Touch Not the Horse

By Anthony Gavali

Ambition is something most people have buried deep inside them. The problem is, most people are programmed to fail. Charlene, driven by a passion for supremacy, is unlike most people in that she will do whatever is necessary to make her desires real. What Charlene does not realise is that running deep within her bloodline is a connection to a game-changing predestined event. She will have to delve into black magic in order to rise to the position she so desperately craves.

Touch Not the Horse is a supernatural thriller by Anthony Gavali. The setting is the city of Londons financial heart and a horse sanctuary in East Sussex. In this complexly woven modern-day tale of success at all costs, readers are transported back through a dark history, where the fight for control of the worlds resources has been burning for centuries. Two bloodlines seek to hold the balance of power, with only one outcome.

These bloodlines have travelled down through the gauntlet of time to manifest in the twenty-first century with one aim: to fight the ultimate battle of control. Charlene holds the torch ready for the darkness. It will take the power of one man and one horse to stand in her way. They are armed with only the belief that humanity must be freed from the hands of evil. It once again falls to the few to save humanity from the bonds of eternal slavery.
The question, however, is this: Will this belief be strong enough to withstand the cyclone that is about to hit them?

Follow the story of Dean and his horse, Girlie, as they find themselves caught in this unavoidable dilemma against Charlene and the Devils servant, the evil Spirit which dwells inside her.

Set around the Sussex Horse Rescue Trust in Uckfield, Tatsfield and other locations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Dec 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496995162

Anthony Gavali

After being made redundent I took steps to cut down on all my spending instead of driving or taking the bus I walked. When walking to my local town it took me past a field about two hundred yards from my road and I looked at the poor, lonley horse a black mare in that cold field. I made a point at buying a couple of carrots in the local supermarket and fed them to the horse on the way back. One day another man was there who saw me feeding the horse as he drove there to do just that. We became good friends and always met every evening to feed the horse. We chatted about alot things and met a few people as well. One thing we and other people had in common was how sad it was to see this horse in a field that did not get much direct sunlight and how uplifting it would be if we could find a home for her. This story is based on true events. What inspired me to write about the magical horse was her personality and her intellgence, a horse sanctuary that took her in. The places that I have mentioned a real, the horse sancutuary does exist and it does have a Medeval Hall. Some of the people are real and some of the events are real. I live in a small town called Sanderstead which is Anglo Saxon for Sandy Place which is outside the main town Croydon and yes about ten minutes away is a small village called Tatsfield although there are a few theories on where the name comes from among one of the theories is it means look out at it is nearly 750 feet above sea level! Apart from work I enjoy helping out at The Sussex Horse Rescue Trust in Uckfield East Sussex to whome (amongst others) this book is dedicated to.

Book preview

Touch Not the Horse

Anthony Gavali

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AuthorHouse™ UK

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403 USA

www.authorhouse.co.uk

Phone: [phone]

The story is fictional. The names, characters, and places are used fictitiously.

© 2014 Anthony Gavali. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/10/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-9516-2 (e)

Please see www.touchnotthehorse.co.uk for more details.

Audio available from Author House- Narrated by Anthony Gavali

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1.   Something for Everyone

Chapter 2.   We’re trying to get someone to assist you, not hire a CEO.

Chapter 3.   Mission complete.

Chapter 4.   Where does oil come from?

Chapter 5.   Australians are generally tougher; it’s in our nature.

Chapter 6.   Darling Olivia is unwell today.

Chapter 7.   The Pain Was Like a Blowtorch, Burning a

Hole Inside Her

Chapter 8.   This was Dean’s error.

Chapter 9.   Her Choice of Dark Clothing Was No Coincidence,

Enabling Her to Camouflage Herself

Chapter 10.   This Was the Most Precarious Feat Charlene Had

Organised So Far

Chapter 11.   The world needs more people like Charlene

Chapter 12.   Hey, what a coincidence; we’re all dressed in black.

Chapter 13.   She Punched Her Right Fist So Hard on the

Coffee Table That Her Knuckles Bled

Chapter 14.   Touch not the horse.

Chapter 15.   Charlene … we are doomed!

Chapter 16.   Vicky Was Convinced That Her Premonitions

Were About To Become Reality

Chapter 17.   Harriet Purposely Left Out the Chilling Part

Chapter 18.   Lying Down, She Tried to Reason with the Two

Chapter 19.   However, the Other Note Was Uncanny and

Made Her Uneasy

Chapter 20.   What Happened Next, No One Could Have

Ever Imagined

Chapter 21.   In another world.

Epilogue

This book is

dedicated to: The Sussex Horse Rescue Trust and all the small animal charities who do so much on so little and to whom some of the profits from this book will go. I am eternally grateful to Eileen and Dennis Dutton and their family for all the help they gave me and my late Popsie. Without them, none of this would have been possible.

Introduction

There is a well-known saying: What goes around comes around. And there is a wise piece of advice: Do not meddle in anything you do not understand, especially the unknown.

Some people go through life without doing any harm and living normally. On the other hand, this isn’t always the case, because no matter how good a human being is, their actions can have unpleasant consequences. Some people are evil, immoral, and corrupt; their fate will eventually catch up with them.

Others can go through life dodging the fate that they deserve. Charlene is one of those people, except that she wants more. It’s as if she is addicted to drugs or alcohol. Some people are driven by greed and the lure of riches; these are their drugs. The thirst for these riches will force their sinister minds beyond their limits to acquire what they seek, even if it involves delving into the unknown.

