The Return of Absent Friends.

“I'm not having it.” insisted Gordon Skinner, he tapped the front of the Evening Times with his chunky index finger for emphasis. His bulging eyes stared around the room at his nervous henchmen all of whom looked suitably abashed. It didn't satisfy him, he felt his rage boil up inside him and with a growl took the newspaper in both hands and crumpled it into a ball.

“I'm not fucking having it” He reiterated and threw the paper across the room. As it arced through the air, he clicked his fingers, scraping the heavy rings on his index and middle. The ball of paper ignited as it flew by his thugs' heads. They stepped aside letting the blazing paper land and sizzle on the floor. None of them seemed particularly surprised by the turn of events. Big Mike Carson extinguished it with his boot, leaving black ash all over the charred linoleum. No one said a word.

Skinner scowled at them, bearing his rows of tiny teeth at them and then shook his head. “We're supposed to know everything that's going on in our territory and not one of you has any fucking clue as to who's ripping up young lassies and leaving them on our doorstep? What the fuck do I pay you for?”

Jason “Picasso” Hunter unwisely decided to answer. “Well it's only three. I mean it's no perfect but we'll catch the bastard.”

“Only three? You think Morton and his crew would have allowed some cunt to walk around Clydebank and Yoker, murdering three women? No, they'd be on that fucker like flies on shite, and here are you lot, without the first idea what's going on.”

Gordon Harper, who was as old as Skinner, at least a decade older than the rest of the boys, shook his head. “Don't kid yourself. They've had worse problems over the years than some psycho.”

“Like what?” Skinner snapped back.

“Well Bible John fur wan.”

Skinner nodded, raising his eyebrows. It was it a fair point. The public might have thought John was just some random murderer, but Skinner knew better. “Aye, well we don't want any of that shite coming down on us. So, get out there and get it sorted.”

He dismissed them with a wave of his hand and the boys dispersed heading out of the kitchen one after another. “Not you Harper, I need you to do something else.”

“Whit's that?”

Skinner took a deep breath. “I need you to contact Morton and get on the phone to Clochore, see if one of the old cows is available, we need to meet.”

“Whit?” Harper gasped in disbelief. “Whit makes you think the Sisters gie a shit?”

Skinner nodded. “I know, you're probably right but I think the shit might be about to hit the fan.”

Harper was curious. “Based oan whit?”

Skinner ran his meaty hand across his shaved scalp. “Nothing you really want to know about, mate. Just, do it, eh?”

“Nae bother.” Harper said. He knew what Skinner meant. It was the weird stuff, the stuff that had send Harper round the bend for a few years before the turn of the century. The stuff of ancient cults and stuffed undead children, of voices from beyond and dark magic. For ten bob he would have split, Skinner had promised to keep him out of that side of the business and so far he'd been as good as his word. Harper felt that was about to change. He didn't know if he could handle it. The last time it took him eighteen months just to stop fucking screaming.

He decided the safer option would be to try and convince old man Morton to contact the Sisters on his behalf. There may have been no love lost between them, but at least the Auld Yins didn't utterly despise Morton and everything he stood for. They'd ruin Skinner in a heartbeat. He wondered if they even had hearts, or blood.

His mind made up, he took one of his mobile phones out of his pocket and thumbed through the address book, looked for Alec M then hit the connect button. After a few rings a rough, old voice growled. “Gordon Harper. Heh, I had a feeling you'd be calling me. Your boss shittin' himself again?”

“Hello Alec, Skinner wants to set up a meeting.” Gordon said, ignoring Morton's mockery.

“Aye.” Morton answered.

The reply was straightforward, flat and without any intonation that Harper could discern. Given that Morton was one of the least straightforward individuals Harper had ever spoken to, he could not read the response. “Aye? Aye whit?”

“Aye, I agree to the meeting. For fuck sake lad, sort it out.” Morton said, impatience now obvious.

“Okay, sorry.” Harper said, his apology a matter of course, the last thing he wanted to do was piss off Alec Morton. He might have been practically geriatric, but Morton was still someone who could make those who pissed him off vanish without a trace. “So umm, I wis wonderin...”

“Hurry it up.” Morton growled.

“Umm, well could you contact The Sisters, he wants them there too.”

There was a silence on the line that was almost tangible, a worrying lack of sound that Harper assumed was Morton subduing his legendary rage. The silence was broken by a coughing fit and then a hiss. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I wish I was. He says he wants them there, didnae tell me why.” Harper said, hoping his tone came off as apologetic.

“An' the fat fuck wants me to dae his dirty work eh?” Morton sneered. Harper could practically see the old bastard's face.

“No quite, naw. This would be a favour to me, Alec.” Harper answered, slightly nervously, it was no small thing to ask someone like Morton for a favour.

“I see. No got the stomach fur this business any more, eh Gordon? Fair enough, I'll dae it but on one condition.” Morton replied.

“Whit's that?” Harper said, dreading the response.

“I want to know whit happened tae Willie Barr an' I want the truth.” Morton insisted.

