Plato's Jailers

By Uriel Stone

Three strangers from across the globe are brought together by the spiritual world in order to complete the ultimate mission: to uncover the illusory world of today and to pull it down to reveal the true nature of man's existence. Their lives come together through the discovery of three ancient keys which, when brought together, would begin the countdown to the End of Days.

When Alice Murray discovers an old key when she is moving home in England, she is flung into a frightening, unknown world. She meets UFO fan and self proclaimed conspiracy theorist, Chase Winters, who leads her to the Vatican in Rome. There they meet pregnant university student, Gabrielle Bruno, who reveals to them the dark side of religious movements alive in the world including human sacrifice and the existence of demons and the horrifying realisation of who the true leader of this world is.

During their quest, they are thrown together with a terrified Yale undergraduate, Samuel Lernstein, the son of a wealthy American politican who is on the run after being forced into a secret and murderous fraternity in the United States. He runs to save his girlfriend, daughter of a Hollywood movie mogul, whose mind is no longer her own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Nov 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9781794822535

Book preview

‘PLATO’S JAILERS"

By

URIEL STONE

PART I:  THE JAILERS AND THE CHAINS

1.

Twenty years ago...

Byker Grove was just finishing and it was dark out, although the road outside still hummed with rush hour traffic.  Alice’s granddad was sliding down the deflated old pillows the nurses had propped him up with, so he could drink tea and watch television more easily. Apparently sitting up was a struggle when you got old, Alice had been told.

Granddad would be pleased - Blockbusters was about to start but Alice would need to switch the telly over and he still hadn’t found the remote control under his blankets.  He was looking for his remote control.  How’d you lose something that is the size of a house brick? Alice thought. 

His eleven-year-old, blue-eyed and blonde pig-tailed granddaughter giggled to herself as she sat on the grey plastic visitors chair adjacent to the old man’s bed, uncomfortable in her stupid, stuffy school uniform, but playfully swinging her tiny twigs which passed for legs, covered with itchy, thick grey knit; shielding her from the wintry weather.

Her exhausted parents had gone down to chain smoke a few cigarettes and grab a hot drink of some kind. 

Ros, her mum had been at the hospice all day and appeared pale and drained and in desperate need of nicotine, so when Alice and her father arrived, the little girl was told to keep granddad company for a little while.  The old man was in hospital for almost two weeks except that Alice knew that it really wasn’t a hospital where people went to get better. No -  this was a hospice where people, like her granddad, riddled with cancer, came to die.

The tired, old man, who could hardly see anything or hear anything - so old were his organs and bones - groped around under the covers once more before he produced the black brick from underneath the covers.  He was so weak he was barely able to hold it and it shook precariously in his hands.

The sterile, cold hospital room that had become her grandfather’s tomb was silent for a few moments, only the rhythmic pulse of a heart monitor seeped through the quiet as the old man pressed down frantically on a small square button which clearly wasn’t one that changed the channel on the television that sat on a rickety old unit in a dirty, blue formica.  Alice felt a tiny bit awkward, sitting there all alone with her granddad, trying to pass the time with small talk; being only eleven, she wasn’t well versed in the social nuances of the day. 

Her granddad was a very proud man and wouldn’t have appreciated Alice leaping to his assistance.  He’d fought in World War Two.  Ex British army, seeing action in both Holland and France. 

She watched him fumble awkwardly with the remote control.  Need a hand? she asked. He almost jumped out of his skin. What on Earth d’you think you’re bloody doin’? There’s no need to shout!  I’ve cancer, I’m not deaf and I’m perfectly able to turn the bloody telly over by myself!

With her cheeks reddening and burning, Alice plonked herself back down and folded her legs and arms and stayed quiet, listening to the opening of Neighbours from the television along with the sharp beeps from the big grey monitor.

You know I’ll probably be gone by this time tomorrow, he told her plainly, staring at her with his tired but icy eyes.  Alice didn’t like talking about her grandad dying, even though he didn’t seem to care.

He seemed ready to move on, ready to lay down and sleep forever. She tried to comfort him. But you look well granddad?  And you're still eating sweets?  You can’t be that ill! she laughed, thinking that things couldn’t be that bad if he was still cracking through the lemon sherbets, which were scattered all over the blue formica cabinet beside him. 

The air filled with a tense quiet and the soft squeak of her chair as she swung her legs.

