Allsorts

was as it had been before. Roger leaned back in his chair, but as he did so, the words started to disappear before his eyes; letter by letter. He thumped his mug down and some coffee spotted his desktop. ‘Bugger it!’ The rain hammered against the window. Roger tried again and this time it took slightly longer for the text to vanish. ‘What’s going on?’

  Like most casual computer users, Roger thought that the machines had minds of their own. There were gremlins, living inside the CPU that just waited for the right time to upset and frustrate its user. His anger rising, Roger contemplated throwing the whole bloody thing out the window. But his momentum was arrested by the sound of even louder rain. It seemed to be in a rage to match his own.

  Roger stood still and stared at the screen. The rogue text was now flashing on and off, breaking up and changing colours as it went. Then the masthead began to float about the page before it disintegrated into small pieces. ‘Geeze, the whole friggin thing’s gone off the deep end’, thought Roger. The violent pounding on the window kept up and suddenly a brilliant flash of yellow lightning seared across the sky. Roger jumped backwards. At the same time, the computer screen went completely black. The outside noise was terrific.

  Roger was breathing hard and his heart was pounding. He was scared, really scared. ‘Get a grip mate.’ he admonished himself. Then, he noticed that the rain was starting to ease. The thunder was rolling away. Soon, there was an eerie silence. The screen slowly came back on. But these images were not of Roger’s making. Weird, sinuous forms were performing what could only be called electro-gymnastics. They appeared out of nowhere, stretching this way and that, inside and out, before they abruptly disappeared. Roger’s throat had gone dry so he finished his coffee. The unearthly ballet went on for several minutes. Oddly, Roger started to find the rhythm of the dance had a calming effect. He was breathing more regularly and his heart had ceased pounding. But he sensed that his ordeal was not yet over. He was right. Suddenly, the image of the magazine cover was back on screen. Complete and in focus. It was perfect. Perhaps his instincts had been wrong? Roger dropped his guard. ‘Great, it’s stopped!’ he told himself.

  Roger sat down and examined his work. It was good, very good. ‘Better save it, quick’.

  However, as Roger reached for the save button, the cover began to break up; first the contents, and then the masthead shattered into pieces. The noisy, driving rain returned and all the houselights went out. But this time, the screen did not fade to black. Roger was close to panicking. Finally he was tipped over the edge when the ghostly image of ‘The Brown Lady’ rose from the screen and floated high above the desk. It grew larger and assumed its full size as it filled the room. He cowered in his chair. Roger had nowhere to go. He was trapped. Roger could make out her aristocratic features as she came closer. He shook and sweated involuntarily. As the full horror of his predicament overwhelmed him, Roger closed his eyes tight and silently begged to be somewhere else. Anywhere else!

  ‘Gremlins are the least of your concerns young man,’ said a soft, well- educated female voice, ‘You should not be so disrespectful of your elders and betters.’

  Roger said nothing. He wrapped his arms tightly about his body. He dared not do anything that might incite the spirit further. But the ghost had nothing more to say. Things quietened down again. When he eventually found the courage to open his eyes, Roger was not certain how much time had passed. But it must have been a long time. The rain was positively gentle now and the clouds were much lighter than they had been, before…

  He stole a glance at the screen. ‘The Brown Lady’ was no longer a part of the magazine cover. She had gone. Only the text remained. Roger stood and looked nervously about his immediate surroundings before heading to the kitchen. Once there, he turned on the radio and hoped the music would create an aura of normality. He sat down. ‘Right she’s out. I’ll find another ghost.’ Then he remembered that his other cover ideas included flying saucers, sea monsters and shipwrecks. ’Oh, dear.’ He shook his head. It didn’t help to think about the potential for other terrifying scenarios. Perhaps, he would put the project on hold, for a while. ‘It might also be a good idea to get someone to check over the computer.’

  The Fast Food Addict

  At the ripe old age of 18, life was something that just happened to Barton Jones. Jonesy was a legendary figure among the skate boarders who terrorized the local shopping centre. A master of jumps and mid-air spins, Jonesy cut a dashing figure with his checked flannelette shirt and untidy blond hair, flying in the wind. He shunned a helmet or a reversed baseball cap. The first was for sissies and the second was something he had outgrown. Besides, Jonesy was an individual, a one of a kind; at least in his own mind.

