Lord Goblin's Second Joint: Rough Beast

By Kit Bradley

Trolls, humans, and alvar - Gray County, Indiana, has more than its share of warlords after the arrival of the Otherworlders. Their battles are without a shred of humanity, lacking any tincture of mercy, and honor is lacking altogether.

Once again, Channing Montmorency and Reece Nalyvaiko have to fight to preserve their dignity and humanity in a world of seemingly endless perils and enemies - and during the bitter cold and endless storms of a savage winter. They will have to muster all of their resources - their physical courage, their moral bravery, their stamina, and every last scintilla of their wits - to not only survive but thrive in the chaos of their new world. They will struggle not only to preserve their bodies, but their souls, and to do everything in their power to help the other survivors of the Convergence.

They will not always succeed.

Along the way, they will get new allies, too, because there's good cause to call Channing Montmorency Lord Goblin.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kit Bradley
• Release date: Oct 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9780998778044

Kit Bradley

Kit Bradley rose from the primordial ooze of Ohio, where he became a warrior-poet crushing his enemies with his withering prose stylings. He lives in the biggest city in America whose name starts with the letter X, and he has an A-Number-1 kitty, a mutant cat with claws like Wolverine, a cat who is also a bug, and a demi-cat. His wife is very tolerant of his quirks - which are numerous - for which Kit is eternally grateful. He also likes reading, riding funny-shaped bicycles, and lifting heavy pieces of iron and setting them down again.

Book preview

Lord Goblin’s Second Joint

Rough Beast

By Kit Bradley

Copyright 2017 Kit Bradley

Published by Sword & Lion Publishing

Email: [e-mail]

Website: http://swordandlionpublishing.com

Author’s Website: http://kitbradley.net

Discover Other Titles by Kit Bradley

Lord Goblin’s First Joint: Mere Anarchy

As editor and contributor: Night War: The Dark Side of Dayton

More coming soon!

ISBN 13: 978-0-9987780-4-4

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

About Kit Bradley

Other Books by Kit Bradley

Connect with Kit Bradley

Chapter 1

Channing Montmorency wanted to kill someone; he had an unsated bloodlust. He had never desired to see a human dead before. Violence was to defend lives; he undertook violence with reservation and even sadness. But that night, Channing wanted to kill someone, he was wild and mad. He wanted to kill someone.

He drove his horse over the riverbed, hooves crunching through the heavy snow, over to the other side. He could barely see in the darkness with snow whipping around him. He slipped out of his saddle. On the far side of the frozen river was the Gray County State Park, and relative safety.

Reece pulled up her horse. Another surprise from her: she knew how to ride. She said, Channing! What the hell are you doing!

Take the horse. Go. I'll catch up with you later! He didn't look at her.

You're crazy!

Behind them from across the field, a dozen armed riders came to kill them both. The riders had exchanged fire with Channing and Reece, but the wind, darkness, and blizzard conditions made a running fight a waste of ammunition. But under the trees, out of the wind and snow, they would be able to use their night-vision scopes – and both Reece and Channing would be killed unless he did something.

Channing looked at Reece. He said, Go, damn it, Reece! You can ride! You can navigate the forest! I'll just get knocked off the horse! Go. Go! I can handle this! Let me. Let me handle these men.

In his mind: Let me kill them.

She looked at him. She didn't want to go, she wanted to stay with him, but she wasn't fit to fight. She lacked his training and experience.

Damn you, she said, taking the other horse and going into the woods. As she rode away: You damn fool!

Channing tried to pierce the darkness with his eyes and will. He saw nothing, so he retreated into the forest, hiding behind the trunk of a tree. He didn't wait long. He heard the horses pushing through the snowfield, he heard them navigate the riverbed – the cries of the rider, the snort of horses, hooves crunching on ice. They were very close. He checked his revolver, he loosened his knife in its sheath.

His best friend was dead, and the sonofabitch who killed him was still alive, and these were his men. Hatred filled Channing's heart, like nothing he had ever felt. He wanted to kill someone, he wanted to kill them all, he wanted to be carried away by battle until he was blood-drenched and exhausted. These men would do.

The men pushed up the riverbank, passing Channing on either side. They were dressed in winter coats, most of them had hats, all of them had rifles with night-vision scopes. They tore up the brush, struggled to control their horses. They didn't see Channing in the tree's shadow and in the darkness.