Barr had been gone for nearly twenty years and no-one ever gave a shit about him disappearing. There had been a ton of rumours but only Harper knew the truth and had spent most of those years struggling to forget, struggling to cope. That Morton would bring it up now seemed deliberate and vicious. It was just like him. Harper took a deep breath and sighed. “Fine but I'm no sure it'll make sense.”

“No a lot does these days son, hit me.” Morton said.

“It wis a doll, well no a doll, it wis a deid wean made up tae look like a doll, an… an… an… there wis this clock or somethin'. He jist ran an' disappeared doon this hallway where the street shoulda been an' the clock killed him.”

“Hattie fuckin' Gardiner. Jesus son, that's whit sent you mental eh?”

After a pause, in which he tried to regain some composure Harper answered. “Aye. Hattie, that wis it. You know aboot it?”

“Obviously. Look I'm sorry Gordon, I thought you an' Dunkie might have bumped him aff, I didnae realise. I'll contact the Three for you. Do yourself a favour, get out of this, you're no fit fur it.” Morton answered sounding as if he was genuinely sorry.

“I know. I know. Thanks for doin' that fur me.” Harper said.

“No problem. Tell Skinner I'll be in touch.” Morton said and hung up. Harper felt sick, and was gasping for a drink.

Alec Morton shook his head and looked over to his old friend and second in command, Willie Boyle. Willie was a tall man and though his aged stoop had reduced his presence, he still looked formidable, especially for a man approaching eighty. Boyle looked like an elderly hawk, sharp eyes and an even sharper nose which added to his threatening manner. Boyle raised an eyebrow.

“Gordon Harper?” He asked, wondering why Harper would ever phone.

“Aye. Looks like I'm no the only one worried about these murders. Skinner wants us all to meet.” Morton answered.

“Who's all, you don't mean the auld yins anaw do ye?” Boyle asked, already knowing the answer would be yes and formulating how to express his outrage.

“Of course. They run the north, if some mad fucker's out there butcherin' women fur ritual purposes, do you no think they'd want some assurances it's nothin' tae dae wae us?” Morton responded.

“Aw fuck Alec, I thought we were done wae aw this hocus pocus shite decades ago. We're minted, can we no jist, I dunno, let some of the younger wans deal with it?” Willie protested. He didn't want pulled into another supernatural disaster, it took years off his life, years he could no longer afford to lose.

“I didnae pull this toon oot fae those auld bitches grasp jist tae gie it tae some wee fanny who thinks he's Tony Montana, you know whit they're like.” Morton replied.

“Aye, that's ma point. We were aw in oor prime when we took them oan, cost Harry Gallacher his life if I remember correctly, an' no jist Harry. If they think we're fuckin' wae them...” Willie said, hoping Alec would see sense, knowing he wouldn't.

“We're no though ur we?” Alec replied, it was a statement to agree with not a question.

“No, but how you gonny make them believe that?” Willie continued

“By reasonin' with them. Seems tae me I know exactly where tae point the finger.” Morton answered, a pensive look on his face.

“Oh aye? Do tell.”

“Remember the Astra Sophia Foundation?” Morton asked.

“You serious?” Willie gasped. He didn't know what he was going to hear, knew whatever it was it would be ugly business but he never expected Morton to say Astra Sophia. The thought of them being involved made his stomach ache.

“As serious as the tumour swellin' in my left lung. Call it intuition if ye wish but wan of those fuckers always seem to appear every five year or so. I think our would-be ripper is wan of them.” Morton explained.

“Whit makes ye think that?” Willie asked, hoping Morton was just talking shite, just for the sake of it.

Alec leaned back in his seat. “Somethin' that D.I. Hartswell mentioned tae me last week. He said the women were all drugged before they were killed an' that none of them had been interfered wae. He said it wisnae the usual sexual or violent nutjob, said it wis like someone wis deliberate, like pittin' doon animals.”

“Some nut bein' methodical hardly means the Foundation is up an' running. Whit if ye'r wrang?” Willie asked, hoping his own attempts at denial might change the situation.

“Whit's the likelihood of that?” Morton scoffed.

“Ye've been wrang before.” Willie shrugged.

“When?” Alec hissed with incredulity.

“Drumchapel.” Willie answered with a sneer.

To that Alec said nothing, instead he just stared at Willie. It was that look again Willie knew, the one where Alec appraised your loyalties, your strengths, whether you were making a play on him or just playing with him. Morton had called it his “evil eye” and it had, in the past reduced men to quivering wrecks. These days he just looked like a fat pensioner scowling. “Phone the Sisters, arrange the meeting, ya prick.”

2.

Normally Fleurs was one of those restaurants that you needed to book months in advance. Even then you'd be lucky if you got a corner table for two for an hour and a half. It was notorious for turning famous people away, for not playing favourites with its clientele and above all, serving remarkable food, quietly and without much hype. The secret was that Fleurs was one of those places that was just so good that you wanted to keep it to yourself, perhaps a few friends. Nevertheless it was always full. Except the night that Morton and Skinner were invited to dine there.