Chapter 1

Something for Everyone

The place: Adelaide, South Australia. The suburb, Marion. The sky was getting dark on a cold and wet mid-July afternoon. Charlene, a blonde, dark-eyed, plump twenty-nine-year-old from Brisbane’s southern suburbs, walked along Marion Road. The cold breeze was blowing in her face, her overcoat was buttoned up, and her hands were jammed firmly into her coat pockets. She was about to walk past a row of shops when she suddenly stopped and peered through a murky shop window. Something had caught her eye and was drawing her closer. As the wind whipped up, a bitter chill cut through her overcoat and forced her into the shop to take refuge from the cold.

The shop was called Something for Everyone. As Charlene opened the door to the old junk shop, an old-fashioned doorbell rang. Standing with her back to the door, she found, to her surprise, that it was pleasantly warm. The shop smelt of vanilla. Inside, it was cluttered with books, records, and various bits and pieces piled up on top of each other. A few torn bits of scrap paper were scattered around the dusty block wood floor. Charlene stood just inside the doorway with her back to the shop window.

The shop was owned by Helen, a grey-haired, seventy-year-old woman who portrayed herself as dotty, scatty, and croaky. The five distinctive vertical crinkly and crackly lines on her face made her look a bit older. She had run the shop for over thirty years.

As Charlene looked around, a voice called from the back of the shop, startling her. Can I help you?

Helen moved slowly towards Charlene, her dark eyes peering out of her thick black glasses.

Oh, I just want to have a look around, Charlene replied, if that’s okay?

For some reason, Charlene was drawn by Helen’s five distinctive facial lines and instantly warmed to her.

Of course you can. Please let me know if you need any help. I’m not usually open this late; I normally close at three, but I’ve got some paperwork to do … somewhere. If you see something you like, I’m open to negotiation, said Helen.

Helen, looking for the particular paperwork, talked aloud to herself, asking, Where is it? Looking through the piles of paper, she then went to the kitchen.

Coming back out, holding up the piece of paper, she looked at Charlene and happily announced, Found it! I’m forever putting things down and am unable to find them.

Helen’s eccentric manner amused Charlene. As her eyes gazed around, she saw an old bookshelf near the left side of the shop’s window, to her immediate right. Out of all the worn, old books, one stood out; it was a very old brown book about ten inches wide and twelve inches long, wrapped in cellophane. The books were tightly packed together, so Charlene removed the one next to the brown one and then very carefully took out the book. At the back of the shop, a 1970s telephone rang loudly, which made Charlene jump. She carefully unwrapped the cellophane and delicately opened the book. She could hear Helen’s voice in the background on the phone.

After a couple of minutes, Helen finished her phone call and walked over. With a smile, she noticed the book Charlene was holding. Ah, I see you’ve found our old book section, she said.

Charlene looked a bit puzzled and asked, What’s this book about? It’s written in a foreign language.

Charlene stared at the worn and faded title of the book, which was covered by a thick layer of muddy dust. There was some kind of sign under the dust, but the mud was too thick, so she could not make out any of the wording.

Helen, who was smaller and a little slimmer than Charlene, moved next to her and peered at the book. Helen finally said, It’s a very old book, goes back to the fourteenth century. It is written partly in Old English and partly in Middle English, Old French, and Latin. I can’t make out the title or the emblem.

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Helen took the book from Charlene and put it back. Charlene asked, What’s it about?

Helen took the book from Charlene and put it back. Charlene asked, What’s it about?

Helen quietly replied, It’s about curses. We keep it wrapped up because it’s so old; it’s worth about five thousand dollars.

Charlene was taken aback and repeated, incredulously, Five thousand dollars! For a book?

Helen explained, Yes, because it’s so old. We got it as part of a house clearance a couple of months ago. If you want an investment, books are like works of art. We had it valued by an old book specialist. You never know; in a few years, it could be worth ten times more. Just like the work of artists that becomes very much sought after.

Even more intrigued, Charlene asked, If it’s so valuable, why is it just lying on the shelves? Shouldn’t it be in a glass cabinet?

Helen laughed and said, Oh, my dear, this is a quiet suburb of Adelaide, not some rough area in a big city. Besides, this is a book and not a gold bracelet that can be melted down or sneaked away in a small pocket. It’s locked away at night.

Still not satisfied, Charlene asked, If it’s that valuable, then why don’t you keep it for yourself?

Helen smiled; she knew that Charlene was trying to catch her out. She replied, As I said, it could become a sought-after book, but that could be in a year, five years, ten years. Who knows? When you buy shares in a small oil company on the stock market, the price might be a few cents. But what happens if the company discovers a large amount of oil? The shares would be worth a few dollars – but for now, they are worth a few cents. Like any investment, it’s the risk you take. The same goes with books. Besides, I’m not an avid collector. I am just like antiques dealers who do not keep valuable items for themselves; they sell them on, hopefully for quick profit.

Satisfied with a valid reason, Charlene’s sinister mind began to think.

Helen tempted her even more as she indirectly sought to discover where Charlene lived, saying, Some investments fetch higher prices overseas. Take coins. A friend of mine runs a coin shop. He gets a lot of dealers from the UK buying here. The market is deeper, there’s more money, and coins are tangible.

Charlene, feeling more at ease, opened up, saying, I live and work in London.

To feed the conversation, Helen replied, How lovely. I lived in London from 1961 to 1973. I had a place in East Finchley.

