Fragments (19 page)

The accounts of
Geoffrey Embleton revealed that he’d sent money to a private
detective in Nigeria in the past six months and had received
‘documents’ in return. Whilst the Metropolitan police could do
little, the Curia investigated and supplied proof that the
confirmation certificates shown to Father Jones by Jason Briggs had
been bought by the private detective, from a young man in the
village that Jason’s father had come from. This freed Father Jones
to reveal everything that had been told to him by Briggs under the
Seal of the Confessional. Fred and Maryam had stayed with him and
the Diocese lawyer, as he’d gone through everything that Briggs had
told him. The endless confessions of how he was repeatedly raping
young girls in the Church, how the vows of priesthood had trapped
Wyn into listening.

Maryam had
spent a couple of hours with Barham, Gatto and Iqbal and an
individual from the Crown Prosecution Service, explaining out the
nature of the trap that had been sprung on the young priest. How
sophisticated it was and how grounded in Catholic teaching and
belief it had been. Barham was angry and Iqbal confused. Sergeant
Gatto was affected the most: he resonated with Jones’s problem
about knowing things professionally that couldn’t be revealed on a
personal level. It said a lot about why he was happy to remain a
sergeant. Maryam wasn’t surprised when Gatto turned up to Mass a
week or so later.

What had
surprised her was what happened when Father Jones took Mass. How
the Church of the Mother of All Sorrows appeared to expand as if it
were a living, breathing thing. How the singing of the choir when
Jones was at the altar brought tears to your eyes. About the sense
of life and light and wonder that sometimes filled you as he read
the Gospel. It was a bittersweet experience. For side by side with
the joy, with the sense of the sacred when he handled the Host,
there was also the pain. The sharp stab of the sword piercing the
heart: the shadow that sometimes stood by his side. The ghost
sitting at the feast; the look in his eyes sometimes when he
laughed out loud. How deep the darkness of desolation was now
rooted. How the wound was unhealed. How his bedroom light would
often stay on until dawn and how he would spend hours in the Church
kneeling in prayer and yet not look at peace. How his light was
sometimes occluded by doubt.

Maryam waited
until the call came for him to go to Rome. She then packed her
cases as he packed his. She needed to get back home and wake up
with the night in her room. A still, dark night, with no lights or
cars or trucks or people: just the night. She and Barham had got a
little drunk the night before, over a goodbye dinner, where they
had spoken freely and drained out the canker that could form from a
case unsolved. Both had learned that most cases were left unproven
and that few were ever prosecuted successfully. Just as they both
knew who had killed Jason Briggs and how, they were unlikely to
ever be able to prove it or bring him to justice. Barham had
thanked her for her help and confided that she was glad there had
been none of ‘this occult nonsense’ to sidetrack the investigation
from diligent police work. Maryam had smiled and poured the
inspector another glass of wine.

Her cases were
in the car being driven by Andy Scott. She hugged ‘Jones the
Priest’ as he liked to call himself and said goodbye. He was flying
to Rome later that evening. He wished her well and smiled, but
avoided looking directly at her. He knew that she saw the pain, the
doubt, and it had begun to distance them from each other. She hoped
that by the time they met again that pain would be healed. She
turned and gave Father Jacob, who was staying on as the new parish
priest, a hug. She then went up into the Church to say her goodbyes
there.

In front of the
altar of Mary, she prayed for Wyn, that he would not lose his
vocation. She prayed that Pargiter and whatever force had worked
through him, had failed in his attempt to derail him. She prayed
that she and Fred would continue to be on good terms and that
Father Edwards would end his life peacefully in the retirement home
that he’d elected to move to. She prayed for Iqbal, hoping that his
career would not take too harsh a toll upon his spirit and prayed
for comfort and safety for Gatto and Barham. She prayed that Andy
Scott would come to terms with the work of the Congregation and
forgive himself for throwing up in the back of the Church. She
prayed that Pargiter would find peace and the world would be free
of his evil.

When all her
prayers were said, Maryam lit three votive candles and placed them
side by side, her voice speaking so softly no one would hear it
even if they were standing next to her.

‘I give this
light to you, Jason, in honour of your spirit. This one I give to
your mother, who gave you life. This one I give to your father,
wherever he may be. May you all three find each other one day and
may you all find rest. Blessed Be.’

As she left the
Church, the scent of tea roses went with her.