The invitation came from Leannan. Both were relieved by that, Leannan was always the most human of the Sisters. Of the three she seemed to be the only one familiar with the concept of morality. That is not to say she practised her own, but knew that it had some motivational value to mankind. Her sisters, it has to be said, had little interest in such anthropological trivia.

She was sat at a centre table, her autumnal curls pinned up, her face the same image of fading beauty it had always been. Beside her sat another woman in a dark red skirt suit, with yellow piping and a black blouse beneath, her recently shaved head had a hint of hair, bleached blond. Leannan stood as the gangsters walked into the room. “Gentlemen, sit down, we have much to discuss.”

Morton, Boyle, Skinner and Harper took their seats, each providing a small thanks and a nod to the woman in red. “This,” Leannan introduced. “Is Soror Anomie. We have decided the sorority would be more use to you in this exercise than, we would. It is a human affair after all.”

“Pleased to meet you Anomie.” Skinner said taking his seat.

Morton snorted derisively. Skinner looked up at him. “Manners something to be sneered at, is that your new thing, Alec?”

Out of the corner of his eye Morton could see Leannan's cold analytical stare waiting for his next words or action, bitch was judging him. He had to respond. “Piss aff, runt.”

A flick of her eyebrows, almost imperceptible but it was here. She'd not been impressed. The young woman beside her shook her head as if disappointed at a child, she sipped her wine. Morton sat down trying not to feel defeated already. It had been a long while since he'd needed his wits razor sharp, he'd gotten old, complacent, surrounded by yes men. He felt more alive in that moment, realising the game he was now in, than he had felt in years. One wrong move could spell disaster. Skinner just chuckled at Morton's rudeness. Beside him Gordon Harper nervously tried to avoid all eye-contact.

When Willie finally sat, Leannan took her seat and said “Order first. We'll get that out of the way.”

Morton ordered the Cullen Skink for starters and the Balmoral Chicken. Skinner chose the same, which had Morton guessing for a while until he realised that was probably the intent. He didn't care about the others. Once the orders were taken, Leannan said. “Right, now… Anomie, would you please?”

Soror Anomie made to stand up then decided to stay seated and after a deep breath said. “We are not friends, but whether we like it or not we are in business together. Whether we like it or not, this mutual truce we had endured has saw all of our businesses grow. We are, whether we like it or not, on the same side when something threatens any of our businesses.”

“Who the fuck is this?” Morton sighed.

“Alec, shut it.” Willie barked.

“Whit?” Alec said, horrified that Willie would dare.

“Shut yer mouth and jist look, jist listen.” Willie hissed, just above a whisper, but a threatening one.

Morton knew not to squeeze an angry Boyle, had always known that. He did as he was told and looked at the young woman sitting waiting to continue with a look that said “are you finished?”

He'd seen that face before, where though, years ago? “Sorry hen,” he said. “Please...”

Anomie nodded. He knew her, Maggie, Margaret, that was it, Margaret something.

Anomie continued. “Currently there is an individual the police have named “The Sleeper” who had murdered three women, clinically and without seeming motivation, all three of whom were mutilated post-mortem in various areas of Queen's Park. This individual is, simply put, trouble for all of us.”

“Astra Sophia, I'm telling you.” Morton added still trying to recall the name of the woman sat in front of him. He was certain of Margaret but for the life of him he could not remember her surname.

Anomie paused, looked at Leannan with mild concern. Leannan cocked her head slightly. “Why would you say that Alec?”

Morton shrugged. “Stands to reason. First off they always turn up every five year or so, so the timing fits, secondly who else would even think about fucking with us?”

Skinner answered. “The Jihadis fur wan, but this isn't their style. I've got to admit, you're probably right.”

Leannan nodded. “The Astra Sophia Foundation remain a mystery to us, we know nothing of them. We know only that they do like their performances. Brigdhe considers their actions those of a group with a need for drama. The only thing we are certain of is that somehow, most of them walked off the face of this Earth.”

Skinner shrugged. “That's about all anyone knows, Leannan. Though I heard rumours they put on some kind of elaborate prank in Edinburgh a couple of years back.”

There were mutters of agreement about that and the conversation died as the starters came out. Morton kept staring at Anomie, who'd spotted him doing so and had a wry look on her face. He needed that name, it was torturing him. He supped his soup and tried to think of every Margaret he'd ever known but stopped before he even began, doubting she was a Margaret after all. This was driving him mad. He had to stop it, to get back to the matter in hand.

“So… ummm..” Gordon Harper stammered. All eyes turned to look at him. “I maybe should have uh might have mentioned this earlier but uhhh… there's this guy an' he...”

“Spit it out Harper.” Skinner commanded.

“George Polk. Brother was a biochemist who joined the Astra Sophia foundation. He knows a lot about the Astra Sophia. No' remember? There wis news articles and documentaries.”

“You know where to find this guy?” Morton asked.

“Aye. I mean… we'll he's a normal bloke, no intae any of this stuff. Jist… y'know, bear that in mind?” Harper stumbled, apologetically.

Morton felt genuine pity for Harper, he guessed Skinner did too, which was why he had taken the shambling wreck under his wing. “We'll need an address.”