She stared up at him, sitting there in his death-bed, with his strange, crooked mouth and his ill-fitting teeth as he continued to fumble with the remote.  Bloody ‘ell. he muttered.  Granddad didn’t smile much.  Alice had only seen the corners of his mouth turn upward a few times.  She remembered asking her mum one Christmas why granddad was always grumpy.  War trauma, Alice’s mother replied.

Her granddad tried to push himself upward, balling his fists into the mattress and pushing downward, his bony arms shaking.  He managed just half an inch before he collapsed exhausted. 

Alice gazed awkwardly around the room, not wanting to embarrass the proud man, inspecting the water-stained porous tiled ceiling of the hospital ward as the old man tried to once more hoist himself up another quarter-inch. 

Dying wasn’t easy for anyone.

Unfortunately, I’ve only got you to rely on but beggars can’t be choosers, I s’pose, he babbled. But your mum only wanted the one kid and who was I to argue with that?

Wait, what did he just say?  What did her granddad mean by that? 

Pass me the water, will ya? My throat is as dry as a desert, he grumbled stubbornly, lifting his shaking arm towards her, his sagging skin hanging precariously down from his bones.  Alice, not knowing who Gandhi was, stood and reached out her little arms and grabbed hold of the plastic cup carefully from the small unit beside the bed.  She held it up high so he could grasp it more easily.  She noticed how blistered and white his lips were as he slurped on the rim of the beaker. 

Her little heart sighed, she was frightened.  Not for herself, she had ages to live, but scared for her granddad.  Despite how miserable he was most of the time, she didn’t want him to die.

He dribbled the last of the water down his protruding chin as he slipped down his pillow a little as he handed the cup back to the little girl.  Your mum will be here soon and-  there’s something I need...  there’s something I should- he stuttered.  He began to play around with his set of teeth. Climb up on ‘ere.  Quickly! C’mon! commanded her grandfather gruffly, tapping his bony forefinger weakly on the bed beside him. 

As he commanded, Alice put down the plastic beaker and clambered up onto the thin blue blanket that covered the thicker blankets on the bed.  She carefully positioned herself so she didn’t end up kicking the old man: she doubted whether he’d survive it.  She made sure she was positioned a little way away - she didn’t like looking at the grey wires hanging out of his ears.

Her grandfather’s eyes narrowed and darkened like those of an eagle.  This’s for you. he barked sternly, almost spitting his teeth out, and he pulled from beneath the thin, tatty blue blanket, a dirty piece of strangely shaped metal no bigger than the size of Alice’s little hand. 

The object he gave her was battered and so grimy that Alice immediately thought her granddad had dug it up in his back garden for he had been a keen metal-detective before      the cancer took hold. 

What did she want with a piece of scrap metal? 

There was a damp, wet, rusty smell attached to the metal, which reminded Alice of the scent of old tractors on her friend’s farm, as Bob Holness shrieked his welcome message out at all the tea-time audiences through the t.v. 

Alice held it close to her eyes, inspecting it:  there were small, badly weathered markings - like carved engravings - on it too.  She couldn’t make out what they were, they were too badly soiled. 

What’s these marks on ‘ere? She asked him filled with a child-like curiosity.

Don’t know. Never found out. He replied sharply.

Why’s it so dirty?  It’s like you’ve been hiding it away in a dirty old box in  your dirty old loft!

You’ve never seen my loft!

What’s it used for?

I dunno that.

Wherever did ya find it?

You don’t need to worry about that, he replied, almost proudly. 

Did you nick it?  she asked, a little too loudly for her grandfather’s liking. 

No! Of course I bloody didn’t nick it! he snapped back at her, curling a weathered hand up into a ball, frustrated at all her questions  It’s mine! Just take it and keep it as our little secret.

He leaned forward, his bones creaking, moving closer to his grand-daughter, the tired bones of his spine, creaking and squeaking like an old door hinge.  There’s summit else Alice-  He stopped when his nose was almost touching hers.  He lowered his voice and glared around the room before he spoke again, making sure nobody was listening.  This must never be lost - you understand?  You must keep it safe.  Keep it hidden.  Put it in a box and bury it in the garden if you ‘ave to but whatever you do, don’t show it to anyone.

Why?

Nevermind.  That ain’t important. I want you to ’ave it.  And I don’t want you to tell no-one else you got it:  not anyone, you hear me?  You’re not to tell your friends, not your teachers, not your dad and certainly not your mum! the old man insisted forcefully with unsettling conviction with a wag of a bony finger.

