Book 5: When the Cat's Away...

By Robin Chambers

Book 5 chronicles important events during August 2011. The chaotic anarchy of the Real Irish Fairy Defence League at the Loughcrew Cairns is contrasted with the ordered proceeding of the Sinn Fein Sidhe atop the Hill of Tara. Carman the Goddess of the Damned puts in a brief appearance with her sons Dub Dian and Dother. She appears to have learned a thing or two from Margaret Thatcher (or was it the other way round?). The Capo dei Capi in London takes a direct interest in the growing threat presented to his world by Myrddin’s Heir and his magically gifted friends. Meanwhile, resistance to the tyranny put in place by the evil Octavius Mortlake becomes more organized with the launch of WARD (Wandholders’ Alliance for the Return of Democracy). Gordon finds out what can happen if you stand idly by while evil flourishes and decides that he and he and the others must go to war. One by one they take on the enemies... Some terrible bullies get their just desserts; but then the Eight Team face annihilation at the merciless hands of Dub - one of the three sons of Carman, evil Goddess of the Damned... At the end of the book, on their first day in year 8, one of Zoë’s prophecies is fulfilled.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robin Chambers
• Release date: Apr 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310268182

Robin Chambers

Once upon a time –a long time ago – I was born in Bootle (Liverpool 20) in the UK. There was a war on. Later, I wanted to follow in the footsteps of J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis but instead was plunged into the maelstrom of inner city education. In the 1970s I wrote some stories for children to see if I could, and Penguin published them. I thought I would write something really good when I retired from teaching...After fourteen years of headship in Hackney I came back up north in 1993 and met my wonderful wife Amy. We looked after my increasingly ill parents full-time until they didn’t need us to do it anymore, by which time the first of our two daughters was ready to go off to University and on to the first rung of the housing ladder. We did the sums and I went back to teaching...In 2008 Amy and I set off for a life by the western shores of the Caribbean. It was only after I survived a murder attempt by three local thugs in November 2010 (skull crushed in two places, seventeen stitches in head wounds) that I realised how easy it is to die without accomplishing a cherished ambition.So we came back to the UK and I set to work on “Myrddin’s Heir”: the epic story I will leave behind. It took three years to write the first four books - now in the Kindle Store at 99p each. Self-publishing means self-marketing, so here I am. Book 5 was published in April 2014 for the same price...This is a story for bright children from 10–110 years of age. It’s longer than The L of the R, longer even than HP &... To finish it I need to live another 15 years. I’d like to finish it, because I know how it ends.

Book preview

First printed in the United States of America by BRIGHT CHILDREN PRESS

Cover Photo taken by Robin Chambers in the Actun Tunichil Muknal cave in Belize, 2009

Cover Typography by WRITE DREAM REPEAT

Book Interior Design by ROBIN CHAMBERS

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorised electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

I hope you’ll visit http://www.myrddinsheir.com for further news, views and feedback contact details.

ALSO AVAILABLE

Myrddin’s Heir Book 1: A Wizard of Dreams

Myrddin’s Heir Book 2: Amazing Grace

Myrddin’s Heir Book 3: The Quality of Mercy

Myrddin’s Heir Book 4: Gifts from the Gods

Myrddin's Heir Book 6: In the Nick of Time

Contents

Copyright

Also Available

Contents

Dedication

Warning

Foreword

Chapter 1: RESERVOIR RUSTLERS

Chapter 2: WHO NEEDS A SATELLITE SIGNAL?

Chapter 3: A TOUGH CREW AT LOUGHCREW

Chapter 4: A GOBLIN GATHERING

Chapter 5: CARMAN AND SONS

Chapter 6: STRANGER THAN FICTION

Chapter 7: HEAD HUNTERS

Chapter 8: NAME YOUR POISON

Chapter 9: WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS

Chapter 10: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU-U-U!

Chapter 11: A ROYAL WELCOME

Chapter 12: A GOLDEN OPPORTUNITY

Chapter 13: THE SAVING OF A LIFE

Chapter 14: HOW MAD CAN YOU GET?

