Paradise Hotel

Invocation

What goes around, goes around, says Anaxagoras, King of Uncertain Dimensions, elliptically. And what comes around has come around again. The Sport is upon us again, and whether your time is universal, or summer time or mountain time with daylight savings, listen now to Tommy Woodroffe the Commentator and James Riordan the Summariser, who are woken from the long sleep of ages by the art of science to relate the comings and goings of Greasy Churning, the Sport of Uncertain Kings and fat fellows of the West Country. It is time to tell the story of Mason Banks, a reaper for our time, Captain of the Sondry Folk, jerseyman and mass murderer. And Tommy, what kind of dubious glory did the Wightlings have, in this round of The Sport? What famous victories, what infamous scalps?

Well now, says Tommy, don’t rush me, all in good time. And James Riordan the Summariser nodded knowledgeably, all in good time indeed.

St. Denys Street

Extract from The News, Portsmouth

REAPER CUSTODY SUICIDE

Mass murder suspect Mason Banks has been found dead in his cell at Long Lartin Prison, where he was being held on remand pending investigation into the murders of twenty-two people, most of them in the last few months and all but one in the city of Portsmouth where he lived. The St. Denys Street Reaper, as he has become known by the locals, is believed to have committed suicide. Police say he died from a single wound, and that no others are being questioned or sought in connection to his death. Questions are nevertheless being raised as to how Banks, 24, was able to equip himself with the means to fatally injure himself whilst in solitary confinement of a maximum security facility and listed on the ‘high risk’ suicide watch. An insider has said that Banks was found dead in his cell of massive blood loss, and that no weapon or implement was found, although it would’ve been impossible for any other prisoner to gain access to him. It is yet another unanswered question in the great mystery that surrounds the Reaper, his motives, and the methods by which he murdered his victims and disposed of their bodies.

With the death of Mason Banks, the key source of information for the investigation is now lost and serious questions remain unanswered. Most importantly of all, for the families of his victims, the matter of what happened to the bodies of twenty-one missing persons, who disappeared in a period of just two weeks a few months ago, looks like it will torment them from beyond the grave of the Reaper. Detective Chief Inspector Jude Anderson, heading the investigation, has made public his fear that the bodies will never be found. And yet, he says, there is little to no hope that the people in question remain alive. DCI Anderson told reporters yesterday that Banks, a psychiatric out-patient of St. Mary’s Hospital, Portsmouth, had been co-operating with the enquiry at the time of his death, but was unwilling or unable to account for the bodies. Lines of investigation were still being followed up, said Anderson. When asked if Mason was working with an accomplice, a popular rumour in the area, the detective refused to speculate, saying only that Mason appeared on the whole to be a solitary man and suffering such intense paranoid delusion that extricating fact from fiction had proven difficult.

The Detective Chief Inspector concluded the press conference by reassuring the public that he was of the mind that with Banks dead, the killing spree was at an end, but called for the public to remain vigilant.

The Paradise Hotel

Now, although it was a fit and proper time to introduce Tommy Woodroffe and James Riordan to the court at Wight Spit, it being just a few days before the start of the greasy churning (although none there were quite sure of the time of the first match, since time was different in many places) the moment was a little awkward. Much of the court were in salubrious mood after a long party to celebrate the rebuilding of Wight after the last debacle, when Leviathan - or was it Maximus, Pontifex of The Holy Asylum and schizophrenic conjurer? - had smashed the place all to pieces. More pressingly, Anaxagoras was engaged in furious argument with Mr. Clough Resurrected on the matter of the next team to represent Wight at The Sport, and for what seemed an eternity not one nor the other would back down from his position. For Anaxi had in mind a new project that he thought would be of great amusement to him and his court, but when he had shared it, the tempestuous and self-willed man had flown into a conniption, shouting this and that, and generally implying that a bunch of dead amateurs from the arse-end of nowhere weren’t much use in a campaign of greasy churning, even if this was in a part of the multiverse where anything was permitted and most things seemed possible, except perhaps sustainable capitalism or the English Defence League making any sense or E. L. James publishing something - anything - in a colour that was remotely readable.