“I request Anomie be there to interview him. As Mr Harper has mentioned, this fellow is not one who plays our games, let us be gentle, until it is necessary to be otherwise.” Leannan said.

Both Skinner and Morton agreed and went back to finishing their Cullen Skink.

3.

“Once, and I swear this is the god's honest truth, he managed to push an image into my mind.” George Polk said. He was quite smitten by all of this, a glint of the limelight. Here he was, being wined and dined by the two producers and director of a new T.V. show. He really dug the director's haircut, she'd shaved it real short and dyed it. George took another mouthful of the lobster.

“Great, that's exactly the sort of thing we're looking for.” Anna May said. “So then your brother joined Astra Sophia around the time it gave up being a hippy commune and started being a private research company?”

George finished the buttery mouthful and took a sip of white wine, it was really good stuff, the best he thought he'd ever had. He'd been lucky to accept this invitation. When people turned up asking about his brother he'd always said no. “Yeah. Turned down tenure at MIT would you believe? Said what he was working on would make computers look like smoke signals.”

“That was in nineteen eighty five?” Anna May asked consulting her notes as the two producers smiled silently and cut at their steaks.

George thought their food looked as good as his tasted. He'd never even heard of the restaurant before, “Abaddon”. Classy place. He watched one of the young exotic waiters glide between the tables like a figure-skater. Classy. “Yeah. It was all fine back then. It didn't start getting weird, he didn't start getting weird until about ninety three.”

“Weird?” She asked.

He felt the producers lean in slightly, just to the left of him. It was obvious this was what they wanted. In was no secret that Astra Sophia became little more than a deranged cult. It didn't matter what the public thought. The work be glorious. He'd spent twenty three years with it all bottled up inside him. A secret to take unto death, as he vowed. Still these people were harmless. He'd string them along with tantalising hints that sounded crazy but told them nothing. “At first it was the big beard, then he comes home one Christmas with a mohawk and he'd covered in tattoos. Celtic crosses, snakes, that sort of thing. All over his arms and neck. We asked him what was going on. I mean he still sounded sane, sort of. He told me and my parents that he was on the verge of something radical. He ranted on and on about something called Graeco-Romanic ontological reductionism, how it was some kind of prison, or magic spell we were under.”

George noticed a look of recognition pass between the producers and the director, they'd heard that phrase before. He was pleased, doing great. He happily forked another piece of lobster. They were in on it, had to be, they knew about the lie.

“Did he ever elaborate on what it was he was doing, precisely?”

George shook his head as he chewed. He swallowed and replied. “No not really, though once he did say something about working on some wonder drug that would make the blind see. Most of the times he just babbled about all sorts of myths and folklore nonsense. Then, then he disappeared.”

George took another sip of wine, his third glass, it was delicious. Anna May nodded with a big smile on her face. “Brilliant, brilliant. You do that when we've got the camera on you, that's gold.”

George was feeling very pleased with himself. These were the sort of people his brother would have loved to have spent time with, people receptive to his uncommon notions and challenging ideas. In fact, perhaps his brother did spend time with them, they seemed the sort, smart, in the know. Perhaps these people were making a documentary revealing the work. His brother had told him it would be soon.

As if reading his mind Anna May said. “I'd have love to have met him.”

George nodded. He bet she would have loved it. Allan would have blown her mind. Just like he blew George's. George wanted to tell her how brilliant Allan was, how incredible his ideas and the plans of the Foundation were but he couldn't, he vowed not to, a vow that burned in his flesh still, a painful deep scar across his chest. “I'm sure he would have been delighted.”

George agreed to two days of shooting, finished the Lobster and then had an apple crumble. Most of the rest of the talk was legal contract mumbo jumbo, all of which he agreed to. Dates were arranged, dinner was paid for and George felt like he might, if he was lucky actually have a chance at being on T.V. regularly, if the pilot was a success.

They were still talking about how busy schedules were when they were putting on their coats. Anna May was complaining. “I mean it's so hard to try and see your family, I have hardly seen my mum since last Christmas, and I mean, George, when was the last time you got to see Allan?”

“About two weeks ago.” George said. It was out his mouth before he realised what he'd done.

“Boom!” said Soror Anomie. She ran her thumb across George's sweat soaked forehead.

George was confused. He wasn't in a restaurant, he was bound to some old wooden chair, in some stuffy damp and cramped little room. Was he inside a cargo container? Who was this blond woman standing over him leering? Who were the men behind her? They were lit from above by a bare 60 watt bulb and reminded him of thugs from a movie or something. One of them, a bald man with bulging eyes and lots of piercings in his ears just said “Beautiful Anomie, fucking beautiful, I could practically smell that lobster, my mouth was watering, I swear it.”

The woman in the red suit, Anomie, turned and gave a small bow. “We know our glamours.”

“You sure do.” Morton said. He did not seem so pleased. “You sure do.”

George struggled to speak. “What is this?”

“Georgy boy. Wake up son. Where's your brother?” Skinner said, far too loudly for the confines of the room.