It seemed overly dramatic to Alice and she scrunched up her face.  Why not? she replied, cheerily.  Because, he grunted, Your mum can’t be trusted - she’s been brainwashed, Alice, like the rest of ’em.  She’s not to see it, d’you understand me? 

For a moment, the scornful look on her granddad’s face frightened her a little. He was not usually so angry - grumpy but never angry, and especially not about her mother. 

But what did brainwashing mean exactly anyhow?

She gulped before she weaklyy nodded her head at him.  The little girl with small blonde bunches in her hair, just wanted her parents to hurry back so they could get home in time for Eastenders; she didn’t care how her mum washed anything.  I promise I’ll take good care of it, granddad! She said, swinging her legs off the side of the bed, still twisting the scrappy piece of metal in her tiny hands. And, I won’t tell anyone!

The pair ceased talking and listened to the sounds of Australian chatter spewing forth from the tv.  He glared at her a while longer and then, slowly, the old man relaxed a little and then smiled at his grand-daughter.  He seemed relieved the job was done.

It was the first and last time he’d ever smiled at her.

He died in the early hours of the following morning.

2.

September.  Today.

Alice knelt down beside the small mountain of packing boxes in what used to be her marital bedroom filling it with the last of her belongings.  The room was stripped bare, ripped apart and destroyed, just like their marriage: she was thirty-three years old and now, officially, a divorcee.  The white Ikea bed frame was sold along with the matching wardrobe and chest of drawers.  Jeremy had managed to get rid of them on ebay.

Alice surveyed the room with tired eyes, her long strands of golden hair gathered up into a large knot on top of her head.  She stood with her hands on her hips, staring at the empty shell of their small, two-bedroom starter home. Over the past six years, she’d worked hard to make it a home. She felt she’d done a good job - shame it had all gone up in a big pile of smoke.

She let her shoulders drop as she sighed heavily before dusting off both hands.  She was collecting the last of her things. It was not a job she relished but the new owners were moving in tomorrow: Alice hoped for better things for them.

All her clothes had been taken from the walk-in wardrobe and packed into dull cardboard boxes and the Louis Vittion luggage set the pair had received as a wedding gift.  She’d made sure she’d put that on her list.

She threw her head backward, sharply, resisting the urge to laugh as she recalled the afternoon she’d entered this very room after stopping home early from work to collect dry cleaning: she’d left the car engine running, burst through the front door and raced up the stairs.

She’d careered into the bedroom, her mind on getting the cleaning and getting back to work but the sight which met her eyes made them almost begin to bleed: Jeremy and some woman from the reprographics department at the Estate Agents where they worked were busy conducting a new kind of house-warming event. 

She clenched her jaw tightly as the memory’s teeth bit deeply into her heart. 

She stood in that cold, empty room, she mulled over the lies, the cheating, the locked accounts, the strange calls in the night: it had gone on for almost a year. 

How had she been so naive, so stupid? 

Jeremy’s hamartia was his promiscuity.  Friends had tried in vain to wake Alice up but she failed to listen, so hypnotised by Jeremy’s charm.  But now, sadly, her denials had failed her; the truth descending upon her like a block of concrete.  That day, that torrid, sickening afternoon, forever  shattered Alice’s  childhood dream of happy-ever-after and rendered her beautiful wedding day as nothing more than an ill-themed child’s fancy dress party.

She threw into a cardboard box the last of the dusty old photo albums she’d pulled out of the back of the wardrobe earlier - before it was dismantled and taken away…

That was when she noticed it. 

It was glinting at her from inside the cardboard box, stuck between the pages of the tatty, old photo album, a thick slither of gold protruding outward from the book’s plastic pages.  The metal object looked like it was brass, although it was dirty and dull.  When she pulled it fully from where it was wedged, she noticed it was heavily discoloured and tarnished.  She held the object up closer to her eye, inspecting it carefully in the beams of September sunlight, seeping in from behind large, white clouds which littered the sky.  "Now... where did you come from?" She whispered to the metal relic. 

Then, she remembered.  Granddad.  That night - in the hospice - the night he died; he’d handed it to her and told her to look after it - to take good care of it.  She didn’t think she’d seen the object since that very night.  She remembered, of course, that she had taken it home and thrown it into a small blue suitcase she used when visiting family and friends overnight.  It appeared that that small blue suitcase had practically disintegrated in the bottom of this large box.

Alice buried the object deep into the back pocket of her blue Levi’s, grabbed the battered cardboard box which contained the odds-and-sods of her life. 