Anaxagoras for his part decried the idea of repetition except on a basic immediate level for comedic value, although he did agree that it was unlikely that capitalism could be sustainable or the English Defence League make any sense or E. L. James publish something - anything - in a colour that was remotely readable. All that aside, says Anaxi, it befits the Sondry Folk to approach each competition with a new and interesting angle. To that end, as King of Uncertain Dimensions, (reluctantly pulling rank on the Resurrected tyrant) he demanded that the victims of poor Mason Banks, whom he had been watching closely his whole short and unhappy life, be drafted into the team forthwith and Mr. Clough make whatever deal of it he might. And with that he dismissed the angry man, who went a-clattering out of the hall most ungraciously, off to the Husting Grounds to bring together this team of no-hopers who had been murdered in one life and most likely would be again in The Sport.

There was a moment of silence then, barring a few hiccups, as Anaxagoras contemplated with no stunted admiration the sheer audacity of his manager for the greasy churning, who had more front than Bognor Regis. It was Brian Blessed Cloned, the loud-mouthed Court Summoner, who broke the reverie with a deafening clearing of the throat. “I present Mister Tommy Woodroffe, Commentator of The British Broadcasting Corporation in the Golden Era, and Mister James Riordan, Russo-phile, Spymaster General, the first Englishman to play professional football in the USSR, late of Portsmouth.”

Whereupon Tommy, who was, not surprisingly, three sheets to the wind, waved an informal hello at the King of Uncertain Dimensions and stumbled down a step or two before regaining his balance with a mixture of grace and good luck. “Mister Woodroffe is very drunk!” explained the court summoner, though it was not strictly necessary or of good etiquette.

My Commentator, says Anaxagoras, and my Summariser. Tell the story of The Sport, men, and delight us with your linguistic ballet! There is always a place at this bawdy court for a brace of sporting poets!

Diagrammatica

Well then, asks Anaxagoras of his Commentator and official drunken Statman, Tommy Woodroffe, how did we do on the opening day at The Sport?

“Ah, see now, King Anansi, in -“

Not for the first time, and certainly not the last, Anaxagoras King of Uncertain Dimensions had to correct Tommy on his pronunciation, reminding him that he was neither a syncretic spider god nor King so-and-so, but rather Anaxagoras, and then King, in that order, specifically of Uncertain Dimensions. And it is things like this - the details, as Ludwig Mies van der Roh might say - wherein lies the devil. Or was it God? That whole Pontifex debate again.

“Yes, well, um” replied Tommy, uncertainly, “well, um, A-, Ana-“ Anaxagoras…

“Yes, well, King Ananx-, that is to say, King of Uncertain Somethingorothers, it was a day off. “

A day off already? Well then, for want of a match report, let us do the traditional thing and make some predictions about The Sport, with reference to rank and status and whatnot, and put ourselves in there with either false modesty or outright sinful pride, as The Holy Asylum might see it.

Then Anaxagoras called on Michel de Nostredame, The Chief Geometer of the court and handy illustrator, and commissioned of him a diagram wherein would be described the fortunes of the Sondry Folk at the greasy churning. And Logikal Mick, as he was commonly known in the court, promptly unwound a scroll which he had to hand, for had he not, being a man of foresight, foreseen this request and prepared the diagram already? There was a small round of applause from the various courtiers. Anaxagoras studied the diagram with a frown.

This makes no sense, says Anaxagoras, finally. He held it up to Logikal Mick and the court enquiringly. “Ah, now, see, you are looking at the wrong side, my King and Friend. That’s just a number I wrote down from my answer phone messages. Missed call. No, look on the other side there, just facing you now.”

Anaxagoras looked again.

Now that seems more like it, says the Dread King, although I am not sure I agree with your reading of the Napoleonic capitulation at Russia. Seems a little unlikely.

Logikal Mick coughed awkwardly. “It already happened, last night…”

Oh, says Anaxagoras, well this is awkward.