This impressed Charlene and prompted her to continue chatting. Wow! How cool was that? You must have seen so many changes. Did you shop in Carnaby Street? Was London really the place to be in the sixties?

Helen loved talking about London and was genuinely enthusiastic, so the conversation flowed. She replied, Oh yes! All the time! When the miniskirt came out, everyone was wearing them, from teenagers to old grannies. Every age group was swinging. I worked in a small art gallery in St. John’s Wood; it was owned by two brothers. Carnaby Street was around the corner … I didn’t catch your name. I’m Helen.

Charlene’s face lit up. She was really enjoying herself. Her handshake reflected this.

As a sideline, they moved into old books, Helen continued. It wasn’t going well, and I’d always been interested in them. A friend of mine knew the brothers and recommended me. A woman’s touch was needed; the brothers were in their late fifties and were a bit behind the times. I met my husband there in July 1965. He did business with the brothers, and he and I were married six months later.

Charlene showed her knowledge by commenting, St. John’s Wood, that’s where Abbey Road Studios are.

Helen now had a clear picture of how to drive the conversation. She said, "That’s right, very good! In fact, I was married on 28 January 1966 at Epsom Register Office, exactly one week after George Harrison was. I saw the Beatles at Abbey Road. One day, their manager, Brian Epstein, came into the shop. I was the only one there that morning. I knew who he was, as he had been in before and had bought a couple of paintings. Being responsible for the book section, I told him that if he was looking for an investment, he should look at books. I only got commission on books. He asked me what would be a good buy, and I showed him a rare book on modern industrial and decorative art from 1947. The term art deco came into more common use in 1966. Not many had been printed, and it didn’t sell well. He bought it for ten pounds.

"I didn’t know what happened to that book. But ten years ago, I was in New York, attending an auction, and the same book was on the sale list. Before the auction, I looked at the book. It was sold for $50,000. It had to be the same one, because the author signed the inside, ‘To Elizabeth-Jane. Thank you for your support. All my love, Eric.’ Over the I in Elizabeth and Eric, he drew a small heart and the letter E written inside it. Now, how many Elizabeth-Janes were there? And how many had a heart written above the I – and the letter E written inside that? I would say it was exactly the same book."

Testing Charlene out, Helen changed the slant of the conversation and said, Brian Epstein invited me to a couple of parties. By the way, where in London do you live?

Mile End. I work for an investment management firm near Tower Bridge. I love it there. The shopping is fantastic, and it’s so easy to get around. St. John’s Wood is so beautiful. I envy you! Just think, you saw so many changes. What were the parties like?

Helen looked delighted to talk about those heady days. She said, The parties! Marijuana everywhere, and it was the proper stuff! Brian Epstein was a generous host. So many celebrities and top models of the time attended. It’s all a beautiful dream.

Helen stopped. She had a faraway look in her eyes while happily reminiscing. Then she carried on. The number of pop stars that were there was amazing. The Small Faces, the Kinks, Jimi Hendrix, Brian Jones …

Charlene, displaying her ignorance, asked, Who is Brian Jones?

Helen looked surprised and said, "He was the founding member of the Rolling Stones and gave the band its name. They were never the same without his talent. He could play any instrument and get a tune out of it. No Brian Jones, no Rolling Stones.

There’s me going on about my past and forgetting my manners. Would you like a tea or coffee? It’ll warm you up; it’s freezing outside. Come round behind the counter.

I’d love one, thanks. I wish I’d been in London in 1965. What great era and place to be.

While Helen was in the kitchen and out of sight, she continued to chat away. Charlene noticed a telephone bill on the counter. She quickly took out her mobile and stored the number.

As the two chatted over tea, Charlene made a move, saying, I’d better get going. It’s been great talking to you. I go back next week, so I’ll pop in before I go.

That would be fantastic. Pop in even if you just want a chat. See you later.

Once Charlene left, Helen looked out of the right-side corner window, watching Charlene get into a car and drive off. Helen turned the Open sign to show Closed, locked the door, brought down the blinds, and went to the back of the shop. She turned off the shop lights, leaving a small table lamp on the counter lit, and made a phone call.

Her expression changed to scowling and unsmiling, revealing the dark side of the woman who had, just a couple of minutes earlier, been happy and chatty. Her eccentric, happy mannerisms completely disappeared and were replaced by briskness and alertness.

In a pensive, no-nonsense tone, Helen did all the talking: I’ve found the woman to take the book, and she lives in the UK. Don’t worry, she’ll be back, alright. I’ll keep you in touch. Do not do anything without calling me first. Speak to you later.

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Back at her Uncle Jack’s house, Charlene sat opposite her friend Vicky, who was from Chingford in London. Both were in Australia on holiday, having a good time. London was a distant memory. Vicky resembled Charlene, except that her naturally blonde hair was dyed brown (Charlene never understood why she would dye it). The television was on and Vicky was flicking through a magazine, but Charlene could not concentrate, as the book was playing on her mind.

Charlene told Vicky about the book. As she paced around the room, she said, Vicky, we’ve got to get that book. I know we can make it work.

Vicky looked up; her North-East London accent was a dead giveaway as to what part of the UK she was from. She asked, You really want this book, don’t you?

Charlene replied sharply, We can do virtually anything with that book. We can move onwards and upwards. Trouble is, I haven’t got five grand, and neither have you.