Chapter 15: WELCOME HOME

Chapter 16: THERE’S NO SUCH THING

Chapter 17: THE DEMON BARBER OF FLEET STREET

Chapter 18: MUM’S THE WORD

Chapter 19: A GOOD FRY-UP

Chapter 20: THERE WAS NO ONE LEFT

Chapter 21: WORST SCENE SCENARIO

Chapter 22: FOREWARNED IS FOREARMED

Chapter 23: A HEROES’ WELCOME

Chapter 24: PAUSING FOR REFLECTION

Chapter 25: INTO THE LINE OF FIRE

Chapter 26: ALL FOR ONE AND ONE FOR ALL

Chapter 27: CAUGHT ON CAMERA

Chapter 28: THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY

Chapter 29: MEETING IS SUCH SWEET SORROW

Chapter 30: POWER OUTAGE IN THE ALLEY

Chapter 31: OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY

Chapter 32: A TIME TO CHOOSE

Chapter 33: THE TABLES BEGIN TO TURN

Chapter 34: SEEING IS BELIEVING

Chapter 35: THE THREE ‘R’S

Chapter 36: WELCOME AND UNWELCOME THINGS

Chapter 37: INTO THE LION’S DEN

Chapter 38: MAGICAL MAISIE

NOTES

-TO NOTE-

About The Author

Book 6, Chapter 1: WHAT ARE THE ODDS

For Amy, who makes me happy,

For Linda, who kept in touch,

And for all children who were/are abused

By anyone, anywhere

WARNING

This book will challenge you

HELPFUL HINT

There are notes at the back

SOUND ADVICE

Love Learning

Respect Difference

Protect Your Planet

Foreword

Before beginning this story, Amy and I spent three years in Belize, where we met and became firm friends with a Taiwanese philosopher - whose English name is Jason - and his wife, Christine.

Jason was developing a scheme designed to promote the philosophy he had been working on for 20 years: to help make the world a better place. I helped Jason with the wording of his philosophy for the English-speaking world.

My three pieces of sound advice -

Love Learning

Respect Difference

Protect Your Planet

- were distilled during the process he and I underwent in finding the right words for his Three Obligations of Wisdom in English.

The wording in his final version, when it is published, will be a little different to my choice of words above for this series of books; but the key concepts are the same.

I was convinced that the Three Obligations of Wisdom point out a simple way to a better world, and I am happy to help promote Jason's philosophy.

Robin Chambers

June 2017

Chapter 1

Reservoir Rustlers

Gash went first - he was the youngest, lightest and fittest. Rab went second, as it took both Jamesie and Shug to give him the necessary leg-up over the wall. Gash was meant to catch him when he dropped down the other side. Fat chance! The fry-ups and pints had taken their toll over the last fifteen years. It had to be admitted Rab was past his best at this burglaring business. Plus, he’d recently broken his toe.

Jamesie waited until the heavy thud and the muttered curses told him that Rab’s unfit, overweight body had hit the ground. Gash had been almost obliterated in the process. Not for the first time, he wished they could have left Rab at home tonight. The trouble was, he was the brains of the outfit.

Jamesie had been Rab’s friend and drinking partner for many years. He liked to think that the difference between them was that he took better care of himself. Discipline – that’s what it was all about. He’d learned all about discipline in the army; that is, until they kicked him out for not having enough of it.

Jamesie also deluded himself on the subject of his general fitness. He could push his chest out further than anyone else in their local. He went next, helped by a shove from Shug. Shug went last. He was still in his early twenties, so hadn’t had as long to ruin his chances in life; but he was doing his best to catch up.

Shug could climb like a cat, which was ironic, because he’d acquired his nickname for reasons related to dogs. His prominent pricked-up ears and lolling tongue made people think of a German Shepherd, and his squashed-up face made him look like a pug. The fact that he’d been christened ‘Hugh’ may also have had something to do with it.

They always used their nicknames when out on a job. That had been one of Rab’s brilliant ideas. If anyone heard them talking, they wouldn’t know what their real names were. It was self-defeating though, given that most people didn’t know what their real names were anyway. In their community, they were universally known by their nicknames, and that community included the local police.

But then, as Rab pointed out, there was no chance of them forgetting who was who; whereas if they’d gone with Gash’s suggestion - that they should call each other Mr Blue, Mr Brown, Mr Orange, and Mr Pink - they’d have been in a right mess in no time.

Rab had earned his nickname by being an opinionated troublemaker and a perpetual drunk, attributes which made him terminally unemployable. Jamesie happened to be married to a woman called Ella, who despised him, and made no secret of the fact that she would murder him if she thought she could get away with it. Gash had been on the losing end of an argument in a pub a year ago, when the speaker opposing the motion had made his most telling point with a broken bottle.