It had happened. He'd been caught by someone, someone who wanted to know. They'd get nothing. With a smile he slid his tongue to the left back of his mouth, finding a hole.

“Looking for this Georgy boy?” Skinner chuckled, displaying a small tooth-like plastic capsule between his surgical glove covered fingers. “Made that mistake with you lot once, probably before you were born. Where is your brother?”

“With the Unseelie, they walk closer now, almost at the door.”

The Unseelie eh?” the old man, Morton said, scowling at Anomie.

She glanced back up at him. “Really?”

Morton pouted. Skinner clicked his fingers in front of George's eyes. “Attention! Wake up sunshine. Tell us where Allan is hiding. Do it now, before things get ugly.”

George had nothing to say to them and so said nothing. Skinner just nodded. “Fair enough, you had your chance. Alec?”

The old man leaned over the chair, his wrinkled pudgy face had a broad smile on it. “Right, now I get to show you amateurs how you pull information from an unwilling participant.”

George feared the worst. He saw the glint of the blade, saw the old man wield it. Morton then sliced the blade into his thumb said something under his breath and as if throwing a dart, aimed his bloody thumb at George. He felt the warm spatter of blood across his face. Magic. That's what this was, magic. No one used magic anymore, no one except the Foundation. Except a few others... George realised finally in whose company he'd found himself. “Wait. I'll talk.”

“You bet your cotton socks you will.” Morton said. His face looked younger somehow, vicious and powerful. Morton pushed his bleeding thumb against George's forehead hard. He hissed with pain. There was a popping sensation in George's head, like someone had burst a hard boil, inwards. Fire spread through his mind. He just kept screaming.

Two minutes later George was silent, limp, lacking a heartbeat and having his brain starve of lack of oxygen. He was gone. Morton shook his head in dismay. “Nothing but a jumble of cult bullshit in there. He thinks they're saving the Earth, that the ontological reductionism is some kind of metaphor. Didn't quite get it but at least we know whit they're up to eh?”

“Did you get a location?” Anomie asked. She'd been sitting on the one remaining seat painting her nails, white.

“I did, he's hiding out in a farm near Johnstone.” Morton said.

“And so the game begins...” Skinner said, jokingly.

“Game begins? You ever listen to yourself ya big idiot? Game started yonks ago.” Morton derided.

Skinner just rolled his large, bulbous eyes and laughed.

4.

Morton got Boyle to arrange a group of boys to head out to find Allan Polk. Willie got five trustworthy hard-men that were recommended for the job by Gangland bosses. They'd found his location after a day. Willie was impressed, told them to hunker down, keep an eye on him but not to abduct him, not yet. He was cautious was Willie, didn't want to use any of their own crew just in case Polk was serious trouble. He had a strong suspicion that Polk would indeed be serious trouble, every Astra Sophia cultist they'd came across so far had been.

Serious trouble. As he travelled towards the destination pulled from George Polk's ruined mind, he wondered if Department 23 had any inkling about what was occurring. The Government had given them more funding since the cops foiled a Jihad ring trying to conjure an Ifrit in Bradford. He was reticent about calling them, the last thing you needed to introduce to a crazed bull in a china shop was a dozen more insane bulls with time-bombs attached but if Astra Sophia were still active they'd want to know. It was best to keep the intelligence agencies as allies, especially these days when everyone was having to keep their noses as clean as possible. He'd spent the best part of a decade making sure all that his and Morton's businesses, as well as those of the rest of the boys, had no links to terrorist groups.

That had been quite a web to untangle.

As they drove through the wasteland of Paisley and Linwood his mind turned to Morton's annoyance with Soror Anomie. He'd been bothered about it for days, kept saying he knew her. He fucking should have, Willie thought. She had been, in a previous life, Maggie Blackford, had been, before Alec had strangled her, his fiancé.

Sixty odd years dead. Oh she looked slightly different now with the sharp suit and shaved blond dye-job, but it was her. Willie was the one who had to get rid of her body, he'd never forget her face. Alec had, it seemed. Willie did not want to be around if and when he remembered.

Brendan “Jigsaw” McLeish -so named because of his array of facial scars- snapped Willie back to the present with a question. “Whit road are we takin' fae here Mr Boyle?”

“Take the Kilbarchan road then turn onto Tandlehill just efter the roundaboot. Then turn left when ye get tae Kibbleston road. Then take the second right.”

McLeish did as he was told, as he always did. He thought being Willie's driver was him going straight after years of misfortune in the criminal underworld and jail. Boyle had taken pity on him, but found out that despite his appearance as a thuggish lummox, McLeish was one of those unfortunate souls who was much smarter than anyone had ever given him credit for. Par for the course, the culture had a way of making people suppress their own intelligence, made them feel shame for it. Those who refused were called arrogant bastards. Most of them fled the shithole as fast as they could. Those who stayed were either ground down, became hermits, or just gave up giving a fuck what others thought of them and went about their days aloof and detached from the tedious amateur dramas which they were supposed to be part of. Given the right start, McLeish could have been a scientist, or some form of academic. Instead he was not yet thirty and a recovering alcoholic with two ruined marriages and a face like a railway map. Willie had even left the lad 12 million quid in his will along with a letter telling him to get out of Glasgow and spend the rest of his life enjoying what he was actually worth.