She took a deep breath and strode out of the room, her scuffed white Nike trainers, tapping the oak laminate echoed throughout the empty room.

As she got to the top of the stairs, which fed outwards, towards the open front door, Alice noticed her tall, lean and thoroughly stomach churning ex-husband, Jeremy.  He was standing on the grey, gravel driveway outside waiting to lock up for the final time.  Alice thumped her way down the stairs as she approached him, her face stony and cold, stealing herself for the usual snide remarks which would no doubt follow. It was his usual modus operandi.

As she passed by him, her tiny feet crunching roughly on the grave, she flicked her hair back defiantly.  You got everything? he asked her coldly as she brushed past him holding the box.  She noticed the new girlfriend waiting for him in his dad’s brand new silver Mercedes that was parked up in front of the empty garage.

The man had no shame. 

There’s still two boxes of yours on the landin’. Alice replied bitterly, turning her eyes to the driveway - she couldn’t bear to look at him. I’m not touchin’ ’em.

He turned her stomach and just how she’d ever found him so attractive was beyond her.  Why, on why? Why’d she even agreed to go out on a date with the man was still a mystery to her.  He was ginger, for God’s sake!

D’you really always need to be such a bitch, Alice? It was over a year ago, and you still can’t be an adult about it.  Really, it’s a little embarrassing. He said, smugly.

Alice froze, her foot hanging in mid-air for a shred of a moment. Her incredulity stopped her dead in her tracks.  Here he goes again, she thought, making everything into my problem.  She brushed her fine, blonde hair from her face as a gentle breeze blew past as she ignored him.  Marriages end all the time. Just be a grown up about it, for Christ’s sake! her ex-husband whined. 

Alice still wouldn’t bite, despite her blood boiling.

Alice made it back to her dad’s car without her head exploding.  As she savagely opened the passenger door, she made sure to glare at the life sized Barbie doll in the front seat of her ex husband’s car. The young girl was wearing a strange assortment of colours over her face and a rather distasteful white, fluffy coat that in no way complimented the brassiness of her peroxide hair.  Alice shook her head.  Good grief.  Another one?  Where’d you find this one, Jez, huh? Hamley’s?

Well, no not quite but clearly not on the street corner I found you! he said laughing.

God, he made her feel sick. 

She smiled at her ex-husband ruefully.  She had nothing further to say to this man.  It was time to leave.

She pushed open the car door a little wider, and threw the ragged cardboard box onto the back seat. 

Harry Murray, Alice’s small, round father, sat patiently in the car (as he had been instructed by both his wife and his daughter), drumming his chubby fingers on his steering wheel to  Roy Orbison, the car heaters blowing along in time.  He’d heard the snide remarks his ex son-in-law had made but he wasn’t going to get involved with his daughter’s relationship now that it was legally over and seeing that she seemed to handle the situation with grace and poise, he settled himself against the wooden beads that covered his driver’s seat when he saw her leave the house:  Jeremy Johnson would fall flat on his face one day, Harry thought bitterly: men like him always did.

All the Murray family knew what Jeremy was the moment Alice first brought him round the house some five years ago.  Harry hadn’t liked the cut of his jib the moment he set eyes on him; the boy had been too sure of himself, too cocky and too confident.  He also spent far too long on his personal appearance, if the truth be told. Being from the old school, Harry found the contemporary man’s fascination with personal appearance baffling - it would be a cold day in hell before Harry Murry spent longer than fifteen minutes preening himself in front of a mirror. 

Alice climbed into the passenger seat and slammed the door shut.  Alice leant forward, pulling the brass object from her jean pocket and tossed it onto the dashboard before reaching behind her for the seat belt..

Was’ that? Harry asked, his eyes becoming alive when he saw the metal glinting.Oh calm down dad, it’s nothing special. Just some old toot granddad gave me before he died,  She clicked her belt into position.

Don’t look like nothin’ to me! Looks fairly old?  He craned his neck forward and lifted his driving glasses from the end of his nose to get a better look.  Dad!  Please.  Just drive.  I don’t wanna stay here any longer than we have to.  I might do something to that man’s face I will regret, spat Alice.

Harry Murray pushed the car into gear, pressed downward with his foot, released the handbrake and pulled the car away sharply from the curb with a small screech of tyres sending small stones of gravel through the air.  He watched Jeremy in his rearview mirror, hoping a runaway rubbish truck would come sweeping up the road and run him over.  But Harry had no such luck today. 