Charlene stood in front of her friend and stared down at her. She said, This wasn’t written yesterday; it really is six hundred years old. There’s some sort of foreign writing on the cover. Can you go in and look at it? The books are on the left side of the shop, which is cluttered, but everything is organised. All the books are stacked neatly in the shelves. Don’t make it obvious. If the old bag asks what you’re looking for, say glassware or something like that.

Vicky nodded. Of course I will, Char.

Charlene described the book and explained that it was the only one of its kind; she then opened her laptop on the coffee table. Now, I need to find out about London life in the Swinging Sixties.

Vicky looked up, bewildered; she asked, Huh?

It’s okay, just another prop. We need to string this out over a few days, said Charlene.

The next day, Vicky went into the shop on her own, while Charlene decided to keep well out of sight and so stayed at home. Vicky followed Charlene’s directions and found the book. Helen was at the back of the shop; Vicky could hear her on the phone, which gave her the opportunity to look at the book. Vicky wanted to steal it for Charlene, but, being on her own, her nerves were jangling and got the better of her. Helen could come back at any second. Before Helen finished her call, Vicky put the book back and walked out of the shop.

Back at the house, the two friends sat next to each other in the living room.

Vicky looked sympathetically at Charlene and said, You really want that book, don’t you?

Charlene, her voice edged with determination, said, I do, Vicky. I know we can make it work!

Vicky sat up. Well, we’ll have to nick it then. That old bag won’t notice until we’re well away. I mean, she’s past it.

Charlene’s deceitful eyes lit up, her smile forming a wicked grin. With sheer delight, excitement, and enthusiasm, she said, I knew you’d come through!

Vicky put her arm across Charlene’s shoulder and said, That’s what friends are for, Char.

Two days later, Charlene was back in the shop. Helen was glad to see her. Charlene had brought a packet of luxury biscuits, and Helen asked her to make tea while she finished off some paperwork. They chatted away like two close friends, talking about their lives. Charlene dropped in some details she had learned about London in the 1960s. Both women were relaxed and happy.

You know, this feels like a mother and daughter who have become two close friends. You’ve cheered me up. My husband died suddenly of a heart attack three years ago, and life since then has been tough, Helen said.

Charlene asked, Do you have any children?

Helen deliberately changed her expression to one of great sadness and said, Unfortunately not. I had five miscarriages. In 1973, the doctors told us not to try for another child, as it was considered too dangerous back then. They wanted me to have a hysterectomy, but I refused.

Charlene replied, I can understand how you feel. That’s a very difficult decision because …

Helen cut her off, saying sympathetically, I appreciate your kind words. I would have lost any chances of having a baby and thought a cure might be around the corner … you never know.

Charlene noticed that Helen’s hands were on her lap, her fingers stretched out with excitement.

Charlene said, I’ve never spoken to my parents or sister like this and never told anyone before. I’ve never felt that close to my parents. They’ve done a lot for me, but they do more for my sister instead of me. Can you understand where I’m coming from?

Helen said reassuringly, Some parents are like that. You live in the UK, so your sister gets all the attention. Once you go back, it’ll change.

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The next morning, Charlene and Vicky were eating breakfast. Charlene spoke with her mouth full, giving Vicky the final instructions: Okay, you come into the shop ten minutes after I’ve gone in. Make sure to wait at least ten minutes; otherwise, it’ll look suspicious.

So, I’ll come in and ask her to show me something, maybe old tins? Vicky suggested.

Charlene remembered her previous visits to the shop and said, No, ask for glassware. It’s kept towards the back of the shop near her office. Tins are in the middle, and we want to keep her in the back for as long as possible.

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The afternoon was cold and grey. Thick clouds darkened the sky. Once again, the doorbell rang as Charlene entered the shop.

Helen made her way from behind a pile of clutter and said, Oh, hello! What a lovely surprise. Good to see you again. Something caught your eye?

Charlene replied, I thought I would have a last look around. I go back to Brisbane tomorrow and then on to London. I changed my flight so I could have a few extra days with my aunty in Brighton.

Helen gave the same warm smile that greeted Charlene a couple of days earlier; she sighed and said, Brighton, that takes me back. Would you like a tea?

This was perfect timing for Charlene because, even though she didn’t want one, it would keep Helen occupied. She said, Yes, please, I’d love one.

Helen went into the small kitchen in the back, out of sight of anyone in the main shop. Ten minutes later, the door opened. Vicky arrived on schedule, holding a canvas shopping bag from Coles. Helen came to the front and smiled at her. Can I look around? Vicky asked.

Even though Helen recognised Vicky from the other day, she didn’t acknowledge this. She replied in a genuinely enthusiastic voice, Of course you can; just let me know if you need any help.

As Helen returned to make the tea, Vicky browsed through the cluttered shelves. She then strolled to the back and noticed the small section of glassware, just as Charlene had described. She went near the counter and called towards the kitchen, Excuse me, do you have any other glassware beside these?

Helen came out of the kitchen and said, Yes, we do. Is there anything in particular you are looking for?

Charlene slowly walked to the front of the shop, browsing.

Yes, something small from the 1920s or 1930s for my granny back in the UK, Vicky replied.

I think I have a small selection your grandmother would like, Helen said.

She brought out a small cardboard box that had been sitting on the floor near her office, deliberately fumbling and putting it on a cluttered table in front of the counter. She unwrapped two glass vases.

Holding the vases, Helen said, This style is very popular at the moment; good job these came in yesterday. How about these? They were made in 1932 at a small factory in Adelaide. They’re forty dollars each, but I could let you have them for, say … thirty.