Author’s
Note:

No one should
expect to recognise anyone, or anything, in this tale. Writers are
liars who get paid for their time. The world in this story does not
exist, it just happens to almost mirror the one we live in. No one
should expect to recognise either the Metropolitan Police, or the
Roman Catholic Church from the above words. Whilst the Church is
real, the Office of the Congregation of the Arcane is completely
fictional and is not based on any existing, or historic office
within any actual religion. Demons do not infect people in the real
world, only in this fake one. Peckham does have gangs, and
Churches, and Mosques, and none of them are in this work of
fiction. The real world is but a template for my pretend one: a
world two shades different from the real one. In those shades you
will find my characters and their stories.

If you have
enjoyed these stories, please tell your friends. Word of mouth is
life blood for books, and writers. You can also contact me directly
at the website listed above. Reviews are also gratefully received,
and if you want to help Maryam Michael get to her other adventures,
then a good review would help her crawl to the top of my ‘to do’
pile.

The Office of
the Arcane thanks you for your time.

A young woman
vanished from the streets, a life destroyed, her humanity a battle
ground.

London, April
1987. Joanne is out for a night on the town and her plans go awry.
She slips into a pub for a quick drink before going to see a film.
Jonathon Dreyfuss is on the prowl, looking for something tasty to
devour. He spots Joanne through the window. Joanne vanishes from
sight.

She wakes in a
room with no windows, trapped in a nightmare of pain and terror.
Dreyfuss finds her boring and tedious... yet he can’t quite kill
her. Something about her, some aspect of her, is pleasing to him.
He keeps her for a little while, house training her as he’s
attempted to train others in the past. She resists, as they all
did, and he takes up the challenge, to prove once again he is
master of all. Joanne fights back as best she can, terrified and
confused, beaten, starved and lost in a madman’s fantasy. He spends
months schooling her to obey, tearing her down. When she begins to
break, as hope of escape fades... he reveals his final madness: he
is Vampire. She too, will be Vampire: his Changeling.

He wishes her
to be his immortal companion, his eternal mate. What Dreyfuss
wishes, Dreyfuss gets.

The battle for
her soul begins. All she has is her will and the need to be free.
Dreyfuss holds all the cards: money, power and no conscience. Can
she keep fighting, or will he win? How long can Joanne stay
human?

What would you
do to win your freedom?

Changeling
is the first novel in the Dreyfuss Trilogy: a
compelling and unique vampire mythology for adults.

Horror: 152,000
words. Ebook and Paperback

Reviews for
Changeling

“
It took me
two sittings to read it. Why two, because I started reading in at
8pm. If I had started earlier, this would have been one of those
books you don't put down until the last page and you read that
twice not wanting the adventure to be over. Morgan has mastered the
emotional ride... a new talent to be discovered.”

Betty
Carlton

“
It was
impossible to put down, disturbing and intriguing at the same
time.”

Alison
Sauer

“
...brutal
and visceral -- so well written that it was almost physically
painful to read. [it does]... a very good job of depicting physical
and psychological torture – people either crack into catatonia or
fight with every scrap of their being. Even when fighting means
taking it passively.”

Christine
Whitley

“
This is a
very smart, well-written novel. It delves deep into the psychology
of both the abuser and the abused. It contains graphic scenes of
physical, psychological and sexual abuse that will upset those made
queasy by portrayals of torture. But... this isn't splatterpunk.
It's purposeful. So if you can handle that, you won't find a much
better vampire tale than Changeling. ... I think that fiction
should both entertain and make you think. It's surprisingly
difficult to find novels that do both. Changeling does.”

Alan Ryker

The door
slammed shut with the deadened finality that comes with the
emptying of a living space. Silence filled in behind her, flooding
the rooms with despair. The air in her bedroom, thick with
deodorant, hairspray, floral shower gel and perfume, settled into
scented layers around the debris of her work clothes. The cat,
nonchalant about her absence now it had been fed, climbed onto the
front room window sill, looking out on its domain of kebab shops
and off licences. Endless traffic piled the corners, hooting and
groaning as it snuffed along, pouring stink into the already sickly
late afternoon air. It felt more like the middle of September, than
that of April. The cat preferred the view over the back windows,
endless roofs, tantalising birds and other cats to snarl at. It
would wait until the acrid chemical smells in the other room faded,
before proceeding to settle in its usual spot, angled out to the
inner square of the backs of the houses. It would mewl and scratch
fruitlessly on the glass at the outside wild life: desperate to be
free to attack, to chase. Or so it thought. Once, a pigeon had
settled on an open window sill in the summer’s heat, and the poor
cat, comfortable and safe in its window glass world, had hissed in
fright. It was so big, so aggressive, compared to the small
fluttering victims of its day dreams, tiny and fragile on the roof
spars opposite. The bird had eyed him coldly, without fear. The cat
had hissed and growled its warning, but it had had no effect. It
was a stand off until the bird flew away, unruffled. Since then,
the cat went into a frenzy any time a bird landed on the other side
of the window. The other side of the closed window.