St. Denys Street

Email

From: DCI Jude Anderson, Hampshire Constabulary Serious Crime Division

To: DI Milo Fraser, Hampshire Constabulary SCD Milo,

Cover for me will you? Sick as a dog today, can’t move for something pouring out of me, one end or the other. I had a midnight feast out of Kev’s Kebabs last night, with a couple of lads from Traffic. They’re out too I heard. I tell you, it’s poison - bloody criminal! Remind me to get the health inspectors out there. I reckon I’ll be back on my feet tomorrow, so just tell the chief I’m out on that missing person thing, that bollocks about the homeless businessman. Businessman my arse - tramp is what we used to call them.

Honestly, how that ended up with us, I’ll never know. Well, I could guess. Bloody Harper, the lazy shite. Anyway, say I’m looking into it. We’ll shift it back to Missing Ps in a couple of days, say we’ve drawn a blank. Which we will. He probably woke up on the ferry to Wight and is sleeping up at Mudless Copse, bloody deadbeat.

Email if anything big comes up - if you see an opportunity to get us off this M.P. case, bloody grab it. See you tomorrow - and stay out of Kev’s Kebabs, for the sake of your health. I swear it was that and not the juice we had at the India Arms…

Jude.

The Paradise Hotel

Now comes to court a delegation from the Miskatonic University to speak excitedly about their research, experiments, discoveries, conclusions and future hypotheses in such a manner as might only excite a scientist-savant or the collective mind of the ant colonies out in the fourth void of Formicidae. While the delegation expounded on this and that, there was a deal of fidgeting and scratching and clearing of throats, and Tommy Cooper Mark Four (Mark Three had been consumed by a Raven) fell asleep and snored obtrusively until Prince Bill Hicks the court jester elbowed him in the ribs. Even Anaxagoras’ omnipotent eyelids drooped at intervals. Sensing the mood of the court, and being in part responsible for managing the general atmosphere of that carnivalesque hall, King Bill shouted out in the middle of a complex explanation on information transfer between individual proteins in the somethingorother: “When do we get to the funny bit?”

“That’s my cue!” said Tommy Cooper Mark Four, jumping up suddenly from another light slumber, all confused and disoriented. The scientists were most put out, and Anaxi indicated for Tommy to sit back down and enjoy the rest of his afternoon nap. To be sure, the inhuman genome was nought that should be troubling a retired comic and conjurer of slapstick magicks.

Perhaps, says Anaxi, we should take this to my apartments, so that the court is not troubled by the academe.

In the more serious surrounds of Anaxagoras’ study, the scientists explained that they had isolated the gene-strand responsible for matters pertaining to the playing of greasy churning. The Clone of Richard Dawkins, who was head of IT at Wight Spit, explained that various experiments had been conducted using his sentient supercomputer Sixteen Bits, including two field tests in the Faroe Islands to reanimate dead wrestlers using a networked processor for a brain. At the same time, said Head of Genetics Doctor Patrick Troughton-Who, researchers were looking at improving the churning muscle memory of reanimated bodies through stem-cell augmentation, and had made an unexpected breakthrough, by discovering the football gene-set. They had called it Crabtree-50, for obvious reasons. Anaxagoras King of Uncertain Dimensions agreed it was the appropriate choice.

Now then, says Anaxi, I see where this is leading, you want to be using your Crabtree-50 libation on these souls we have brought to the Paradise Hotel, for the purpose of winning The Sport?

The scientists agreed that it would be a good field test, although they rather thought winning The Sport would take more than a solution of highly concentrated wrestle genes, at the present state of Wight’s churning standards. Be that as it may, they said, there had already been some encouraging results, for they had augmented the tag team that played in Wight’s domestic churning league, Extramarine, and they had won the Haphazard Foundation at a canter. And no-one could deny it was true, that Extramarine had performed far above expectation.

Very well, says Anaxagoras, I am assembling a team of murder victims, delivered by my young and tragic apprentice, Mason Banks. They will be accommodated at the Paradise Hotel, once it has been completed, and we will slip this Crabtree-50 into every meal. And then the King of Uncertain Dimensions asked them if they thought such a potion would help the team should they have to churn against, oh, I don’t know, off the top of my head, say The Cornish? Could we bank on three points, is it that good?