Channing aimed and shot a man off his horse. He closed his eyes right before he fired to prevent night blindness. He turned and shot another. The gunshot was violently bright even through his closed eyes. The men turned in their saddle, but Channing had ducked behind the other side of the tree as bullets thudded into the trunk. He tucked his pistol into his belt, jumped and grabbed a low-hanging branch on another tree. He pulled himself into that tree as one of the horsemen – the best of the bunch – rode around the wrong tree and pointed his rifle where Channing had been. The militiaman didn't look up (it was Channing's experience that few people did), and Channing shot him, too. The man's horse reared, started running, dragging the corpse who was caught on a stirrup across the snowy field.

Channing pressed himself against the tree because people were shooting into the tree. They didn't know exactly where he was, but they weren't sparing the bullets. Splinters and wood chips exploded around Channing as a couple of the riders circled, alternating fire.

Channing ducked away from the gunfire, pushed off from a branch, and leaped onto a rider isolated as the riders moved chaotically. Channing carried his enemy off his saddle, both men crashing into the brush at the edge of the riverbank. Channing landed on top. He saw the man's face. Channing pointed his pistol into the man's eye and fired. Blood sprayed on Channing, and to his immense shame, he felt profound delight in killing the man.

As the other gunmen circled their horses around, Channing used the bloody corpse as a shield – the riders wore Kevlar vests, so their bodies were good at blocking gunfire. Bullets hit the dead man but didn't pierce the two layers of the vest and the thickness of the corpse. Channing shot, missed, shot again, and knocked another fighter from his horse. Then he was out of bullets.

Channing pushed the corpse he used as a shield away and rolled, ran through the brush and behind another tree. Gunfire followed him, but they were inaccurate firing on horseback through their rifle scopes.

Someone took command of the situation. Channing heard one of the riders say, You two, get around that way, you two, the other side. We'll trap this nigger and skin him alive!

Channing didn't ride well, but he could run. He took off, sprinting parallel to the river. The horses were faster, but it was dark, and branches were everywhere, and he was a nimble man with fewer things in his way. He crashed through the brush with an agility the bigger horses lacked, and he had a sense of the land so that he didn't stumble or fall – he ran through the brush nearly as fast as he would a flat, clear track.

And he still wanted to kill.

He heard the men behind him, he heard the occasional shot – but these weren't cowboys from a Western. They couldn't ride through the dense brush, dodge tree branches in the dark, and track a man running on foot.

Someone behind him was screaming for the horsemen to get him, to get him.

A pair of riders maneuvered their horses into the frozen riverbed where they didn't have to worry about tangles of brush and limbs sweeping them from their horses. They could just gallop. They caught up to Channing but did not understand his mind.

Channing ran to the edge of the bank, drew his Bowie knife, and leaped. He tackled one of the riders from his horse, and as they fell, Channing made sure the knife was thrust towards the man's chest. When they hit the ground, his knife smashed through the man's torso, the thick blade breaking through bone, through a lung, until it was hilt deep.

Then Channing grabbed the man's rifle and fired at the second horseman. The horse was hit, fell, and Channing slung the rifle over his shoulder and scrambled up the bank. He hid behind a fallen log, sighted down the low-light scope: the world turned greenish black, and he saw horses. Horses were easy to shoot than people, so he did.

A survivor called a retreat. Channing fired at the retreating horses and men until his weapon dry-fired.

Then he slipped back into the riverbed. Channing went over to the man with his knife thrust through him – the man was still alive, but wouldn't be for long. Channing put one hand on the man's face, grabbed his knife handle, and drew out the blade. He had to twist it back and forth to free it from bone. It made cracking sounds, and the militiaman gurgled in pain. The man coughed up blood, hot droplets hit Channing's face, as the blade came free in a blood spray.

Yeah, fuck you, too, Channing said as the man gave out a last, sucking breath.

Channing went over to the other fallen horse nearby. On the far side, a man was dragging himself away, his leg broken.

Channing got his pistol, took some bullets from his pocket, started to reload. He said, I don't think they're coming back for you.

The man had a pistol, thought about going for it, then decided better of it. He hoped Channing was above cold-blooded murder. This was usually true. He said, They'll come back.