  Apart from his skateboard, Jonesy’s other great passion was fast food. Since the age of 8, he had been addicted to hamburgers, chicken burgers, chicken wraps, fries, chicken nuggets, fries, chicken legs, cookies, thick shakes, doughnuts, fries, soft drinks, pizza and kebabs. Chilli sauce, anchovies and jalapenos provided an edge he could never resist.

  The one thing that irked Jonesy’s many friends was that he remained so thin. There was not a gram of fat on his slender frame. His clothes hung on him like they had been borrowed from a bigger, older brother. That was how Jonesy liked his clothes to be. Once school was over; Jonesy had ditched the uniform for good.

  One late summer afternoon, Jonesy was tearing down the centre of the footpath scattering pedestrians right and left; clackety clack, clackety clack. Only he had any idea what he was doing as he slalomed at high speed; heedless of any danger to himself or to anyone else. Clackety clack, clackety clack; louder and louder. Almost predictably, disaster struck. A young mum forgot to put the brakes on a pram, which rolled directly into Jonesy’s path. Jonesy snapped out of his Zen-like state but it was too late. He tried to swerve around the obstacle. He did not know the pram was empty. Unfortunately, a new section of paving had been poorly finished off by the Council’s contractors. Jonesy became airborne as his wheels struck a raised edge. The people who were present told the local paper’s reporter that they had never seen an individual attain such height outside the Olympics. Jonesy had become more famous, for all the wrong reasons.

  As Jonesy lay recovering in hospital he soon grew to hate being told, ‘Awesome air dude!’ by his visitors. It had certainly not been his intention. The damage to his pride was probably irreparable. Fortunately his broken wrist and cracked skull healed reasonably quickly. Less acceptable, was his parents’ action in consigning his beloved skateboard to the tip. But once he was back on his feet, Jonesy found that his legend had been enhanced. Several attractive high school girls had even friended him on Facebook. Twitter was overflowing with all kinds of compliments and offers. He was a hero in social media and it felt good, real good.

  ‘You the man!

  The adulation softened the blow struck by his treacherous parents. But worse lay in store for Jonesy because the blow to his head had affected his ability to make decisions. One day the loss was cruelly exposed when he entered his favourite chicken takeaway and found himself unable to choose. All of a sudden he was embroiled in an internal conflict.

  ‘A wrap? No I’ll have a chicken burger. Sauce? Sweet chilli, mayonnaise, mustard or Mexican? I just can’t make up my mind. A cola or a thick shake? Hell, I don’t know! I just don’t know.’

  The staff could barely believe their eyes as one of their very best customers ran from the store empty-handed. Sadly, the same dreadful scene was soon repeated at the burger joint, the fish shop, and the pizza place; even the kebab bar. Jonesy was in shock that afternoon as he staggered into his parents’ home. Some of that shock quickly transferred to them when he asked his mother for baked beans on toast.

  Later Jonesy’s mum told his dad how beautiful it had been. Their little boy had wanted the meal he loved most of all when he was 7 years old. Mr Jones senior grunted with what might have been satisfaction.

  Jonesy awoke the next day unsure of what he should d
o next, but for once, he was open to suggestions.

  ‘Why not go up to Byron Bay and stay with Uncle Rick for a while? He lives not far from the beach and the change will do you some good,’ suggested his mum.

  Jonesy thought quickly. He did not want to continue to sink under the weight of parental concern. His mum had made a good call. At Byron, he could get work at the skateboard shop and earn enough to get a new one. Uncle Rick was okay; a bit of an old hippy, but he always had hot girlfriends hanging around. The scenery would be good. Best of all, adult security would be lax.

  So one hot, sunny, day, Barton Jones arrived at Byron Bay train station. Uncle Rick and his current paramour, Vanessa were there to greet him. On the way back to the house, Rick and Vanessa told Jonesy all about their vegetable garden. Everything was as organic as it could be. Only natural fertilizers were used. No pesticides. Vanessa was also a sensational cook. She did everything. When they got back to the beachside cabin, Jonesy wearily dropped his carryall in the guest room and kicked off his shoes. As he lay on the comfortable bed, the cares of Melbourne were a million miles away. When he awoke it was dark. Something smelt very, very good.