They brushed themselves down and set off towards the back of the big hoos. Tell me again, Shug said, why we’re no just ropin’ ourselves another coupl’a steers, like we did the other night." The other three had been harsh in their criticism of him over that. It had been his job to close the gate, and he’d forgotten to do it. The cows had subsequently got out, thereby alerting the owners to the fact that someone had been in the field during the night and left the gate open.

That prompted them to count the beasts (once they’d rounded them up) and realise two were missing. The reasonable conclusion was that cattle-rustling had come to their neighbourhood. It had been on the local news. All farmers in the area had reached for their shotguns. They’d be on full alert for some time.

BECAUSE, Rab hissed in a stage whisper, …we’re no wantin’ the backsides blown oota wur cults. He might have added that he was no wantin’ another toe broken either. One of the bullocks had panicked while they were trying to get it into the back of the pick-up, and Rab’s foot had got in the way. Consequently, he’d been in too much pain to remember to check whether Shug had shut the gate.

Shug was notoriously forgetful. Jamesie and Gash had forgotten to check as well. It was a crying shame, because Rab’s friend Willie McGonagall paid good money up front and no questions asked. He was well known in their locale, not only as a butcher of meat but also as a butcher of language. He wrote atrocious poetry in his spare time.

Some great antiques sittin’ daein’ nuthin’ in thae big hooses, Jamesie reminded Shug. People ‘ull pay guid money for great antiques that ma granny just left me in her wull.

I didn’ae ken ye had a granny, Shug said.

It was a dark night. They didn’t want to draw any night-watchman’s attention by flashing torches. Consequently, there had been quite a few barked shins and short, sharp words before they emerged from the tree line. They looked across the lawns at the back of the sleeping house. Gash was carrying the jemmy. There’s aboot fufty rooms in there, Jamesie reminded them, and naebody goes intae most a’ ‘em.

He had a mate who’d done a bit of plastering at Carrickmoor a while back. He’d pumped him dry (metaphorically speaking) over a pint or three, and learned that a whole suite of rooms at the back of the house had their contents permanently covered in dust-sheets.

Right, Rab whispered decisively. We’re goin’ fir portable items, OK? – preferably from under dustsheets so they dinnae notice they’re gone. Little statues, porcelain, mirrors ... We tiptoe in, we tiptoe oot.

How IS yir toe? Shug asked him.

It’s killin’ me, thanks fe askin’, Rab replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Ye’re welcome, Shug assured him generously. Ah had a bad toe once, so ah ken …

SHAH’ UP aboot toes!! Rab hissed. We need tae focus, lads, FOCUS! He motioned to Gash to lead the dash across the darkened lawns. Shug followed. Only when they were sure that the younger ones hadn’t been seen did they make their own ungainly way across to a servants’ entrance down a handy flight of pitch-dark steps.

That entrance had been used in the days when their ancestors worked on this estate, either in the house or on the farm. A regular hive of activity it would have been in those days. Those were the days when Jamesie’s granny had worked there. She’d been a loyal, faithful, servant, and had therefore been entrusted with a key to that door - being the first to arrive at 4.30am, to get the fires raked and laid.

She’d had an extra key cut - in case the other one ever went missing - and kept it in the same drawer for 50 years. She’d kept it as a wee memento, when she got too old to work there anymore. Very proud of that key she’d been. She’d shown it to her grandson, and Jamesie had never forgotten it. He’d purloined it when they were stripping her house after she died.

Gash’s jemmy was for back-up. Maybe the lock had been changed, or some security conscious clerk of works had since had a bolt fitted. Or somebody might need a wee whack tae slow ‘em doon while they were makin’ a quick ge’away.

Kate was suddenly wide awake. She didn’t need much sleep. You don’t when you’re dead. Grace and Miranda, on the other hand, though very much alive, were dead to the world after coping with the challenges of yesterday. Their batteries would not be fully recharged until they’d had at least eight hours’ sleep.

Neither stirred when Aunt Matilda’s Irish wolfhound Dermott gave a single, mournful howl. Irish wolfhounds don’t make good guard dogs. It doesn’t always occur to them to bark when they hear something suspicious. Dermott must have been disturbed by something, and there was no sign of Zoë. Having nothing better to do, Kate decided to investigate. Old houses creak all by themselves. Pipes cool down, wood contracts. The plumbing or refrigeration systems compete with each other throughout the night to see which can sound more like a burglar…

The key had worked a treat. Rab risked brief flashes of his Maglite to guide him down an unadorned basement corridor. It had clearly been designed for servants’ use. Half way along was a narrow staircase for servants moving to and from the grander floors above. Somewhat unnecessarily, Rab put a chubby finger to his fairly prominent lips. This was a sign to the others not to add to the noise he was making on account of his size and weight and his broken toe.