Vicky pondered for a few seconds. Hmm … let me think for a moment.

Charlene discreetly took out her mobile and dialled the shop’s telephone number. The loud ring startled Vicky. Helen excused herself, went into her office, and picked up the phone.

Charlene took out another canvas Coles bag, put the book inside, and folded it down, leaving the bag among the clutter on the floor as she hung up her mobile.

They could hear Helen in the background, saying, Hello? Hello … Hello. What’s that? … I see they’ve concealed their number.

Looking annoyed, she came back out of her office.

Excuse me. How much is this, please? Vicky asked.

Helen meandered around the clutter, lightly bumping into a couple of shelves; she peered at the glass vase Vicky was holding up and said, That’s fifty dollars.

Vicky’s face deliberately dropped in disappointment.

I tell you what. I’ve got some cheaper items I haven’t had time to sort out. Wait there, Helen said as she went back into her office.

Charlene put the Coles bag into a second bag; Helen came back more quickly than expected, carrying a small cardboard box. She said, Here you are; how about these? Two 1930s china vases. I would normally sell these for thirty; how about twenty? You’ll be doing me a favour, and I’ll be doing you one.

Vicky snapped, Done! Could you wrap them up in newspaper so I can pack them away? I fly back home next week.

The phone rang again, and Helen went back into her office.

Charlene made eye contact with Vicky and simultaneously tossed her Coles bag over to her. Vicky chucked her empty bag to Charlene. Charlene now had one bag. Vicky had the other.

They hear Helen saying, Hello? Hello? Hello?

When Helen made her way back to the counter, Vicky said sympathetically, I know how you feel; bet they realised they had the wrong number as soon as you answered. I hate that.

Not to worry, Helen replied.

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Vicky chucked her empty bag to Charlene. Charlene now had one bag. Vicky had the other.

Vicky paid for the two vases and left. After she had gone, Charlene and Helen drank their tea and chatted. Charlene talked about swinging London, which made a good impression on Helen. Anyone would think that Charlene had been there.

Later on, Charlene went to the book section and came back to the counter, holding up two small books. She asked, How much are these?

Helen looked at them and said, Found something?

Yeah, I just remembered my cousin is a Shakespeare fan.

Is ten dollars okay? Helen asked.

As she wrapped one of the books, Helen said, "Titus Andronicus is quite an unusual play."

In what way? Charlene asked.

Helen’s eyes opened wide; they looked chilling to Charlene, like a black light was glaring from them. She said, It’s rather violent. People die … quite … horrendously.

Charlene shuddered and then composed herself. Not wanting to appear ignorant, she pretended to know what the play was about and said, Yeah … my cousin mentioned that.

Helen reached under the counter and brought out five very old books that were the same size as the brown book. There you are. Do you remember what I said a few of days ago about an art deco book that Brian Epstein bought for ten pounds and which was sold thirty years later for $50,000?

Charlene nodded.

Well, these books are also very old; they are translations from Old and Middle English, Old French, Latin, and a mixture of all four. They are worth a fortune now. I want to sell them to you for forty dollars.

Charlene was puzzled and asked, Why are you …?

Charlene, you’re a very charming young lady, the only person who has ever chatted to me and been interested in my time in the UK. I’m so impressed by your knowledge of life back then. I feel as if we’ve known each other all our lives. As you know, my husband died three years ago. You’ve really cheered me up. I get very, very few customers, two a week if I’m lucky, and they rarely buy a single item. Some people think these things are all reproductions or fakes.

Helen’s eyes beamed black light through Charlene’s eyes, slightly pushing her back and then holding Charlene completely still. In a semi-trance, Charlene was unable to speak. Every sound was muted: the traffic, the planes descending low overhead – everything was silent except for Helen’s serious voice.

Now listen to me carefully. Nothing, absolutely nothing, in this shop is a reproduction or fake. Everything is the genuine article. Everything you see is extremely rare. They’re either a pair, a set, or single items. One or two are the only ones ever made. Those vases that young lady bought are very, very rare. If she has the brains to take off the sticky labels that protect the bases, she will see they are from 1932 and made by Clarice Cliff. Only twenty were ever made. Most of them were destroyed, except for six pairs. They’re worth ten thousand pounds a pair. So, when I say that these books are worth a fortune, they are. How much is a fortune? Well, that depends on you. Do not open any of the books now or in front of anyone you do not trust. They will be jealous. You will find out soon.

Charlene came out of her trance. All the background noises returned, as if they had been held and were let go all at once. Coming back to her senses, Charlene asked Helen how much she wanted for the books.

Just give me forty dollars. You’re helping me clear some of this stuff out. I don’t have much room, Helen said, as if nothing else had happened.

Charlene paid for the books. The two women said their good-byes.

Charlene put the books in the boot and got into Uncle Jack’s car, where Vicky was waiting.

What did you buy, Char?

Oh, just a couple of Shakespeare plays. Anything to keep her happy.

As Charlene drove off, Vicky remarked, Char, this seems odd, but you sounded like that woman.

Maybe she’s from Brisbane, too. I can’t say I noticed.

To Vicky, Charlene’s answer sounded logical.

After the two women drove off, Helen locked the shop door, turned the Open sign to Closed, and pulled down the blinds. She walked to the back of the shop and turned on her CD player. As Canon in D Major rang out, she threw her hands into the air and said with relief, She took it away of her own free will. We can start, at last!