Alice remained quiet on the short car ride back to her parents’ home, listening to the sounds of the sixties on the radio station Harry seemed to love so much.  She couldn’t stop her hands from shaking and she gripped down on them to stop them shivering uncontrollable.  What a mess, she sighed to herself. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, was it? Wasn't marriage supposed to be the start of something wonderful, magical?  In the fairy tales, women weren’t taught about the pain and the heartache love can bring.  No fairy story ever prepared her for the aftermath of ‘happily ever after’.  Alice resolved that if she was blessed with children one day - she wouldn’t raise them listening to such patronising gibberish as ‘Cinderella’ and ‘Sleeping Beauty’.  They’d be prepared for the suffering love brings.

As he drove carefully through the Estate, Harry glanced across at his daughter.  You ok, love? he asked, after some five minutes of tense silence.

She nodded half-heartedly, before turning up her nose and staring out of the Mondeo window again.  She was probably crying but Harry thought it best not to draw attention to it. He wouldn’t be thanked for it.  Instead, he tried to sound upbeat and chirpy.  Good.  Don’t let him get to you, love.  There’s plenty more fish- 

I’m not lettin’ him get to me! she said, cutting Harry off.  And if I see another fish, I’ll fry it.  Harry pulled down on the indicator and swung the Mondeo  round to the left and turned into Michael Drive, named after the eighties pop legend - George Michael.  In fact, all the streets on this part of the estate were named after famous people from the 1980s.  The Murray family themselves lived on Kemp Drive - Kemp being of Spandau Ballet fame brothers Gary and Martin which ran adjacent to an identical looking street known as Hadley Road.

Jus’ let him go.  Leave him to his karma, love.  You don’t- you haven’t failed at anything.  Jus’ try to see it as the ending of a chapter of a book, love, you’re just starting a new one. You and Jez had some good years- said Harry, reassuringly.

Dad, please! Alice yelled at Harry again, her voice cracking under the strain of emotion.  I don’t wanna hear about any good times!  I only wanna remember the bad.  Her voice became softer; weaker. Makes it easier.

Harry decided to say no more and he pressed his foot down on the accelerator.  They’d be home soon and it could all be mended with a hot cup of tea and a couple of bourbons, Alice would come around eventually and realise that some traumas are, in fact, blessings sent from Heaven itself.  It wouldn’t take her long to realise just how lucky she was to dodge that particular bullet. 

The Murrays owned a small brick-built, three bedroomed detached property buried in the heart of a densely populated eighties estate. 

The brick house stood in a row of ten white plastic fascia houses - all alike -lined up along the roadside like a neat little white row of false teeth. 

It boasted three bedrooms, which were small but cosy and kept in almost showroom condition, under the hand of Alice’s house proud mum, Rosalyn; who also worked as a senior carer at the old people’s home up the Lexden Road.  It didn’t pay great money but Ros Murray enjoyed the toil and viewed her job as more of a personal calling.  There was nothing bad about looking after others, she would say when Harry would implore her to retire. 

Alice’s father, Harry, had met and fallen in love with the beautiful, mesmerizing young Scottish lass, Rosalyn Sinclair, many years before Alice’s birth:

The two teenagers had both been on holiday in Southend-On-Sea as sixteen year olds at asmall, family-run caravan park.  Ros, the sixteen, fresh-faced little girl lived with her English father in a small village outside of Ipswich in the rural county of Suffolk otherwise known as ‘Constable Country’.  There wasn’t much there: just a post office and a small convenience store.  Ros’s father had relocated to Suffolk from the Scottish Highlands when her parents divorced and Ros had just turned ten years old.  Ros would occasionally be packed off during the summer holidays to Scotland to see her estranged mother, but not every year.  As Ros had gotten older, the visits had become less frequent.

So, the young lovers, Rosalyn and Harry, saw each other at weekends until Harry Murray finally left school that year with his five CSEs and went on to secure himself an apprenticeship with a family-run haulage firm operating out of the docks at Harwich. 

Harry asked Ros to marry him that very weekend, after he’d received his first small brown envelope.  He’d done the math and knew he could afford somewhere small for them to live, and money would stretch to putting food on the table. 

And, with that very thought hanging in his mind, he’d rushed off to Suffolk with a gold band in a box shoved into his purple corduroy flared trousers. Harry used to laugh when he told Alice the story of when he had turned up on granddad’s doorstep to ask for Rosalyn’s hand in marriage: he’d been chased up the room with the end of a garden broom.  But, eventually, the old man mellowed and Harry Murray being Harry Murray, won him around and he agreed that the pair could marry.  Rosalyn’s mother was invited down from Scotland, but never came.