He led the way up the stairs and poked his head out at the top of the flight. A quick look left and right confirmed it led to an altogether grander, wood-panelled corridor. The corridor was flanked by impressively large and therefore unfortunately heavy, gilt-framed portraits of the family’s illustrious ancestors. They were no good in any case. Someone would notice a bare, picture-shaped patch on the wall.

Rab’s nostrils dilated. They always did when he smelled money, and he could smell it now. He hoped he’d be making monthly trips to this Aladdin’s cave, where the treasure was piled high. Four well-chosen portable antiques each time could keep them in booze and fags for the intervening weeks.

Rab, though a pauper by profession, was a prince of self-justification. He preferred to think that what he and his companions were doing was liberating these items of yesteryear refinement and luxury from under their drab dustsheets. No-one was enjoying them there. By releasing them (for a reasonable fee) into the wider world, he was making sure that henceforward they’d be seen, handled and fully appreciated by a wider audience. He was adding to the quality of a lot of people’s lives – not to mention his own.

The Ogilvie’s were known to be hoarders. He bet the present Earl and his wife didn’t even know precisely what was in each room. Rab had convinced himself that this break-in, like blasphemy, was a victimless crime. And was it his fault if they hadn’ae sold one or two bits and used the money to install an alarm system and some CCTV cameras? He was doing them a favour by proving in this practical fashion that they’d got their priorities all wrong.

He tried the nearest grand door. It opened smoothly to reveal a long room filled with highly promising dustsheet-covered shapes. Geronimo! Their intelligence had been accurate for a change. It would be a short trip from this room back down the stairs with their chosen items. As long as they remembered to leave everything looking undisturbed, and carefully locked that outside door behind them, who wuz gonnae know?

They crept into the room and closed the door with a barely audible clunk. Watch how ye move these sheets, Rab hissed. We’re no wantin’ a valuable piece of porcelain knocked off its perch.

Like takin’ candy frae a baby, Jamesie exulted. He’d been known to do that in his younger days. Carefully, Gash put the jemmy down on a chair-shaped dustsheet. He told himself to remember to pick it up again on his way out, and headed for the impressive marble mantelshelf. On it he would almost certainly find an ormolu clock or a piece of French or Chinese porcelain that wouldn’t have been there if it wasn’t worth a fair bit.

He knew a good antique when he saw one. He watched The Antiques Roadshow. Ooh yes! He’d not been wrong. There were some very tasty items on that mantelshelf. He tried the weight of the ornate gilded clock. Too heavy - wha’ a cryin’ shame. He moved on to an impressive pair of decorative brass candlesticks.

Rab approached a conveniently-sized object close to the wall. He guessed from the shape under the dustsheet that it would be a full-length mirror, and indeed it was. Pulling the sheet carefully off it he saw an undeniably antique, ornate, gilded mirror, fixed to an impressively carved stand in dark polished wood. Having tried the weight and decided he could manage it, he stepped back to admire the lustre of the burnished mirror surround, the excellent condition of the silvering and the intricacy of the wood-carving.

If that’s a bit of Grinling Gibbons it’s worth a bliddy fortune, mon, he muttered, knowing a thing or two about antiques himself. The next second, however, he was hurled backwards by a blast of freezing air. He got a momentary impression of a spectral headless horseman as it charged out of the mirror on a snorting, wild-eyed mare and passed straight through him. He thought for a second that his heart had stopped from the shock and the sudden cold.

As he went over a footstool like a ton of bricks, he heard an echoing cry of Tally Ho! That was just before he caught his head on the corner of a table on his way down. After that he was out cold (as they say), and took no further interest in the proceedings - which was a shame, because the proceedings got even more interesting in the seconds that followed.