Helen had finally got rid of the book. She could not sell it or give it away; it had to be taken by someone who really wanted it. It had to be the right person. Charlene had been the one who was carefully selected. The first stage was over.

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That evening, while Vicky was upstairs, Uncle Jack was talking to Charlene in the lounge. He asked, "Did you find time to look at that amazing junk shop on Marion Road?"

She replied quietly, "Yeah, but it really is a load of junk. I’m amazed it’s still open."

Charlene walked to the bottom of the stairs while Uncle Jack stared at her for a few seconds. She called out, Vicky! You ready?

By 11.30, Uncle Jack was snoring in bed, having left the crumpled-up newspaper in the armchair. The lights in the lounge were soft at the back of the room. Opposite the window was a highly polished dining table. Charlene got the supermarket bag from her bedroom and carefully took out the brown book, which she placed on the table.

Vicky, under the sink in the kitchen, there’s a yellow duster …

Vicky stopped flicking through the magazine and quickly got up, saying, I’ll get it.

When she came back, Charlene tried to remove the dust from the book’s thick brown cover, but this proved ineffective. Vicky got another yellow duster and dipped it in hot water and a little washing-up liquid. After she wiped it for about ten minutes, the cover was clear. Above a pentagram, written in Old English, was the faint title. Charlene looked at the words, wondered briefly what they meant, and then opened the front cover. The pages were thicker and heavier than those of modern books. The first page was written in Old English.

What’s it say? Vicky asked.

Charlene got up to fetch a pen and paper. She then sat down and copied the words.

Vicky stared at the book and asked, Do you really think it’s six hundred years old?

Concentrating on reading the words, Charlene slowly replied, Probably. It looks it. I wonder if that old girl at the shop has noticed it’s missing.

If it’s valuable, she might call the police, Vicky said.

Charlene carefully turned the pages, saying, She would have to, for insurance purposes. Let’s wait. We don’t go back to work until the end of next week, so if she is going to call the police, she will have done it by then.

Maybe it isn’t insured.

Charlene grew slightly irritated; she put her right hand up to stop Vicky and said, slowly and calmly, It’s worth more than a million bucks. This book has power. She had to have insured it.

Char, be careful. This sounds like black magic. That’s a pentagram. This writing, if it’s Old English, it looks funny … you know, upside down.

The pentagram needs to be upside down for black magic, Charlene explained. Don’t worry. When we’re back in London, we’ll get it valued.

Vicky was still concerned. She asked, What if they search our bags?

Good point, Charlene replied. We’ll post it to Angelina in London and pick it up when we’re at her place.

Charlene knew that translating something from Old English was going to be difficult. She opened the book and looked for some of the words in a dictionary on the Internet, but that proved impossible.

Vicky peered at the text again and said, It does look sort of … backwards?

Charlene said, Maybe that’s how Old English was. Look at the Internet; it does look weird.

As Charlene closed the book, Vicky said, Why don’t we try and translate a few words?

I’ll get it translated when we’re back in London. It’s too hard. We don’t have an Old English keyboard, and looking up every word is impossible, Charlene said, irritated.

Vicky saw the point and agreed.

Charlene hadn’t told Vicky about the other books. Although she had been in a semi-trance, she remembered Helen saying that the five books were translations. She wondered if they went with this book. Charlene’s naturally devious mind decided to pour Vicky another drink; instead of Scotch and Coke, she insisted on an Absolut Vodka and Coke, heavy on the vodka, thus ensuring that the cocktail went to Vicky’s head. She put the book back in the bag. The two sat and chatted for a little while. Once the alcohol took effect, Charlene ushered Vicky to bed, ensuring that she never saw the other books.

In the early hours of the morning, Charlene crept downstairs, went through the back door to the car, opened the boot, and removed the bag. She returned to her bedroom without being noticed. Because the books were dusty, she put a large towel on her bed and carefully placed the brown book and the five other books on it. Not sure what language was on the front, she glanced through the first book of Middle English, checking the language style. It didn’t match. The second was Old English. The style appeared the same. She carefully looked at a few words, opened the front cover, and went through a few pages.

On the last page, to her astonishment, she saw a black, upside-down pentagram and the title: The Book of Evil. With her laptop next to her, she navigated to an Old English translation website and typed in The Book of Evil. She clicked on the button to translate Old English.

The letters sort of looked the same. She frowned, thinking for a minute, and then had an idea. Rummaging through her shoulder bag, she took out a hand mirror and placed it over the brown book’s Old English title. She leant to the left and peered at the reflection in the mirror, and then she looked at the translation on the screen. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as she opened the Old English translator, reading the words that formed this warning: Read this book with intrigue. Do not perform anything from here you do not understand, as the consequences that lie ahead could be dire.

She typed the warning into the translator, which brought up the Old English. She read the reflection in the mirror, which was the same. The Old English title was written backwards and upside down in different languages. Charlene sat back, aghast, but she was ambitious about the opportunistic possibilities.

That’s it! That’s what the translation books are for. What did Vicky say? It looks upside down and backwards, she said quietly.

Over the next two hours, Charlene went through the Old English translation and the brown book. Turning a page near the middle section, she found an A5 yellow envelope.

Opening it, she saw a piece of paper with two business cards stapled to it. The first was from Redback Antiques; printed on the card was the sign of a redback spider. The address: Adelaide-Mannum Road, Mannum, 5238, South Australia. The second was for Trundle’s Junk Shop, High Street, Uckfield, TN22, East Sussex. A note read, Go to the Mannum shop alone, and bring the brown book. Arrive there after ten in the morning. Do not tell anyone where you are going, what you have seen, where you have been, or where you got it.