Channing finished loading his revolver. He clicked the cylinder closed. He sighted down at the man, pulled back the hammer. Channing licked his lips; they froze in the wind. He eased the hammer down.

Channing said, No, they won't, and you'll die long before you get anywhere. Assuming the goblins don't get you first.

Channing lowered his pistol, turned and started walking away.

You can't leave me! the man behind him said. You can't leave me like this!

Channing did.

***

Winter didn't quit and did not care about the pain Channing and Reece felt. Winter did not care that they had lost their home, that she had lost her lover, or Channing, his best friend. Winter did not care that they were alone in the cold darkness of a hostile world, hunted by goblins and militia alike.

After they had fled the fiasco at the Church camp, they went up to MacMurray Ridge and the fire station there. With good lines of sight, built on a base of granite, and made of heavy gauge galvanized iron, it was close to both hunting in the park and the bigger game in the Keilafjoll. The squat tower seemed a good place to start over after the massacre at the Church compound and Philip’s death.

It was pure work. On the hilltop, the tower froze in the wind and the iron stove inside needed constant feeding. They had no chainsaws or no trucks, so every stick of wood had to be cut by hand and pulled uphill. While there were plenty of woodpiles still scattered through Gray County, the time of finding a good stash and moving it was not worth it – they needed the wood quickly, so there was endless cutting and hauling. When they had enough wood, both Channing and Reece worked to make the tower more secure.

For a while, the horses taken from the Church compound helped. But without proper feed, it wasn't long before Channing and Reece agreed they were more useful as food than workers. The horses would die, anyway, so best that they died when they were most edible. The stone base of the fire tower was hollow and utterly frigid, locked with an iron door, and served as a deep freeze for the horse meat as well as the supplies taken from the Churches.

Channing admired at Reece's talents, even in the depths of grief. They scavenged welding supplies. Despite iron being so damn heavy, the metal was so strong that it was more profitable to carry up angle iron than to try to make things from wood. Making things was Reece's department. She used a miter box with a hacksaw to cut iron bars at precise angles, then flash soldered pieces into rough form before welding them. She could make anything.

While she welded and built, Channing followed her directions, and the inside of the cabin became covered in insulation. He covered the windows with sheet metal and cinder blocks except for slits to look out. He made sandbags and put them on the outside to soak up any gunfire. He put plywood boards on top of the rafters, and he filled the newly created attic with insulation. But more than anything, Channing cut wood, carried wood, split wood. His hands turned bloody, then calloused. His back ached under the weight of his burdens.

Between long bouts of welding, Reece performed minor miracles. She found small windmills and photovoltaic panels and set them up, so the roof of the cabin looked weird with whirling blades and shining black panels.

A lot of these new PV panels have microcontrollers, so you can just attach them all together to deliver useful current, she said, working indoors, where she had set up an electric light while using a soldering iron over a pile of electronics. At least we won't go crazy with boredom. I'm going to wire up some USB ports. The PV panels are twelve volts, so adapting USB car chargers isn't a big deal. So, you find tablets, phones, anything powered by USB, bring it here, and we'll be able to power it.

That's good, he said. He was laid out in bed, reading some trashy romance novel. It wasn't his thing, but he'd never read it, and they had no time to scavenge for fiction. Anything new was good. Despite having a lack of joy since Philip died, something new to divert his mind was welcome.

Also, car batteries, she said.

He groaned. He would be the person to drag them up the hill, and car batteries weighed a ton.

Reece: That way, we'll be able to have lights at night, we'll be able to read books when it's too dark to go out to do work, and there's no wind.

This is evil, he said.

She frowned, nodded. She set down her soldering iron. Do you want to talk about what happened at the Churches? With Philip?

He rolled over, tossing the book down. No, he said, softly. Turn off the light. I want to get some sleep.

Work also served to keep Channing from himself. After the brutality at the Churches, after the death of his best friend, the aches of the body were better than the pains of the soul. He could throw himself into working, exhaust his body which numbed his mind.

Reece handled her sorrow differently. She wanted to talk about it, talk through it, share her pain, and lessen it. But Channing couldn't help her with that, so she suffered alone.