It had been that way ever since and Alice had never met her maternal Scottish grandmother.  Or if she had, she could not recall.

Harry pulled his car slowly and carefully onto their new bricked driveway whose edges were neatly lined with low hedgerows and exotic plants that Harry took care of like they were his children.  He switched off the engine, and its soft purring slowly died away. 

As pulled on the handbrake, he spotted Alan - their next door neighbour -standing on his front lawn with a pair of garden shears in hand.  Harry lifted a hand at Alan, who smiled cheerily.  When do you think you’ll get back to work, love?  You should go back in; it’ll be good for you. Get back to some normality.  It isn’t right to keep yourself hidden away, like you do,

Alice grimaced and rubbed her forehead.  I’ll go back in a few weeks, dad. I promise.  I just need a bit of time away from the office and all those happily married colleagues. She groaned before forcefully pushed out air loudly through her nostrils.  The thought of returning to the insurance brokers where she worked filled her with dread.  Most of her colleagues had tried to warn her that Jeremy Johnson was having an affair; but their well-intended advice had, sadly, fallen on Alice’s deaf and gullible ears.

C'mon on, love.  It’s not that bad! said Harry.  Antiquinity Races is on the telly shortly; I’ll make a nice cuppa tea and we’ll watch it together, like we used to when you’d get home from college.  He released his seatbelt with a dull click and then opened the driver’s door.  Alice did the same, sighing.  She’d unload her belongings from the car and then she’d sit down and watch mindless t.v. programmes until bedtime. 

Tomorrow would be a better day.  Moving out of her marital home was always going to be difficult.

Antiquity Races was the usual mindless afternoon light entertainment show wherein famous auctioneers Alice had never heard of, pitted their skills against one another to see who could raise the most amount of cash from a load of old junk which could be found at a car boot sale.  It was a firm favourite of Britain’s grey demographic, which included Harry Murray: he was approaching his seventy-fifth birthday.  It’s starting in five minutes! he bellowed up the stairs after his daughter.

After carrying the last of the boxes to her room, Alice went downstairs and found her father sitting in his usual reclining armchair with its worn arms and sagging back - he needed a new one but the old man wouldn’t hear of it: the chair had been more loyal to him than a family dog!

Have you only just come back in from the car? Alice said, a little taken aback he’d only just arrived back inside the warm.  I got caught by Alan again, her father muttered, finishing his sentence with a loud tut, the end of his nose a deep shade of blue.

Although Alan could drain the life of a battery in seconds with his mindless chatter, Harry didn’t mind the frail old man really, he was having a hard time of it lately.  There was no harm in being neighbourly. 

The Murray’s downstairs was of open-plan design, which seemed to have been all the rage in the construction industry in the late seventies/early eighties: the Murray kitchen and living space were separated by the high black kitchen granite countertop, which the Murrays utilised as a serving counter into the lounge.

So what’s the story with Alan’s wife? Is she still going round-the-bend or what? Alice sighed as she flopped forward onto her belly on top of the cushions of the family’s faithful dusky pink settee.  It’d been a long and tedious day.  I didn’t see her, replied Harry, shaking his head.  I’d imagine she’s in the house, though; on account of the -  you know - the Alzhemeirs.  Harry whispered like he was blaspheming in church.

She’s batshit crazy! Alice sniped, scrunching up her nose not caring who heard her. 

Alice had seen enough of the old woman’s crazy antics for herself over the last few months: it started with little things at first, like the old lady asking where her handbag was, as she stood clutching it between her hands. But, then, sadly, the behaviours became more dangerous and more erratic such as the old woman calling for her dead animals, digging holes in Alan’s prize-winning lawn in the dead of night and ringing up emergency services with alarming regularity. 

She’s ill! Harry bit back sharply, annoyed by his daughter’s apparent lack of sensitivity. She’s got dementia, probably not long left.  Terrible, really.  You should have a bit more compassion,  Harry shuffled himself through into the kitchenette. He was finished with the conversation for now.  You wanna cuppa tea?  Kettle just boiled.