No, said Doctor Troughton-Who, probably not that good.

St. Denys Street

When Jude Anderson, serious crimes investigator for Hampshire Constabulary, returned from a bout of Kev’s Kebab Shop-induced food poisoning, his missing person case had trebled in size overnight. It was easy enough to write off a single homeless eccentric like Drupada Mhasalkar. Like Jude told his colleague Milo Fraser, a drunk like that could easily wake up under bracken bush thirty miles from Portsmouth and not know how he got there, where he was, or how to get back to his usual stamping ground. He could be gone a month and resurface unscathed, unaware of being missed by anyone. Alright, so his street mate and erstwhile drinking buddy Harry Brookes had made a fuss, reported him kidnapped, drugged, murdered. But Harry was no reliable witness. With cold rain and a dawn frost, spending a couple hours warming through in a police interview room, drinking hot tea and making up a fragmented story about his buddy Dru must have been a useful waste of time. Every detail changed with each telling. Sure, Dru was missing. Drunk somewhere. And, even if he was dead somewhere, well, it sounds harsh, but who was going to miss him? Harry? Give Harry a week and a supply of cheap cider, he’d be saying “Dru who?”

But now Harry was gone too. At a stretch you could write off that disappearance as well, except his loyal dog Crafty was still around. The damn mutt had only gone and presented itself at the station in Kingston Crescent. Anderson and Fraser got out from behind their desks and went for a tour of the gutterworld. The word under the arches, in the back alleys, down below the railway embankments, the piss-soaked stairwells, throughout the cardboard communities of homeless drunks and addicts was the same. They were talking about a predator. Mostly fantasist rubbish of course, but this sort of thing could quickly get out of hand. If someone was preying on the homeless community, and the media club got a hold on it…

Fraser took a call from Kingston Crescent. A third missing person report. This time, it was different. This time, there was no writing it off. A prison officer, family man, religious type. His wife was at the station, waiting to give a statement. Thirty-six hours missing. Thirty-six? Apparently, explained Fraser, the man was a shift worker, and he seems to have vanished at the one point in the week where his shifts crossed with his wife’s. A babysitter could have raised the alarm twelve hours earlier, but thought nothing of it. He was last seen leaving to preach the word of Jehovah’s Witnesses. Well then, though Anderson, there would be no handing this back to that lazy shite Harper in Missing Persons. With all the talk of foul play down in the gutter, and a bona fide citizen disappeared from a perfectly responsible calling, this was a serious crime investigation now.

By the end of the day, when Anderson and Fraser had tracked down the brother of Girmay Shâd, who would preach the word of the Witnesses with his friend the prison officer Leon Kennedy, the case was four missing persons, and a lot of nasty speculation on the street. His last act of the day was to take a call from his contact in the local media. Harley Parkes, hack, sensationalist, story-teller and all-round champion liar, wanted to know if there was anything official coming from the Constabulary on this business of The Reaper. Great, thought Anderson, so it blows up in the morning. And what a stupid name. He told Parkes to hold off, in exchange for a direct line of information, but he knew Parkes had his headline already and was running with it.

The Paradise Hotel

Now comes to court Yves Tanguy, non-representational surrealist, architect and futilitarian philosopher; and Isambard Kingdom Brunel, Builder Supreme of the Uncertain Dimensions. And it was their pleasure to report - or at least their intention - that the Paradise Hotel was now complete. For the fittings and fixtures were being applied even now so that, within a day or two - whatever that might mean in such a queer place as Wight - the hotel would be ready to receive guests. But they were halted somewhat in their presentation, at the sight of their regent and supra-sentient reality-making potentate.

Anaxagoras King of Uncertain Dimensions was sat at his throne, and the top of his head was smoking a little, so that a thin blue wisp gently swirled upwards from his closely shaven pate. On closer inspection, the top of one of his ears was also smoking, and so too most of his omnipotent knuckles. Hassan i Sabbah, Master Assassin, First Lieutenant and the Right Hand of Anaxi, as well as his friend and confident, leaned in for a discreet word. “My King and Friend, you seem to be lit up, in some small way.”