  The flames of numerous candles swayed warmly in the early evening breeze that blew gently into the dining room from the ocean. Jonesy smiled, Vanessa was a vision in a tie-dyed wrap that clung to her superb figure like a drowning man. Rick was shirtless with a batik sarong around his lower torso. There were two open wine bottles in the centre of the table. Several colourful vegetarian dishes, separated by sprays of hibiscus flowers, dotted the table. Despite his liking for fast food, Jonesy was not adverse to a good veggie spread. Especially if someone besides his mum had done the cooking. Sweeeet, thought Jonesy. He sat down and accepted a glass of red wine. It was full-bodied and dry; not better than cola, just different. Then he surveyed the feast more closely and the choice problem reared up again, like a cobra.

  ‘Oh no! Roast potatoes and garlic, stuffed capsicums, diced eggplant, shredded carrots, barbequed zucchinis and shallots. No! No! I can’t stand it. I just can’t make up my mind. Aaaaaaaaaaahhhh!’

  Rick and Vanessa sensed there was a disturbance in the force. Both were veterans of the cosmos. They moved swiftly around the table and embraced Jonesy. They assumed that he was just exhibiting some of the telltale signs of withdrawal from fast food addiction. They knew it would be hard, but they were certain he could be weaned off the junk and set on the organic path to enlightenment.

  ‘Easy man, easy. It will take time but we guarantee that with our help you will someday be able to walk right past a burger bar or chicken place without any trouble at all. Both of us were caught up on all that sort of stuff once!’

  Jonesy nodded weakly and surrendered, he could fight no longer. That whack on the scone had messed him up. Perhaps he could change? Maybe there was a brighter future in home cooked, home-grown meals? Maybe he should just leave the choices to others, until his recovery was complete. Another glass of red confirmed his resolve. He would give life without junk food a try.

  The Scapegoat

  Cold, heavy rain had been falling since sundown. The well-trodden path across the sanatorium grounds had become a morass of filthy puddles and slippery mud. In the murky darkness, occasional large tree roots, easily avoided during the day, were now hazards. Gerry cursed again as he raised himself out of the quagmire. Two tumbles had so far resulted in a slightly twisted ankle and a sore right knee. Wet, clay splotched his track pants. He wasn’t happy. Gerry reached out to steady himself against an old stone gatepost as he struggled to re-focus on the mission. Almost instantly he recoiled as something wet and spongy compressed beneath his palm. God he hated slugs. Revolted, he wiped his hand violently on his waterproof jacket. Then, tentatively, he extended a probing forefinger. Moss, just bloody moss.

  Gerry’s nerves jangled like wind chimes as he squinted through the downpour at the administration building. A few lights were still on upstairs and over the ground floor entrance. But on a night like this he was confident that the security guard would be keeping warm, somewhere inside. Probably watching television with a cup of coffee or something stronger? Gerry tugged at his jacket collar and cap for the umpteenth time and moved forward. He stumbled again as he rounded the decorative hedge and this time everything went black. When he came around the first thing he heard was Bruno’s voice,

  ‘Come on you clumsy bastard. Get a move on.’ It was an effort for Gerry to stand and gather his thoughts. Having Bruno on his back made it harder. ‘Go on,’ said Bruno, ‘I knew I’d have to keep a close eye on you. You can’t back out now.’ For a moment Gerry considered giving Bruno a big punch in the face. He deserved it. Then Tom spoke up,

  ‘Pull your finger out. Some bloody trained killer you are. Put off by a little bit of rain and mud. The SAS must‘ve gone to the dogs.’

  ‘Oh great, you’re here as well’, Gerry muttered to himself.

  Gerry covered the remaining distance without further incident. When he reached the wide stone steps, leading to the main entrance, he paused and crouched. The glass front doors gave a clear view into the foyer. As he had expected there was no security guard in sight. For that matter, there was nobody at all to be seen. Silently he closed his hand around the doorknob. It turned easily. Security here’s a joke, he thought. He drew a deep breath and stepped inside. The coast was still clear. To his left, carpeted stairs led up to the offices. As he climbed, the pain in his injured knee and ankle flared a bit more. He grimaced and shrugged it off. Once he was at the top he pulled out the double-edged knife he had been given. As he studied the weapon he felt calmer. This was what he knew. This was his territory. It was just another mission.