But, dad-- Alice replied, pressing her point, not letting it drop. She was at it again last night.  Shouting for the cat - Reggie, Reggie! Alice said, mimicking the old woman. It was past eleven! She needs help, that’s all I’m sayin’, Alice rolled onto her back and grabbed a pink floral scatter cushion and shoved it behind her head, getting herself comfortable for the tv show about to start.  She noticed one of her toes poking through a hole.  Wouldn’t mind but that damn cat died when I was eight!

Harry didn’t respond to Alice’s remark but slowly drained boiling water into mugs from the spout of the kettle.  Harry then stirred the cups with a small silver teaspoon.  Harry pondered sadly on what Alice had said.  He did have to admit that maybe Alan’s wife did need help - things were perhaps a little more serious for his wife than Alan was letting on as Harry recalled a serious event involving Alan’s wife the previous week.  Last Wednesday, when you were out, a police car was here, Harry recounted. Two lady police officers were bringing her back from somewhere-or-other; she was in her dressing gown then, she was.  It was almost midnight. Turns out they found her wandering around on the garage forecourt down at Asda’s - you know the big store near town? 

He continued stirring the tea bags around in the mugs, the spoon chinking the side on the porcelain.  Well, you know your mother, Alice, always the carer; she flew downstairs to help the poor woman.  Of course, old Alan was beside himself.  How she got to Asda’s is a mystery!

What did she say about it?  Mum, I mean?

Ahhh, she told them the truth.  Your mum told Alan his wife should go into a care home.

Harry came back into the pink living room carrying two cups of piping hot tea. He  passed Alice one as she laid out on the settee and then awkwardly twisted himself around before he dropped his weight and fell in his chair, so hard the tea almost ended up on the ceiling.  Alice laughed. 

The pair of them turned their attention back to the tv screen and that day’s episode of Antiquity Races.

Alice wrapped her fingers around her pink mug to warm them.  Her low blood pressure meant her fingers and toes were always cold, not even the abundance of pink in the room could convince them to warm up.  She wiggled her toes as she rested them on the arm on the opposite side to her head.

That day’s episode was being hosted in Devon from Tintagel Castle.  The screen was covered in an array of green and grey cliff faces and large grey boulders sitting proudly up on a mountainside surrounded by the white frothy waves of the English Channel.   

Alice remembered learning about the place through her primary school teacher’s animated retelling of the legend of the Round Table.  Look at that! Bootiful, that! cooed Harry, his eyes wide and fixed on the television set.  Arthur was born there.  That’s where he put his fort when he became king.  There were some plates found there in the eighties, I think, which proved the connection. Had some inscription which mentioned Arthur.

Alice scrunched up her face as she took a sip of hot tea, confused by her dad‘s insistence it was a historical fact.  King Arthur wasn’t real, dad! She replied, confused. It’s a legend; just a story! You know, like George and the Dragon or Thesus and the Minotaur! 

-that’s what you believe is it? Harry said, cutting her off, before crunching his teeth through the first of his small hoard of Bourbons resting on the arm of his chair.  You should open your mind a bit more, Alice. There’s a world out there you know nuffin’ about - full of mystery and magic.  Harry sang.

She’d heard all this a million times before.  Ever since she was little, her dad had tried to convince her magic was real.  He used to pretend he was a bit of a stage magician when she was a child producing eggs from behind her mum’s ear.

But you like to keep yourself distracted and busy with the useless things in life - like Eastenders and bad men!

That unnecessary comment stung.  So Alice began to laugh at him. Pah! Mystery and magic! she replied mockingly. 

’ave you read any books about it? he asked her, plainly.  Our history books are full of instances of witches and wizards and magicians using spells and magic.  But, over time, these people were erased from the Earth through witch-hunts and trials and the like but, nevertheless, these people were among us.  Noone proved magic didn’t exist really.

Not science, then?  No?  Not something which can be proven by fact? Alice said, sounding like she was asking someone who should know better.  Science disproved their so-called magic.  What these people couldn’t explain, they thought it must’ve been magic!

But science can only prove so much,

Like what?  Name one fing which science can’t prove. Alice said, challenging her father.

Why are we all here for a start, huh? Harry said, firmly.  They’ve attempted to tell us how we’re here but not why.

Yes they ’ave explained it! cried Alice.  We evolved through apes, which evolved from something else.  It was an accident; a fluke.  You tellin’ me you still believe God created us?

Of course.

Alice sighed and then let out an over-exaggerated, theatrical tut.  Harry always had to be the one who was right, and the one who had the last word.

Like father, like daughter.

Where have you been living for the last fifty years, under a rock?  Alice said.