They arrived at the top of a slope overlooking Kinlaggan Farm, where Willie's hired goons had parked up in a black Land Rover. The farmhouse was about quarter of a mile off the road and Willie could see one of the blokes, a chunky bugger with an expensive hairstyle that didn't suit him, sit behind the wheel and look down onto the farm with a set of binoculars. One of the other guys was ducked round the back of the vehicle, smoking. The others, like the driver, sat inside and seemed cramped in the big vehicle. Big men, hard men, the lot of them. As McLeish pulled up next to them Willie could see five sets of eyes filled with threatening menace just glare at them. He was used to such looks, long before any of their father's balls had dropped, it didn't remotely phase him. Willie undid his seatbelt and stepped out. The guy behind the Land Rover obviously recognised him, stood up and put his hands behind his back, like a guilty schoolboy who'd been caught smoking by a teacher. “Awright Mister Boyle.”

Willie winked at him. “Sorry about keeping you out hear for so long, any more news.”

“No really, he's been fuckin' aboot doon there yesterday an' this mornin' but he's no left or done anything weird or that.” The smoker replied.

Willie heard the electronic sound of a car window sliding open. “Aye, we've been here all night Mister Boyle.” said the driver.

Willie found it amusing how quickly these “don't give a fuck” hard-men turned obsequious when in the presence of someone they knew had real power. He nodded. “Good job. Thanks.”

Pleased with the praise the driver smiled and continued. “He's doon there the noo, fuckin' aboot wae the trees.” He offered Willie the binoculars. “Check it oot.”

Willie took the binoculars and had a look. Polk was naked from the waist up, wearing only an old pair of rough breeches and a gold torc round his neck. As he'd been described, Polk had a stripe of greying black hair front to back across his head and a long, bushy, old-testament style beard. He wasn't a big man but muscular without an inch of fat on his heavily tattooed body. Given he was nearly fifty Willie found Polk's look even more intimidating than he would have on a younger man. He was tying something to a tree, a long glistening red thing that Willie suspected was the guts of some animal, probably a hare or a dog.

Polk wiped his brow with his left arm which was covered in a tattoo of a large snake which spiralled round from oxter to mitt, the back of his hand and thumb covered too, the face of this inky serpent. Polk seemed to stare into the sun, raised his arms to form the shape of a cross and then went back into the farmhouse.

“Weird fucker.” Willie growled handing the binoculars. “Right that's definitely him, so get down there, tie him up, bag him and bring him up to the van.”

They were out in seconds, like soldiers given an order, tooled up with hammers and crowbars like mechanics. One one the guys from the back had the ingenuity to bring a taser. Willie liked that.

“We'll be back in ten minutes.” The driver said.

I'll wait in the van then. Willie answered. The henchmen marched off headed towards the farm's fence, each one launched themselves over it and kept going down the slope. Willie took out a cigarette and lit it. He leaned against the side of the van and watched them head towards the farm. He had a feeling in his gut that this was not going to be an easy job, would have put a hundred grand on blood being spilled if anyone would have taken such a strange wager.

He finished his smoke and got back in the van. McLeish was engrossed with the morning's Herald and had the radio on where fool was babbling crap and laughing at his own jokes. Willie attempted to ignore it, keeping his eyes peeled on the farmhouse at the bottom of the slope, waiting for a result. He kept waiting through several similarly awful sounding songs, inane banter and the news. There was nothing happening on the farm, Willie was starting to worry, he checked his watch, noting they'd been down there for almost half an hour. A cloud seemed to pass in front of the sun, dimming the light coming in through the driver's window.

Willie was blasted with buckshot, torn at by shards of bone, spattered with blood and brain and showered with shards of broken glass as he heard an impossibly loud explosion. He ducked and turned to see the tattered remnants of McLeish's head behind which was the two barrels of a shotgun and behind that the arms and torso of a tattooed man. Willie suppressed the building animal panic instead dropping down further and pushing the gear-stick from neutral to reverse. The van shuddered and sped backwards as the dead weight of McLeish's foot crushed the accelerator pedal. Willie peeked up through the windscreen to see Polk reloading his shotgun. With some effort he reached over McLeish's corpse and opened the driver-side door, pushed McLeish's body out and then hopped into the seat as the van slowed. He hit the accelerator with his own foot, grabbed the steering wheel and aimed the vehicle at Polk. Polk raised the shotgun as Willie sped towards him, then pirouetted on one foot to dodge the vehicle. The van sped past him but then with an ugly thump he was smacked by the driver's door which had been left open and slammed shut. Willie wondered if he should see what happened, checked the wing mirror and spotted Polk picking himself up off the ground. He was bloodied.

