re just a hundred or so words shy of your target daily word count and are finding it difficult to concentrate on what you’re doing.

Esmeralda wrinkled her own nose like a rabbit - not a cute one, but equally not a snottery one. Definitely an evil one though, with fangs instead of claws, and a canon for a tail, and laser eyes.

“Oh well… nice seeing you,” she lied.

“Mmm.”

“Take care of yourselves.”

And off she went, walking out of his life into the night for the second time.

“Al,” Moira Hunkington-Smythe said weakly, “I don’t feel very well.”

Her body convulsed uncomfortably for a few unimaginably lengthy seconds, then all of a sudden, she flopped in her wheel chair, and lay deathly still.