***

Winter conspired against Channing's peace of mind. The beautiful dreams of warmth and the body of Aife were far away; she did not come to him, not since Christmas. The clouds piled against the spires of Keilafjoll then rolled down the slopes in fierce blizzards that lasted days which left both Channing and Reece in cold darkness alone with their thoughts. The first blizzard was the worst, after a day, Channing was curled up in his bed, sobbing. Reece was across the room, in her bed, and she cried, too.

Channing didn't speak. Reece wanted to say something, but every time she tried Channing shut her down.

After each blizzard, there was more smoke on the horizon from goblin raids. Reece, standing on the balcony of the tower, looked through the bars she had welded to protect them. She wore a heavy parka, she had binoculars in hand.

She said, The easy targets are gone. It's February, you know that, right?

He nodded. February twelfth, yeah. I think.

The weather isn't like this, is it? Not normally. It's not in Indy.

No, we usually have thaws between snows. But the days are getting longer, so that's good.

I think we're in a weather bubble. I'd bet you a hundred pounds of horse meat that on the other side of those goddamn mountains, the weather is normal, even warmer than usual. Maybe. She shook her head. I dunno.

I don't know, that's for sure. I mean, is the world bigger? Maybe we're also, I dunno, farther north?

Reece frowned. She was an engineer, so she didn't like to think about the physics of what had happened to the world.

She sighed. We're not heavier.

What?

Gravity. If the planet is bigger, unless the density decreased, we'd be heavier, but when I weigh weights, they're still the same weight. If I had to guess, I would say that the planet is bigger, sure, that the Otherworld has become interlaced with our world, but that it isn't scientific. Not like the old science, anyway.

So…? Channing said, eyebrow raised.

Well, if it isn't scientific, if it isn't rational, looking for reasons doesn't make any sense. At least not in the way we used to make sense out of the world, she said, sighing. Not when we have problems, like those goblins.

I think the goblins have their own problems. They've been rampaging for months, now. I think the people who were easy to get the goblins got. I guess that every time they approach a place, now, they've got a real fight on their hands.

She looked at him, nodding. The easy marks are gone like I said.

Channing nodded. Yeah. The people left are good at either hiding or fighting, or both, or have a defensive location, or all three. Fort Determination is still there, and I'll bet all the militia camps are going strong.

For now.

Despite their heaviness of heart and physical pains, most days they did what they needed to do. Through black moods and depression, every day they had to work, and most days they roused themselves to do it. What changed was a robbery and an opportunity.

The robbery was simple. One day they woke up, and someone had picked the lock to the base of the tower and stole most of their food. The boot prints in the snow were from human boots. Channing thought that it was the Churches come to kill them, but they were stymied by all the wrought iron that Reece had welded over everything. So, the Churches instead tried to kill them the slower way by taking their food. Reece disagreed, thought it was more likely that another group of humans had seen their smoke and followed it to its source and robbed them because they had the opportunity. Either way, their food was reduced to the stocks they had in the cabin. Then went from having weeks of food to days of it.

The opportunity was more complicated and had consequences that would reverberate for the rest of Channing and Reece’s lives.

The evening was clear and warmer than it had been for quite some time. Reece and Channing watched the sun set on the balcony, planning what to do after the theft – clearly, they had to hunt, and just as clearly, they would have trouble transporting their kills so they would have to hunt nearby. Reece was talking about how she could make traps, all they had to do is find a how-to book, and she'd sort the rest out. Until the food situation was resolved, hunting and scavenging for firewood were their primary activities, hoping that neither took an injury that would slow them down. They fought the devastation of the theft by planning for the future.

Up the snow-covered road a figure came, stopped when the person saw Channing and Reece, waved their arm. They cried out, Hello!

Channing cried back, Hello to you! He waved his arm.

Do you mind if I come closer?

Channing looked at Reece. She said, It's only one person, and they don't look armed. Sure.

Channing called back, Sure, come on over.

The person didn't move. Channing repeated himself, waved the person forward. The figure moved towards them.

She's a woman, Reece said.

She was. Closer, she pulled down her parka hood. She was in her thirties, pale skin starting to show lines of worry and care, cheeks raw and red with cold and the wind, hair dark, face thin and hawkish. She said, Are you Channing? She mispronounced his name: Chennig.

Yeah, Channing said.