Two golden tamarins with miniature bejewelled necklaces and bracelets were waiting upon Anaxagoras, dousing his light cotton shift with cool water, so that his chest seemed to hiss and steam. Aye, says Anaxi to Hassan, and you should see my nipples, for they are glowing like uranium rods and hotter than a sun spot. At that the tamarins poured more water on him and he hissed like a witches cat. A third and fourth tamarin appeared with tiny fans, and placed themselves strategically to waft cool air in the direction of Anaxi’s hottest parts. For sure, Hassan my friend, says Anaxagoras, I am lit up and smouldering with unquenched passion.

“A busy night then,” said Hassan, with a grin from ear to ear and a cheeky wink. Anaxagoras shifted uncomfortably, complaining of a fire on his buttocks and stripes of molten ore across his back. Bring me more monkeys, says Anaxi with a wince, and I’ll tell you the worst of it. And thus Yves Tanguy and Brunel the Supreme Builder must needs wait, while Anaxi told the sordid detail of his first date with Virgin Mary, for did she not summon him unexpectedly to her star-lit palace, and there, after a fashion, flirt outrageously with him the whole night - or was it an eternity - until he was all but spent, whence she sent him home again, tantalised? She has this machine, says Anaxagoras, well more of a chair with invisible hands, and all manner of cunning devices to stimulate the eleven senses. And he concluded by exclaiming his surprise, that such a lady ought to be so skilled in the art of sado-masochism (well, sadism, specifically) which was all the more endearing. It had been a long and testing night, he said, and now was he looking forward to the next date all the more. At which point he asked for his costumier, The Anticipation of Mary Quant, to prepare him some new outfits, and to be generous with the studs and the buckles and the tassels.

With this disturbing image placed to the back of their minds, Tanguy and Brunel explained that the Paradise Hotel was ready, and on each floor was a whole recreation of a certain paradise according to the whims and desires of particular earthly creeds. So that, on one floor was Heaven according to the Roman Catholics, wherein no man was permitted ever to sit down, and on another floor the Kingdom of God according to the Jehovah’s Witnesses: lions, tigers and egrets, as well as all the species of earth, walked in peace with the 144,000 believers, and none would desire to eat the other. Likewise were two kinds of Islamic paradise, one filled with false virgins and one not so much, and a Nirvana on the top floor with the best and most distant views, and a Church of England paradise with a bright and glittering gate but inside mostly a laissez-fair countryside theme with many empty churches. In the basement was a satanic arcadia, there were a number of pergatories for all the lazy agnostics, and a surprisingly well-crafted nothingness for the devout atheists. Even now, explained Tanguy, Charlie Chaplin Head of Entertainments and Gandhi Head of Inhuman Resources were recruiting actors to play the parts of appropriate deities, angels, devils, demons, cherubim, and plainly-clad waiting-on staff to keep the wheels of this false paradise properly greased.

Well then, says Anaxagoras still thinking about his new girlfriend, best we get Hassan pay a visit to my poor prodigy Mason Banks, and get ourselves some guests for this heavenly theme-park, so that we might build a tag team for The Sport.

St. Denys Street

At least, mused the serious crime investigators Jude Anderson and Milo Fraser, the papers hadn’t caught on to the fact that anyone other than homeless drunks had gone missing in the last few days. Alright, they had scared the bejesu out of the city with all this ridiculous talk of a reaper stalking the streets late at night and taking lost souls goodness knows where. Once they find out about the door-knocking Jehovah’s Witnesses, then the real panic will set in. Maybe it’s just coincidence, maybe they aren’t connected. Maybe the Witnesses, Leon Kennedy and Gilmay Shâd, are secret lovers. Fraser had put it to the families - every possibility had to be considered - and they were understandably outraged. It was unlikely. So what was the connection? Drifters and door-knockers: it was opportunistic.