Had she known
it was the last time she’d abandon both the cat, and her flat, she
might have washed the dishes. As it was, she had rushed around the
flat, ignoring the smell from the sink. That morning, as she’d
fallen out of bed to find that only her best suit was wearable,
she’d planned to come in tonight and clean, ridding her life of the
guilt the week had scattered around her. The resolution had been
spurred on by the blissful thought of a Saturday morning lie in. A
pristine flat all around her, requiring no effort on her behalf.
Her change of plans, however, had left her with less than twenty
minutes to bathe and change: she had once more ignored the chaos.
Stopping only to throw some biscuits in the bowl (tinned food stank
the place out) she vowed her allegiance to the hum drum of living;
tomorrow. She’d do it all tomorrow. Clean out the cat litter, empty
the bins, do the laundrette run and find her bedroom carpet under
the skin of peeled off clothes that she kicked out of her way to
find a matching shoe. Tomorrow would be good enough, and Sunday
morning would be the sweet spot, as she lay in bed wondering how to
fill a lazy day. She grabbed her keys and ran, heading off down the
stairs at full pelt.

After four days
unexplained absence, during which all answer phone messages had
been ignored, her boss finally called the mother of her erstwhile
assistant. Mrs Maitland, to the embarrassment of all concerned,
exploded into tears at the thought of her only child’s fate. A day
later, after some hemming and hawing, the police were called,
forcing open the flat in absence of anyone with a spare key. They
found the dishes partially in the sink, partially on the floor,
courtesy of an exceptionally hungry cat. The cat took its revenge
on the probationary policewoman, leaving a trail of claw marks
across her cheek. The sergeant, who had cautioned against such
inappropriate action, handed a clean handkerchief over and called
in the RSPCA. Their elbow length leather gauntlets would handle the
animal, which had conveniently hidden itself inside the fold down
couch in the living room cum kitchenette. He had never had any
truck with people who took free ranging creatures and locked them
into tiny fourth floor flatlets, or patted them as if human
sentimentality could mitigate a completely empty stomach. He left
his charge dabbing at the blood and had a good look round.

There was a
strong whiff of cat in the air. Cat sick, and well developed litter
tray. Having scoured both rooms of what little food there was, the
cat had evidently chewed through the motley crew of long suffering
pot plants scattered awkwardly around, subsequently throwing up
with abandon. Splotches on the carpet and furnishings tracked its
comings and goings, mostly goings. It was a very annoyed cat, he
had no doubt of that. The smell was one that the sergeant could
easily stomach, was greatly relieved by, given what else there
might have been in evidence, both of the girl’s disappearance and
the cat’s subsequent hunger. As it was, there was no sign of the
girl. The usual clutter of single living met his eyes; the fridge
testament to the overall lack of care, or comfort, this young woman
had afforded herself. Diet drinks, weeks’ dead salad, a dehydrated
lump of cheese, rancid low fat spread and half a mouldy loaf. Two
bottles of white wine and half a carton of milk, long turned to
cheese. The bin, before it had been dragged around the floor, had
been stuffed with various take away containers and two empty
bottles of wine. She preferred Chinese, apparently, as the Chinese
was six doors down, after the chip shop and the kebab house. On the
other hand, the Chinese was first if you were walking back from the
tube. The cupboard had several packets of fat free powdered soups,
all well past their sell by date. The usual collection of tins and
half a bottle of cheap vodka. The vodka had dust on the edges: no
clues there then. The bread bin was stuffed with chocolate biscuits
and crisps. The cramped and musty shower room gave evidence of the
usual obsessions with creams and lotions, all feminine in nature.
Nothing in the cabinet to suggest any other bad habits, not even
the pill. The toilet bowl itself was clean and shiny, which
confirmed his opinion. Make up was scattered out over the tiny
table that served for a make shift dressing area, but that could
have been the cat. The bed was single, unmade and rented out old.
The sheets looked clean and the duvet was brightly coloured and
newish looking. The clothes spread out on the floor were the formal
side of business casual, the shoes impeccably heeled and well cared
for. All the used knickers were in a laundry basket, but the bras
were spread around. She used panty liners.