I refuse to be this paranoid. We're letting her in, Reece said, going down the stairs to the gate she'd made. She unlocked it and called the woman over.

There was some awkwardness that followed as both Reece and Channing started talking – asking her name, why she was there, where she'd come from, how they were doing. The woman held her fist up to her ear, then.

Reece said, You're deaf? She took care to look straight at the woman.

The woman nodded. Yes, she said, and Channing recognized the accent of a person who hasn't heard anyone speak for a long time.

They let the newcomer inside – the fact she was deaf seemed to make her safer, though Channing knew that wasn't true: that to survive without being able to hear meant that she had to be tough and clever. They sat the newcomer down at the chair where Reece worked on electronics at night.

She said, I'm Alice Kerson.

Channing said, Are you related to Paul Kerson?

She nodded. He's my cousin.

How is he?

Gone, with the others, down south.

There was a moment's silence because gone down south seemed a euphemism for death. Most of the people in the county had left with a military convoy down south to Miller Air Force Base. Few people believed that there was any security in military protection, though it was sometimes a charming fantasy.

Alice said, How do you know Paul?

We went to high school together, Channing said, not mentioning that the slightly older boy was a bully, eventually a football hero who thought he owned the school. Things never progressed past words and Channing longed for the days when he could judge a person because of their high school bullying.

Reece interrupted. We're both wondering why you came all this way.

Alice looked around. She smoothed out the cloth of her jeans. She was clearly anxious to speak.

Reece said, It's okay. We're not the bad guys.

After another moment, she said, People say that you help people. I need help. A lot of people do.

Channing frowned. We've…we don't have any food or anything.

Alice: I have food. Enough for both of you if that is a concern.

Reece reached out and touched Channing's hand. Relief flooded her face, but it was short-lived. Then what do you need? she asked.

Alice: There is a new band of goblins in the area.

Channing, sitting on a cot next to Reece, rolled his eyes back. No fucking way. No fucking way!

Alice: They're more organized, better prepared. At first, we thought it was good because they were fighting the other goblins and killing them. But now their battles are destroying human homes – several families where I live have been caught in goblin battles and killed. I have done some scouting, and they are very dangerous and better organized than any goblins I've seen.

The goblins in Gray County had been becoming increasingly dangerous, anyway, using fire weapons: grenades and crude flamethrowers. Everything the goblins made was both original and not terribly efficient, like there were things about human technology that they failed to grasp, but worked to adapt it to the best of their abilities. Still, as pedestrian as a rapid-fire crossbow sounded next to the grenade throwers and flamethrowers of the local goblins, an accurate and powerful rapid-fire weapon was more dangerous than anything in the county. The human control of firearms technology was one of the reasons any of them were still alive – they could kill goblins farther away than goblins could kill them, and kill them faster, because of their guns. At least until the ammunition ran out.

Channing knew more about goblins than anyone in the County. He knew that when goblins organized it was usually due to an outside person – an alvar or troll.

Reece made the same connections. She said, It was only a matter of time.

Alice was slightly confused. I don't understand.

There's probably a troll in Gray County, Channing said. The local alvar don't have any interest in organizing goblins to fight, no need, either. So, if there are highly-organized goblins here, it’s probably because they’ve got a troll with them.

Alice set her mouth in a grim line. I'll do whatever I have to do to protect my children. Will you help us.

I'll look, that's for sure, but we need to restock our stores.

Of course, there is nothing in this world that's for free, Alice said.

Chapter 2

Alice walked in front so Reece and Channing could talk freely. Alice had some hearing, but not very much – they could shout her name, and she'd respond but not to anything else.

Gray County was big, sometimes Channing forgot how big, how little developed, a rolling landscape of hills and glades. Only about half of the roads were paved, those clustered in Clarent and just off the highway. The hinterlands were rustic, the families that lived there often having done so since the early 19th century, many of them Quakers living quiet lives off the grid. Channing had no idea how many Quakers there were in Gray County, living simply, given the extent to which they stayed to themselves. Still, their houses tended to have an old-timey style, and as they walked to where Alice lived, they passed many of those houses. Some of them destroyed by fire, others vandalized by indiscriminate looters, others looking like their owners were away for an evening and would be back in a moment.

On a porch of one of those houses, as they took a break, Channing asked Alice, Are you a Quaker?