  The first floor corridor was dimly lit. He had been told that Dr Harris’ office was at the far end. As he crept closer, Gerry could see that the door was closed, but a yellow sliver of light showed beneath it. He stopped, Harris might not be alone. Gerry put his ear to the door. Two voices, but very low. Hard to tell what was being said. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, not in fear, but in anticipation of action. He loved the cold thrill that rippled through him at such times. Gerry’s training kicked in as he reminded himself that he had the benefit of surprise. He was very fit and his reflexes were excellent. He grinned. He knew he was more than a match for pudgy Dr Harris or anyone else who might be in that room.

  Suddenly there was no light under the door. Gerry retreated and flattened himself in the next doorway; knife in hand, balanced and ready. But the door stayed shut. He listened for what seemed like several minutes, nothing. But he couldn’t wait all night. Besides, that lazy sod of a security guard might just decide to make some effort at doing his job. There was no time to muck around. He crept back to the office door and quietly tried the knob. It was locked. Stuff it.

  ‘Use the knife and jemmy the lock’. It was Bruno again.

  ‘Just knock the bloody door down,’ added Tom.

  ‘Where did you guys come from?’ hissed Gerry.

  ‘We got sick of waiting in the rain,’ said Bruno.

  ‘Get in there and finish the bastard,’ said Tom.

  ‘Alright, alright, keep your shirts on. I’m on it. You two watch out for the guard.’

  Gerry pushed off from the wall opposite to Harris’ office and slammed shoulder first into the door. The hinges had seen better days and easily gave way. Momentum carried him across the room and he crashed into a coffee table covered in files. Papers went flying as he completed a forward roll and regained his feet. In the pale light, he could make out two people on the divan. Two sets of clothes were scattered here and there on the floor.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ said an angry male voice.

  Gerry made no answer. The voice had sounded like Harris but who was his companion?

  ‘Who are you? What’s going on?’ said an indignant female. Perfect, thought Gerry and smiled. Harris and Stacey caught together in the act, jackpot. The boys will be pleased. Now Gerry moved swiftl
y; he feinted and then drove the knife into the man who had assumed a protective position in front of the woman. It slid in and out easily. Once, twice, three times, before the man collapsed to the floor. A hideous gurgling sound came from his throat. The woman screamed and ran. She reached the ruins of the door and was still screaming as the knife thudded into her back just above the kidneys. Gerry smiled again. It had been quick and easy. I’ve still got what it takes.

  The weak light from the corridor was enough to confirm Gerry’s success. Blood was flooding from Harris’ wounds and staining the carpet. The gurgling had stopped. Stacey lay motionless and quiet, on her side. Gerry withdrew the knife from her back then rolled her over. Shame, she had a real nice body. But she would never abuse him again. When he looked out of the doorway the corridor was empty. What had happened to Tom and Bruno? Then he heard the unmistakable sounds of a fast approaching security guard. Nobody could have failed to hear the screaming. The bastard was breathing heavily and probably taking two steps at a time. He would be armed with a Glock, just like a real copper. The exit door slammed shut behind Gerry. Two bullets thudded into the doorframe. He used the railing as a slide and went out the fire door, ignoring the automatic alarm.

  As he raced almost blindly across the lawn Gerry heard the fire door open again. Two more slugs whined past his head. Gerry accelerated. For a brief moment or two he thought he must have the sonar capabilities of a bat, but then he collided with an oak. Dazed he dragged himself to his feet and half-staggered towards the safety of his unit. There were no sounds of pursuit. Perhaps, the guard was calling for back up? That would mean the police. Gerry slammed the door behind him. He knew he had been lucky although his thoughts were clouded by the onset of mild concussion. In the small bathroom he stripped off his sodden clothes and boots. He threw the knife on top. He needed to rest and think. A nice hot shower would help. Soap, mud and blood mingled with the water going down the drain. Gerry watched and started to feel clean and a little relieved.

  Later, as he dried his hair, Gerry looked in the mirror. The job was done, but his knee ached and his ankle was starting to balloon. His head was sore in a couple of places and there was a nasty graze on his forehead. He felt tired. Sleep would be good. Then just as Gerry turned down his blankets he heard a noise.

  ‘Here you are’, said Bruno.

  ‘How did you get in here?’

  ‘You look like the cat that swallowed the canary’, said Tom.

  ‘Yeh. Tha…thanks, I guess. You know I got Harris and Stacey. I got ‘em both.’ stammered Roger.

  ‘That’s brilliant mate,’ said Tom.