Willie thought of fleeing the scene but noticing that Polk seemed stunned and unaware he'd lost his shotgun, Willie turned the wheel sharply and aimed at the cultist once again. Polk had no time to react as the vehicle ploughed into him so quickly that he bounced over the bonnet and broke the windscreen as he went up and over the van. Willie screeched to a halt, jumped out and spotted the shotgun immediately. He stumbled but his momentum carried him forward and he managed to grab the gun and stay vertical. He turned aiming the gun at Polk “Right you fucker, hauns in the air right noo.”

George Polk slowly raised his arms with a sarcastic snort which was thick and wet. He placed his hands behind his head and spat a red jellied clot onto the ground, smiling with a bloody mouth. He laughed. “‘s math a chluich thu”

5.

The farmhouse had no sign of the gang who'd went in after Polk. The place was bereft of furniture, carpeting, ornaments, or electrical goods. There was, on the bare rotting boards of the living room floor, a circle of eight small cairns made up from pebbles and stones. In the middle of this circle was a dead hare, acorns, a pile of gull feathers, a rotting salmon and the naked corpse of a woman in her late thirties.

Morton shook his head and hissed with disgust. “Fuck sake, she's just a wee lassie.”

“You're getting soft, eh Alec?” Anomie said mockingly. She toppled one of the cairns over with the toe of her black high-heel.

Morton ignored the jibe instead turning to Polk who had been tied to an old wooden support pillar. “So… How's Robert?”

Polk's eyes had been closed but they opened when he heard the name. “If you mean Doctor Johnstone, I assume he's fine.”

“Ah ye dae speak English then ya pretentious prick.” Willie added.

Polk smirked and gave a shrug. Skinner, who until this point had been scanning his mobile phone looked up. “Cut the friendly chit-chat. Polk, what are you daft bastards playing at this time?”

“I don't recognise you.” Polk said screwing up his eyes. “Are you the one who escaped Dunnoch?”

Skinner nodded. “Aye, that would be me.”

Polk began giggling. “When is a bell not a bell?”

Skinner was taken aback by this. Anomie seemed shocked too, Morton just seemed confused. “Whit's that supposed to mean?”

“He's talking about the elements and the binding.” Anomie said.

Morton seemed none the wiser. “Whit?”

“Senility setting in as well Alec?” Anomie smirked.

“Listen bitch, I've had about enough of your sarky bullshit.” Morton growled angrily, thrusting his forefinger at her.

“Oh, did I upset you? What are you going to do, strangle me?” Amonie chuckled, her hands tucked behind her back.

“Jesus.” Willie groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose, expecting it to all kick off.

“Calm down the two of ye. It's not a bell if it doesn't ring.” Skinner barked just before Morton flew off the handle. He could see the hilt of the knife under the flap of Anomie's jacket, her hand searching for it. “Alec, he's talking about Kentigern's binding of the town.”

“Indeed.” Polk answered, he seemed to be enjoying the show.

“Ah.” Morton said. “Ah. So that's it. “The bell isnae fire.”

“The bell isnae fire.” Polk repeated.

“That's old news.” Skinner shrugged. “Very old news. You lot think the Sisters haven't been trying to solve that mystery for centuries?”

“The binding has made those small fish big given the size of the pond they now swim in.”

Anomie, who was seemingly permanently amused, burst out laughing. “Oh you deluded fool. Is that what they've been teaching you?”

“Three bean sidhe left behind when everyone left. Nothing more or less.”

“You think Cailleach, Leannan and Brigdhe are nothing more that banshees?” Anomie asked, unable to contain her hilarity.

It was Skinner's turn to pinch his nose with exasperation. “Fuck.”

Polk looked horrified. “Cailleach?”

“Aye.” She replied.

“But...” Polk said, his confidence gone. “But they can't have been bound, can they?”

“Times change.” Anomie said. She pulled the knife from her trousers and in one movement sliced it across Polk's neck. A jet of blood arced from the wound as his life pissed out of him.

“Whit the everlivin' fuck are ye dain' ya daft cow?” Morton shouted.

“He's told us everything we need to know.” Anomie said.

“He didnae tell us why he was murdering women.” Morton answered.

“Did you even read the papers? Alice Sparrow, Barbara Ash, Beth Salmon. The bird that never flew, the tree that never grew, the fish than never swam. What more do you want?”

Morton shook his head. “I'm a fuckin' idiot.”

“Stop the presses.” Skinner laughed with fake shock.

Willie took a deep sigh and shook his head. “Enough, for fuck sake. This is a fucking disaster, we've got a deid cultist, a murdered wummin, five fuckin' guys who've vanished withoot a trace an' we've fun' oot whit exactly, nae cunt's yet figured oot whit magic the monks who got rid of the auld yins used? Christ, this is a fuckin' mess.”

Surprisingly, to him, the others all looked slightly abashed. Skinner looked around the dirty room and rubbed his chin. “Thing is, where did Polk come from and where did the others vanish to? We find that out, we can put an end to Astra Sophia for once and for all.”

“Fuck them.” Morton replied. “I'm done with this shite. Totally done, you lot can deal wae this Harry Potter bullshit aw ye want, jist keep me oot of it in future.”