She nodded. She had some bread with her, which she shared. To Channing and Reece, who had been eating a diet of meat for weeks, the bread was magical. Channing tried to take his time with it, Reece wolfed it down.

How are you getting by? Channing asked.

What do you mean? Alice asked.

The question was wide open, Reece said, swallowing her bread. This is so good.

Channing: Violence, I guess. Quakers are opposed to violence.

Alice nodded, again. Yes. We believe war is wrong but does this count? They're not human. I. . . She made a pained face. Is it waging war if what you fight are not human? If a bear attacked my children, I would kill it. I would feel bad that I had to do it, but I would not consider it the same as killing a human. I would not kill a human, even to save my children.

Reece stared at her. Jesus. That's hardcore.

There are things worse than death, Alice said. But, given the circumstances, I'd rather be alive.

Are there other Quakers out here?

Oh, yes, quite a few. Over a hundred. But we don't stay together. We decided it was a bad survival strategy. She frowned. I initially disagreed. I thought we would be better staying together, but since so few would fight and fewer can fight, well, eventually we reached the consensus that splitting up would mean some of us would die, but if we stayed together, it was almost certain all of us would die. This can't last forever.

Channing: I don't think the goblins are going anywhere.

Not them. The chaos. Eventually, it will end, Alice said. Eventually order will be restored, and we can get back to creating civilization.

Reece looked skeptical about the return of civilization. Channing looked at his bread, at Alice.

Channing said, I think you're right. This can't go on forever, no matter how bad it is now.

After lunch, they started back into some hills that Channing did not know. They were unusually rocky, not high but rough, with lots of scrub pines and they followed a frozen stream, walking right on it. They were in the shadow of scraggly trees on the ridges to either side of the stream, and a cold wind made them hunch into their parkas. Along the way, they saw objects hanging from tree branches made of wood and bone.

Reece said, They look like stick people. They look like totems.

Channing thought they were eerie, but Alice was facing away, driving towards her home before the sun set and the goblins grew more active.

They left the stream bed, moving a ways uphill, past even more of the stick men hanging from trees, until they got to the mouth of a cave almost entirely covered by icicles. All around the cave, there were stick figure men, so close together they were like chimes, swaying in the breeze and clattering against each other.

Alice turned to them and said, It's dry on the inside, I promise, and warmer than you'd think.

Reece gestured to the stick figures. What are they?

They're wards against the goblins. But the new ones don't heed them, Alice said, going inside the cave.

Reece looked at Channing, who shrugged. He had no idea about charms or wards, or how a person would acquire skill with them.

Maybe she's nuts, he said. Maybe it's a coincidence.

Maybe not, Reece said, going into the cave.

The floor had been smoothed out with gravel, the walls were marked with old graffiti. Channing touched the wall.

I bet Philip would know about this place, he said. The hills around here have a lot of caves, most of them aren't on any maps or anything. You could find them just walking around in the woods or knew the old timers who knew about them.

Reece stopped, touched Channing's shoulder. C'mon, she said, her thoughts inward.

Both he and Reece were tall, so they had to duck in a few places, but eventually he came to layers of curtains hanging down from hooks epoxied into the ceiling of the tunnel, creating a barrier against any wind that made it in this far. Past the curtains, it was warmer than he thought it would be and dry. The ground was covered with more gravel to level the surface, and the heavy pieces of furniture were set on sheets of plywood covering a frame made of four by fours – beds, a charcoal stove, boxes sealed against the weather and pests, a couple of picnic benches in the center. More curtains created rooms for privacy. Everything was incredibly neat, given the conditions. Channing estimated the temperature was in the low fifties, which was warm considering the weather outside.

At the table were two women about Alice's age and four children, one of them not older than a year. There were several elevated fire pits with Dutch ovens on them, pieces of charcoal on them, under them. It smelled like fresh bread. The place was lit by hand-cranked emergency lights.

The charcoal gave off no smoke, and Channing could feel a very slight draft leading deeper into the cave, but drapes covered the way.

Alice said, This is Natalie – the other adult woman – and the little boy is my Eric, he's seven, Ellen is his sister, she's ten, and the little one running around is Jimmy. The babe in arms is Severn, she's a darling.

Both Reece and Channing were astonished by the