But why not choose to believe in something good; sumthin’ like magic? Harry replied.

Cause I’m not an idiot, dad!  She replied pointedly punctuating every word with a sharp nod of her head.  I don’t believe in Harry Potter, I don’t believe in the land of Oz and the Wicked Witch of the West and I certainly don’t believe in King Arthur and Merlin and any of that ole crap! 

That ended the conversation.  She turned her gaze back to the television.

On the screen appeared  a carbon copy of an orange David Dickinson, who was marching about in a muddy field lined with cars with open boots, microphone in hand.  He was wearing a ridiculous looking petrol-blue evening suit and wearing a hairstyle whose wavy comb marks were still visible, streaking through his grey, moussy hair, which were drastically cemented into position by multiple layers of firm-hold hairspray.

Harry dunked his other Bourbon into this tea.  As he pulled it from the liquid, half fell with a loud plop back into his cup. Oh bloody ‘ell, he moaned.  He turned his eyes back to the tv screen and at the old rocky ruins perched on a piece of  land close to the sea.  Tintagel was one of the major trade routes from Europe and the Middle East. It was a thriving area once-upon-a-time. he explained to Alice.  Alice rolled her eyes again and let out a loud, protracted sigh.  Why didn’t he ever learn when enough was enough?  He’d been the same ever since Alice was a little girl in pigtails.  She loved her dad but his propensity to lecture was world renown.  What’s that gotta do with whether King Arthur lived there or not? she mumbled half-heartedly, not really wanting to ignite another verbal rocket laden full of information. 

Just cos the history books don’t ’appen to tell you ’bout it, doesn’t mean it ain’t true though, does it?  There’s a book - a Welsh book, forget it’s name now; something like the  Annales Cambriae .  Anyway, this book’s many, many years old and in it, it refers to Merlin, who lived in the forest.  And he was a Druid wizard! 

Harry had a smug, satisfied look on his face.  This tells me Arthur and Camelot was, indeed, very real. 

What were Druids and what made them so special? Alice asked Harry, remembering them from a history lesson back in school.   

Druids were part of the ancient order of priest, famous magicians who could transmute matter from one form to another; so this book said, anyway.  He stared off into the ether for a moment.  Their knowledge came from Atlantis apparently, before it was destroyed.

Don’t tell me Atlantis is real too! Alice grunted.  Harry ignored her ridicule.

"Druids were part of a diaspora of people forced from the Holy lands a very long time ago. 

They’re known as the Khumric people - or Welsh to you and I.  Originally from Egypt, apparently. D’you know there are even some Egyptian hieroglyphs which are nothing more than the same symbols used in the Coelbren language of Ancient Briton? Bet you didn’t--  You’re grandmother, not your Cockney nan but your other one - the Scottish one - she was a Druid.  She practised all kinds of Druid ceremonies and rituals.  A bit of a strange ole bird really, I never really got on with her."

Alice’s ears pricked up, her curiosity peaked. It wasn’t often she heard her father talk about his relationship with his reclusive Scottish mother-in-law - the woman Alice hardly knew. You sayin nan was a witch?

Harry contemplated the question, as he nibbled a biscuit. Put it this way, William Shakespeare would definitely ’ave called your old nan a witch!

The pair went back to focus on the television screen and watched the orange man with the microphone coo at the stallholders’ delights for sale.

LOOK! Harry suddenly blurted out, excitedly, Look at the telly, Alice!  There’s that thing!  It’s the thing you had today. LOOK! 

What thing?

That thing, you know- her father fell over his words in frustration, chastising himself.  What’s the name of that blasted thing - the thing granddad gave you when you were little?  The thing that looks like an owl?  You had it today when we left yours.  He was clicking his fingers furiously.  You threw it on the dashboard - in the car?  He recounted frantically. 

Alice remembered the strange, bent and gold-coloured key, lying on the dashboard of the family’s Mondeo.  You mean that rusty bit of old tin?

Alice quickly flicked her eyes back at the television and, sure enough, there was another piece of twisted up metal on the screen almost identical to Alice’s heirloom she’d found earlier that day. 

She sat forward in disbelief.  What were the chances?!  She’d only ever laid eyes on the object twice,: once, when she was very little and again today, and now it just so happened to be in front of her again but this time on the television. She rested her elbows upon her knees and narrowed her eyes.  How weird is that?

That’s some coincidence! Harry exclaimed in amazement.

The slick presenter on the television conversed with the two expectant and fretfully nervous contestants