“You're done anyway Alec.” Anomie smiled. “I can smell the rot on your breath from hear. How long have you got? A year, eighteen months?”

“Whit?” Morton said.

“The tumour in your lung, how advanced is it?” Anomie said, delight in her voice.

“That's nain of your business, jist fuck off.”

“You're dying?” Skinner asked, somewhat shocked, as if he'd found the news out about an old friend.

“Naw, no yit. No fur a long while yit, don't you be getting any fuckin' ideas Skinner.”

“I was about to offer my condolences Alec. We might not have ever seen eye to eye but that doesn't mean...”

Morton cut him off. “Spare me, ya fish-faced fuck.”

“Delightful.” Anomie snorted. “Won't it be wonderful when all the old twisted bastards like him are dead and gone, Gordon?”

“Says the deid wummin working for the Auld Yins.” Willie said coming to his friend's defence.

At that sentence a bulb flashed on in Morton's mind. “Oh Christ, Maggie Blackford?”

Anomie gave him a cheeky wink. “The very same.”

Tears welled up in Morton's eyes. “I'm sorry, Maggie. I'm so sorry.”

“Fuck off Alec, you crushed my throat in a rage for speaking to my cousin. Your apology means nothing to me, you mean nothing to me. I only hope that when your time comes I'm standing over you watching you die in agony, struggling to breathe, it would be very, very fucking fitting.”

Morton's moment of sadness was quickly replaced with rage. “Those fucking hags did this deliberately tae fuck with me didn't they? Well I'm no gaun anywhere. You tell the auld cunts that Maggie, I'm no gaun anywhere.” He stabbed his index finger in the air.

“You realith of courth, thith meanth war!” Skinner said, doing his best Daffy Duck impression.

“You fuck up anaw sunshine. You'd think wae aw those fuckin' bitches hid put you through you'd want them gone too.”

“The difference between us Alec is that you were always an arrogant chancer who got lucky. This is the world I live in. Seriously, if you're dying, retire. Don't come in here all guns blazing thinking anyone here is remotely frightened of you. You really don't want me and the Sisters fucking you over in your dying days.”

“I'm no fuckin' dying an' baith of you are gonny fuckin' regret this. Jist you fuckin' wait. I'll… ”

Willie stopped him by putting a hand on his shoulder. “Enough, come oan, let's go.”

Saying nothing Morton nodded. He felt terrible, he knew he'd been played but to what end? He knew the Sisters had done this just to get a reaction out of him and he'd given one, just threats thankfully, he had felt like strangling the cow all over again. As they walked out the door Willie stepped back in, closed it, turned and looked at Skinner then at Anomie and shook his head. “That was poorly done, you know he's gonny blow this aw oot o' proportion.”

“We were rather counting on it.” Anomie replied.

“Enough of the we. I knew nothing about any of this.” Skinner replied raising his hands in the air in protest.

Willie just shook his head and left. “Well,” Anomie chuckled, “that was a hoot.”

“You might not be laughing too long. He's an unhinged old fucker.”

“You've not met many of the Sorority have you, Gordon?”

“Thankfully no. Still, you must know he's not going to just let that lie.”

“Indeed not and what exactly are you going to do about that?” Anomie asked, one eyebrow raised.

Skinner thought hard about that. He had no love for the Sisters. Morton had been a pain, but throughout his years it had been the Sister's that had thwarted and humiliated him time and time again. Three times he'd lost everything because of their sick games but Morton was just a man, they were a malevolent, no, amoral power beyond his understanding. They were forever, Morton was dying.

“If he does something stupid, then we stop him.”

“We now, is it?” Anomie asked sarcastically.

Skinner gave a small laugh through his nose. “Never “we” honey, but a dying man has little else to lose.”

“You'd be surprised, still I'll tell Leannan that we can count on you shall I?”

“Oh there'll be conditions for my help.” Skinner replied.

Anomie nodded. “There always are. So we are done here?”

“You want to get rid of this mess or shall I?” Skinner asked.

Anomie looked around the room again, she gave a small wince of emotion looking at the dead woman in Polks magic circle. She then looked at the blood soaked cultist. “Boyle was right. It is a fucking mess. I say we leave it. It should keep the police scratching their heads for a while.”

Skinner laughed at that. “One last thing, Anomie.”

“Yes?”

“Who was Maggie Blackford?”

Anomie gave a sad smile. “She was Alec Morton's fiancé.”

“Oh.” Skinner replied, thinking how obscenely cruel and yet perfect the Sisters introducing the Soror to Morton had been. He made for the door, trying to look as if he was still totally aloof. “I will see you again when the shit hits the fan then?”

“I doubt that, The Sorority rarely involves itself in this type of grubby business.” Anomie said.

Skinner cocked his head. “Oh well. Goodbye Anomie.”

Anomie gave him a tiny wave, wiggling her fingers and smiling. As Skinner closed the door behind him he felt a chill enter the farmhouse. He was glad to be gone, he knew the crone Cailleach was manifesting inside and knew better than to be anywhere near her when she did. He walked up the slope hearing the rime crackle up the glass of the building and decided he could murder a lamb curry.