The unsigned note was written in green-black ink. She quietly read aloud the one part that puzzled her: Where you got it? Got what?

She looked again at the note and said, I’m not going there on my own. Don’t tell anyone where I’m going? Huh! That’ll never happen. I’m not stupid.

She packed all the books in the box, slid the box under the bed, and drifted off to sleep. A couple of minutes later, her eyes opened wide. There was an odd odour. It was faint but definitely there. The smell grew stronger and stronger; it was now an unpleasant stench of raw sewage, rotten eggs, contaminated milk, and putrefying human flesh. Leaping out of bed, Charlene covered her mouth and opened the window. Going around the room, she traced the smell to the box under the bed. She opened the box and took out the books; the stench was clearly coming from the brown book. She began to gag and broke into a sweat; the brown book, she realised, was trying to tell her it was annoyed.

In a panic, she called out quietly, I won’t tell anyone, bring anyone. I won’t say anything. I promise, I’ll come alone; you have my word.

Immediately, the smell disappeared. Still sweating, Charlene went into the bathroom and started her shower.

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The next morning, as Vicky went down to breakfast, Uncle Jack came out of the kitchen and handed her a note. He said, Good morning, Vicky. Charlene had to go out this morning, but she left this for you.

The note read, Had to go to Royal Gawler Hospital. A friend of mine is seriously ill. I’ll be back tonight, not sure what time.

This ensured Charlene that her tracks were covered, as Gawler was in the opposite direction from Mannum.

Vicky’s face clearly showed she was a bit peeved; Uncle Jack looked cross and said what Vicky would have liked to say: She could have woken one of us up. I would have thought she’d wake you up, at least!

Vicky agreed that it was strange, but she tried to work out the logic, saying, Maybe she is in shock and just wanted to go. I would have driven her, but that would have meant waiting until I was ready. Maybe she was in a hurry.

Uncle Jack replied, Gawler’s miles away! You can’t concentrate with that on your mind. How about some breakfast?

Uncle Jack tried to cheer her up, saying, Oh, don’t worry about her, Vicky. She’ll be okay. If you need a lift into town, just ask.

No longer irritated, Vicky replied, No … no, thanks. It’s okay, I’d rather take the bus. Thanks all the same.

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It took two and a half hours for Charlene to drive to Mannum; she had a lot on her mind, and it was hard for her to concentrate. She left around six o’clock and arrived in the middle of a downpour. Driving around, she came to a café. Her instinct told her to check the address, but she was exhausted and hungry – and the café was inviting. She parked right outside; she didn’t want to take the brown book out of the boot, so she needed to keep an eye on the car.

Inside the café, Charlene sat by the window, looking through the paper as she ate breakfast. Not really reading, she just turned the pages and glanced at the articles. She noticed a small section titled UK News. The articles were not interesting, except for one that caught her eye: Another dead body found. The report was about the body of a wealthy Swiss businessman who was found dead in Brighton. The man, in his mid sixties, was drugged with Rohypnol before being struck on the head, which killed him. Police believe this murder is connected with three other fatalities.

Charlene stared at the article for several minutes. Checking her mobile, she saw that Vicky had sent her a text: R U OK? Charlene was about to reply but decided not to.

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She drove around until she found the shop, which was only five minutes away. The name, Redback Antiques, was above the door. Redback was in bold red and Antiques in bold black.

She drove around until she found the shop, which was only five minutes away. The name, Redback Antiques, was above the door. Redback was in bold red and Antiques in bold black. After looking at the sign for the shop, Charlene drove off.

Around ten o’clock, she returned and parked outside the shop. There were ten concrete steps and two brick walls that blocked off the sides of the house. What made her uneasy were the heavily tinted windows. Holding a carrier bag with the brown book inside, she slowly walked up the stairs. She noticed that there was no Open or Closed sign and no indication of business hours, telephone number, or Web address. The door was heavily painted in dark green with black streaks.

She looked away from the door for a few seconds and then looked at it again. The black streaks seemed to form a face. Hesitating at the door, Charlene gently pushed it open. There were only two dim lights on inside; the interior was dark. Frightened and not wanting to venture too far in, she held the door half open. Her eyes were pulled to a silhouette standing at the back of the room.

The silhouette said, Please come in and shut the door. It’s cold outside, and you’re letting the heat out.

She realised the voice was not young; the man’s accent was not a strong Australian one. The figure moved forward, holding an ebony walking stick with a gold cap that was slightly bigger than his fist on top. The man was balding from the front. A short grey beard covered his face. He said, I’ve been expecting you. Please, don’t be scared. There’s something I must give you before you leave; you cannot function without it.

He sounded a little annoyed and added, Look, you’re letting the heat out. Can you come in and shut the door?

Slowly, Charlene stepped inside. The man said, You’ve read the note and come this far, so can you shut the door?

She asked, What note is that?

The man falsely laughed and said, That’s good, very good. Always check and double-check. I can see this working out. He stopped laughing and said, The note in the brown book; now, come in and shut the door. There’s a lot I need to tell you, and there’s much you need to know.

Her fears eased as she slowly walked in and closed the door.

With a stern and serious voice, the man said, Charlene, you cannot function without what I am going to give you.