  “Fantastic mate,’ said Bruno.

  That was Gerry’s cue to smile broadly. He loved compliments. The job had not just been well done; it had been done much better than expected.

  ‘Don’t worry mate,’ said Bruno, ’the cops will spend all night trying to work out what happened. Give us the clothes and the knife and we’ll put them all in a garbage bag. Tom can ditch it in the coal cellar. They won’t look there.’

  About time you two took some responsibility, thought Gerry. After all it was Bruno who had first raised the idea of killing Harris and Stacey. Tom had supported Bruno straight away but Gerry had needed to think about it. He finally made up his mind after Stacey embarrassed him in front of the group. But old Frank had just sat on the fence and said they needed to be careful. Only Stephen, bloody Stephen the bookworm, had opposed the plan. He was such a wimp. Even now Gerry could hear Stephen’s girly voice. ‘No good will come of it. We will all suffer further humiliation and punishment.’ What a wanker.

  ‘What about some drinks, mate?’ said Bruno grinning.

  Gerry smiled again before producing a bottle of scotch and glasses. Sleep could wait for a while. He poured the drinks and made a toast. Freedom!

  Two hours later, a dozen or so armed policemen awaited the order to break down the door. They had been told that the suspect was ex-SAS, but these men were well trained and primed for action.

  Now! At the sergeant’s signal, a human battering ram was unleashed. Seconds later the door had been reduced to matchwood. Their target was taken completely by surprise, asleep on the lounge. Four burly officers swiftly had their man trussed up while the others searched the unit. Despite the ruckus, three glasses of scotch somehow remained undisturbed on a low table.

  ‘Get off me you bastards. Leave me alone. I’m not well. I’m a sick man.’

  ‘The place is clear sir. Nobody else here,’ said the sergeant.

  The Inspector’s face took on a pained expression. There had only been one set of footprints from the crime scene. The trail had ended just outside this unit. The tipoff caller had said there was only one perpetrator, so why would there be anyone else? He knew that sarcasm would be lost on Sergeant Jones. Taking the Inspector’s silence as an indication just to get on with things, Jones turned towards the doorway and stopped. A distinguished looking gentleman had just occupy it. He was wearing an expensive trenchcoat over a dark suit. He looked important. The man swept past Jones and extended a hand to the Inspector.

  ‘Inspector, I’m Dr Harris the sanatorium’s director. I’ve only just heard the dreadful news about Dr Morris and Ms Stacey.’

  ‘What can you tell me about this guy?’ said the Inspector, jerking a thumb at the prisoner who was now handcuffed and sitting on the lounge dressed in a tracksuit.

  ‘His name is Stephen, Stephen Moore.’

  ‘Why is he here Dr Harris?’

  ‘A condition called Dissociative identity disorder.’

  ‘Do you mean a split personality?’

  ‘Yes. That’s what we used to call it.’

  ‘Oh, so how many people live in Stephen, Doctor?’

  ‘We‘ve identified five, so far Inspector. All of them are very different. Each is aware of the others. They see each other as individuals, real people.’

  ‘Really? That’s interesting. Could you say what happened here Doctor?’

  ‘No, Inspector. I’d need to speak to Stephen before I could answer your question with any precision. But I am afraid that all of Stephen’s personalities have violent tendencies of one kind or another.

  ‘The crime scene suggests that Ms Stacey and Dr Morris were disturbed in the act of making love, Doctor.’

  Harris shook his head, ‘Oh. Then it seems the hospital rumours were true, Inspector. Pity. The punishment seems more than harsh.’

  ‘That’s something of an understatement Doctor. Murder is hardly a punishment. Stephen must have had his reasons but he has well and truly overstepped the bounds of mere punishment.’

  Dr Harris nodded. ‘You are right Inspector. I did not mean to make it sound trivial in any way. Stephen will have his reasons, but whatever he says will be no excuse.’

  The Inspector thanked Dr Harris and walked over to the prisoner who was holding his head in his hands. Harris suppressed a smile as he left. It seemed as though everything was going perfectly.

  ‘Stephen? Your name is Stephen isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you tell me what happened here tonight?’

  ‘Gerry did it. Bruno and Tom egged him on. Me and Frank said no but they decided to do it anyway.’

  ‘So whose idea was it, Stephen?’

  ‘Bruno told me that Dr Morris wanted Dr Harris and Ms Stacey dead.’

