《Old Riding Author Lunatic Asylum》ORDT XIV: The Real Monsters

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It was actually getting darker by then. I thought about sending the review after all, and then thought that they might be able to curse my telly or something from afar and decided to leave it. I swiped it away and looked at the homescreen.

Ten to bloody seven. I had to get on. And not just because Grandmaster Gary would be texting his squads all over Raughnen to hide the silverware. But because I hadn’t set Strictly to record and I was in danger of missing it even on +1.

I never should have come here, I thought as I jogged the first couple of meters. Never should have looked into that stupid whatever-the-hell-it-is by the car park, I thought as I walked the rest. And, most importantly, I should never have trusted a human being. All these demons could be dicks, I’m sure, especially after a few pints, but at least they did what they said on the tin.

I had to remember that the beast, AKA the ex-wife, had looked like a decent lass behind a counter once. Even her.

When I got out of this mess, I’d make sure to remember who the real monsters were for the rest of my short, lard-infused life.

But right now, I had some proper work to do.

I knew I had to act fast, and the first job was to get up the hill. But just beyond the turn-off at the wheelbarrow, there was a set of temporary traffic lights and a big mound of earth where some gasworks were being dug up. I couldn’t squeeze through the jam so I waited by the verge for five whole minutes, picturing all those magic demon keeping seals being chanted from object to object, sorcerers whizzing them off on another three-mile hike across town, big stinking fleshy things with too many arms running off barking into the night with the scent of my sweat on one of their noses. I looked at the mound of Earth. It had an oak growing out of it that came up to my chin. The sign that the trunk had grown through politely apologised for such inconvenient vital work, but it was alright because it would be all done by the end of February 1986.

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I fought back tears. I didn’t want to, couldn’t, stay overnight. Mum would be getting worried now.

Finally, we got the green light and I puffed on. There was a shrill squawk above my head and I cringed away, almost straight under a Citroen. It was a seagull, and something white and gooey was splodging my way. I cried out, but then it splattered about ten feet away in a bramble. I didn’t need a gaggle of crones to read that sign. I pressed on.

And there it was. The Church on the Hill, right in front of me.

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