Her voice quivered as she replied, How … how … did—

He interrupted before she could finish her question: How did I know your name? Come and sit beside the fire; you must be cold and tired. I knew you were coming here.

She noticed that he walked with a limp. The two sat opposite each other in the cloth-covered armchairs by the log fire. The lights and the flickering flames cast a shadow over his head, slightly changing his face. Charlene’s shoulders shuddered slightly. The man held his walking stick in the middle, but what caught Charlene’s eye wasn’t the solid gold cap on top but its decoration: a solid gold crown of thorns.

Pointing with his stick, he said, Take the brown book out of your bag and keep it well away from the fire.

As Charlene placed the book on a small side table behind her, the man reached from his chair and put another log on the fire.

With a voice lacking all emotion, he said, "You have all the books, the brown book and the translations. The other books are an exact translation of the brown book, which is written in five languages: Old English, Middle English, Old French, Latin, and a combination of all four. Have you looked at The Book of Evil?"

Shocked to hear the book’s name spoken out loud, she answered, Yes.

He tested her intelligence by asking, What did you notice about it?

Certain of her answer, she said, It’s all written backwards and upside down.

Still unsmiling, the man answered, Very good. I wasn’t sure how long it would take you to discover that.

He pointed his walking stick to the right. Her eyes followed the path away from the fire. She saw two parcels. One was two foot square, and the other was bulky, measuring six inches wide and deep. Both packages were wrapped in brown paper.

Take these parcels home. Instructions for how to use it are in the brown book. Keep the parcels and the books away from heat. The brown book is used in conjunction with what is in the parcels; they will help you to make contact. When you are back in the UK, go to the shop listed on the business card. Again, go there alone, and don’t tell anyone where you are going or what you have seen. You came here on your own, so you can do the same there.

She interrupted. Help me make what contact?

"You will find out. Read the instructions inside the brown book very carefully; keep the books and parcels safe. Do not show anyone how to use The Book of Evil or the translation books."

Charlene leant forward and asked, What if someone tries to steal the books or whatever’s in the parcels?

The man fired back, They won’t!

Charlene was not satisfied and asked, But what if they do?

They won’t! Anyone who tries will find out! When you have completed your task, bring the books and the parcels back to me. You will be greatly rewarded upon your return. That I can promise you.

"What do you mean, rewarded?"

You will be told that after you return to the UK. Charlene was about to ask another question when the man said, Do not open the parcels until you get home, and do it alone. For now, do not let anyone see them. He stood up and said, It’s time for you to go; please, close the door behind you.

As Charlene got up, she asked, What if I need to contact you? How do I do that? What if I’m in trouble? What’s your name?

The man replied, I have done my task. Go and complete yours. Do not come looking for any of us. Now, leave.

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The two sat opposite each other in the cloth-covered armchairs by the log fire. The lights and the flickering flames cast a shadow over his head, slightly changing his face.

Once outside, Charlene knew that something was odd, but she could not figure out what it was. She carried the large parcel and the carrier bag with the brown book and the smaller parcel to the car, putting them all in the boot and covering them with a blanket.

As she closed the boot, she realised what was wrong: It was dark. How could that be? She had gone into the shop around ten o’clock in the morning; she couldn’t have been in there that long. She quickly got into the car. To her astonishment, the clock showed that it was 6.00 p.m. She checked her mobile; it displayed 18.00. She turned on the radio, just in time to hear the six o’clock news announcer. This put her head in a spin; she could not imagine where the time went. Had she really been there for eight hours? Or was she in some sort of time warp?

As she drove off, a dark shadow, unbeknown to her, moved over the house. It was the colour of smoke and looked like a long snake. The shadow darted towards the car and entered the side of the boot.

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Charlene arrived back to Uncle Jack’s around eight o’clock; Vicky asked how her friend was.

Charlene explained that her friend had been involved in a car accident, adding, She’s got two broken ribs, a fractured arm, and bruising on her face.

Later, when everyone was asleep, Charlene went to the car and brought the parcels back to her bedroom. She quietly cut the tape and string with her nail scissors and then unwrapped the large parcel. The contents were wrapped in newspaper. One layer was from The Times in London, dated 19 August 1962; the other was from The Australian, a national paper, dated 15 August 1971. She gazed down, totally transfixed on what was before her: a beautiful ebony Ouija board along with a golden planchette that had an oval-shaped pointer with a pentagram clearly engraved on it. The smaller parcel was tougher to unwrap. Inside was another parcel, again tightly wrapped in two sheets of paper. Within that were two sets of thin, solid gold letters and numbers.

She separated the letters from the numbers, putting them in alphabetical order from A to Z. There were twelve letters left over, which she also put in alphabetical order. One word stood out: it spelled G-O-O-D. The other three letters were B-Y-E. The other words, once spelled out, were Yes and No. The numbers were from zero to nine. With the Ouija board, there was an envelope tacked by a small piece of sticky tape, instructing her to press the top left side. A thin drawer opened, containing instructions for the board.

The note read, Instructions for the Ouija board.

1. Never place any silver on the board. Keep silver out of your dwelling.

2. Always allow the pointer to count backwards.

3. Renounce God.

4. You can never say good-bye. You notice that the word good-bye is only to complete the board. There is no sun or moon either.

5. When the pointer moves to all four corners, the Spirit has arrived.

6. You must choose one person to be by your side. That person must be loyal to you at all times. The moment they become disloyal or betray you, you’ve got to kill them. You’ll have complete protection from disposing of them