  ‘What? Dr Morris. Why?’

  ‘Bruno said that Dr Morris hated Dr Harris and wanted his job. I don’t know why Dr Morris wanted Ms Stacey killed as well.’

  ‘But it was Dr Morris not Dr Harris who got killed tonight.’

  ‘Well, I guess Gerry just stuffed up.’

  Later, as he was led limping and wrapped in a blanket to a waiting police car, Stephen smiled. Frank and he would be alright. Dr Harris had said he would look after them. The others deserved to carry the blame. It had been their idea, them and that rotten bastard, Dr Morris. Fancy him screwing Ms Stacey when she was supposed to be Dr Harris’
girl?

  Haunted by clichés.

  The man sits in the big old house all alone. It is very dark outside and a violent storm is raging. Heavy rain lashes the building like a silver cat-o-nine tails. Lightning flashes and thunder rumbles. Several shutters are rattling. The man sighs and shivers. It is bad enough that he lives the clichéd life of an elderly, rich, old man but must he be surrounded by a cliché storm as well?

  The servants have all been given the weekend off. It is not often that they are given the whole weekend off. Usually they get a half-day during the week and occasionally one full day on the weekend. That’s not to say that Mr Titus Grace is a bad employer.

  ‘Oh, no; he is a good man,’ they will tell you, ‘but he needs a lot of help and he can get grumpy, at times.’

  Thankfully, Titus Grace is not an invalid but his heart is not good.

  ‘I have a dicky ticker,’ he often tells people, with a grin. It always gets a laugh.

  Titus is seventy-five years old. His doctor says that he must take it easy. Fortunately, Mr Grace can easily afford to pay for a cook, a driver, a butler and a general hand. All of them male; a female would be a complication. Titus has read ‘The Remains of the Day’. Collectively the staff are his ‘henchmen’. It is term that both Titus and his staff find amusing.

  As his thoughts return to the matter at hand, Titus notes that the storm has come off the sea, from the southeast, where the worst weather always comes from. But this storm is really no worse than others he has seen. He pours himself a glass of fine Spanish sherry, Pedro Ximenez. It is sweet, dark and aromatic. It smells of raisins. It is warm and comforting as it slides easily down his throat, coating his insides. Wonderful! He turns and stares at the reflection of the log fire in the crystal cut glass. He is waiting for the ghosts to come, his ghosts. The conditions are perfect for them. Later when the fire has burned down they will come. They always come on nights like this, when a storm is raging and he is alone.

  After a while he stands and walks to the tall mahogany bookshelf. For several minutes his eyes rove over the titles, all are leather-bound. Stevenson, yes a bit of Robert Louis will do the trick. But which one? Eventually, he chooses ‘Treasure Island’; a book he has loved since he was a boy. He sits and starts to read,

  ‘I remember him as if it were yesterday, as he came plodding to the inn door, his sea-chest following behind him in a hand-barrow; a tall, strong, heavy nut-brown man; his tarry pigtail falling over the shoulders of his soiled blue coat…’

  An hour later the first ghost arrives but this is a welcome spirit. The shutters rattle louder as though in fanfare. Nice touch, thinks Titus. Then he sees the disembodied face of Penelope; his beautiful wife, now ten years dead. Her thin hand reaches out towards him. It sways like a palm tree in a summer breeze, in calm contrast to the tempest outside. He hears her voice, soft and honey sweet.

  ‘Come to me Titus. Come to me. Please come to me.’

  But the old man sighs and shakes his head as he has shaken his head so many times before. There are demons still to slay. Demons he must slay, in order to be free, free to join Penelope.

  ‘Soon my love. I will come to you soon, ‘says Titus.

  She smiles wanly at him and slowly fades away. Just as she did when she died. He is still the man she loved and admired in life. She will not pressure him now. She knows what he needs to do.

  Titus shifts in his armchair and then goes to pour another sherry. As he does so, he sees movement in the glass. It is behind him. Mr Grace looks to the far end of the room where the shadows lurk; beyond the reach of the reading light on the side table, near his chair.

  He knows that the demons are beginning to swarm, a macabre whirlpool menacing from the dark. He must eliminate them before he can go to Penelope. After all, these demons were born of his mistakes. Titus is surprised at his calmness. He is not afraid. He has faced these fiends before but never without some fear. Perhaps