The mounted ghost skidded to a panting halt at the end of the room and turned to face them. His head was tucked securely under one arm. Jamesie let out a wild cry of uncontrollable terror. Deftly the ghostly cavalier raised his severed head above his shoulders, and it swung in his right hand, its demented eyes switching left and right, as if sweeping the location for signs of the quarry. It spotted Gash making a dash for the jemmy …

CHAR-R-R-G-GE!! came the exultant cry. The horse reared up with a frightful whinny and launched itself into a gallop. Jamesie tried to dive out of the way over a chaise longue. The idea had been to hide behind it, but he wasn’t as fit as he liked to think he was. His crutch collided painfully with the high-back, and he jack-knifed over it with an almighty crash. His weight and momentum overturned it, with him still sprawled across its top. It drove his head into the polished oak floor before pinning the rest of him underneath it.

Edmund Senior followed Sir Roger de Daveneport out of the mirror at a more sedate pace. Are you SURE? he asked Gash. Gash had reached the jemmy and was holding it out with a noticeably shaky hand in an effort to be menacing. Oh, well, if you insist …

Before Gash had had time to blink, Kate’s erstwhile human husband had whizzed to the fireplace and was back again, armed with an impressive poker. The way he handled it conveyed the impression that he’d been a useful swordsman in his day. En garde! he warned Gash cheerfully. The tip of the poker jabbed purposefully in the direction of Gash’s vulnerable chest.

Blindly, Gash swung the jemmy. Sparks flew as it glanced off the parrying poker and swung wildly to the right, leaving him exposed to a painful prod in the ribs. Touché! Sir Edmund declared. In the ghostly hand of an experienced duellist, the poker had become a rapier.

It was an unequal contest. Gash made an ill-advised dash at his opponent, ignoring the dancing poker in an effort to bludgeon the grin off this toffee-nosed, upper-class git of a ghost’s face. The outcome was predictable. Tutting at the oafish lack of style, Sir Edmund turned smoothly sideways, and swatted the blundering Gash en passant across the back of the knees.

Gash’s legs buckled. The jemmy flew out of his hand and clattered noisily to the floor. The irresistible force of Gash’s descending head met the immovable edge of what might have been a billiard table in the centre of the room. The dustsheet that was covering it did nothing to lessen the force of the impact. He collapsed under it with his head at an unnatural angle.

Shug had rapidly decided that discretion was the better part of valour. He was making for the door they’d come in by when his path was blocked by a redoubtable-looking female, dressed in her yesteryear Halloween best. I am the ghost of Christmas Past! Kate intoned dramatically. (She’d read some nineteenth century literature while in the library at Mellingford Hall).

Shug immediately decided that the door at the other end of the room was the better option. He turned for it and set off at a rate of knots. Rather like a cat playing with a mouse, Kate let him get almost there before appearing suddenly in front of him again. His speed carried him - sliding and blubbing like a baby - straight through her. It was like passing through a curtain of liquid nitrogen. He might well have caught his death of cold. He got his hand on the knob of the door, but it wouldn’t turn.

Into his distracted ears came a sound across a frozen waste of space (which was what he was). It sounded like a witch, cackling. Desperate to escape at any cost, he turned and ran back the way he had come. That door was now open. The corridor behind was a blaze of light. Fergus Ogilvie stood firmly in the opening, a double-barrelled shotgun in his hands.

Duncan’s father had just preceded him into the room. Andy Campbell was a burly, middle aged man who looked like he’d been made in Glasgow from girders. He had hands the size of dinner plates and fists the shape of boxing gloves. The last intruder standing threw both hands into the air. SAVE UZ, WILL YE! Shug gabbled. How dae ye live in this place?

Andy switched on the room lights. Lord Fergus Ogilvie indicated with the barrels of the shotgun that Shug was to join his fellow intruders on the floor. Andy helped him on his way with a right cross that nearly took his head off. Aunt Matilda had already phoned the police.

It would take them a while to get there. That was all right. Nobody was going anywhere.

NOTES

FOR REASONS RELATED TO DOGS; RAB AND JAMESIE; THE BACKSIDES BLOWN OOTA WUR CULTS; JEMMY; (METAPHORICALLY SPEAKING); DERMOTT GAVE A SINGLE MOURNFUL HOWL; BLASPHEMY; GERONIMO; ORMOLU; GRINLING GIBBONS; DRESSED IN HER YESTERYEAR HALLOWEEN BEST

Chapter 2

Who Needs A Satellite Signal?

Grace woke up with Gordon’s voice ringing in her ears. Are you awake? Can you hear me?

What time is it? she thought back sleepily. Where are you?

"It’s nine o’clock. We’re in our holiday cottage near Trim, and we’ve had breakfast already. I tried sending you a text but it wouldn’t