It was unclear where Kennedy and Shâd had been preaching in the run up to their disappearance. Sooner or later, Anderson was going to have to go public with these cases too, appeal for information. Who had been visited by Kennedy and Shâd? With data like that, they might be able to narrow the search down to a street or two. Assuming they had called on this predator. Then a fifth report came in, and this time, they had something to work with. A debt collector, Alexander Wells, had gone missing on his round. It didn’t look like he had any family or friends to miss him, it was his employers who called it. Forty- eight hours missing. They had a list of addresses that he was working through for that week, about thirty in all.

The profile on Wells was not pretty. A dubious past, criminal associations, complaints on his doorstep practices. Not a nice man, nor an easy victim. A fighter. It would help profile the snatcher, knowing they would have had a brawler to deal with. Anderson pulled together a team of constables to do the rounds. This had happened quickly, these disappearances. Anderson’s gut feeling was it would happen again. Maybe for days at a time. He had to get visits to every address on that list within a day, if possible. Find out where Wells had been, where he hadn’t, and who fit the profile of a potential kidnapper-killer strong enough to take on a man like Wells. Every day could count. At the same time, desk officers checked the names on the list for any useful leads.

Six hours in, Anderson got the message he was hoping for. Two constables had called at a place in Copnor. Wells was due to visit a certain Christopher Jenkins, who shared his house with his older brother Kyle. Kyle had previous, according to the system, violent petty stuff. He had denied Wells had been round, denied the police access, denied Christopher was in. He was behaving strangely, said the message. It looked like a lead. All efforts now focused on 112 Bath Road, Copnor.

Police had already been to Mason Banks, and ruled him out. The focus on Kyle and Christopher Jenkins would cost the police two days of precious time, and an uncertain number of deaths, Christopher’s among them.

The Paradise Hotel

Now the tale is of the grand opening of the Paradise Hotel, wherein Anaxagoras King of Uncertain Dimensions planned to house his churning team, each of them recently deceased and thinking they had ascended to a certain kind of heaven, depending on their particular persuasion and creed. It seemed only good and proper that the first guest to arrive should be met with a certain pomp and ceremony, and so it was that Anaxi and several of his most senior lieutenants, disguised as bell-hops, concierges, and valets were to be found hanging about the lobby of the hotel at the time when Drupada Mhasalkar was due. Only Hassan i Sabbah, Master Assassin, was not present, lest he be recognised by the ascendant. At the reception desk was Omar Sharif, that fine actor, in the role of Narayama to greet Drupada to his Hindu heaven. Omar had painted himself blue for the occasion.

All waited impatiently, and not a little nervously, for the first guest. Anaxagoras, spotting a mouldy looking stain on a wall near the elevator, requested a maintenance man come to quickly attend to the blemish, but before anyone could be got, Drupada appeared through the rotating doors. “Welcome to the Paradise Hotel” said the valet, and Drupada looked at him suspiciously.

“Am I dead?” he asked the valet.

“As a dodo,” replied Yul Brynner.

“Are you Yul -“

At that moment Omar called him over to the desk.

“Welcome to paradise” he said. “Not the Paradise Hotel, as that angel over there who is not Yul Brynner said, but Paradise, plain and simple. You must be Drupada? I am sorry for you death, I am assured it was painless, and that you are now thrice blessed.”

“Are you Omar Sh-“

“I am Narayama, of course, and this is heaven. You seem unusually well versed in fine actors for a man of the street. Now then, which of the six levels of paradise have you attained,” asked Omar, looking at his book, “well, there you have it - Vaikuntha, no less! Not bad, for an old drunk! Congratulations. Yul Bry- … I, I mean Kusha here will see you to your room, seventh floor, among the most blessed. Here is your key, there will be no need for a check-out time, because this is eternity, of course.”

St. Denys Street

Kyle Jenkins was still in custody and Anderson had the constabulary going through his house with a fine tooth-comb when the report came in that broke the case. New missing persons reports were landing on his desk it seemed by the hour. A pizza delivery driver, a postman, a factory worker. It was like a nightmare unfolding, and Kyle Jenkins was giving nothing away. He even claimed Christopher was missing too. Then another report. Matthew Fox. Substance abuse and behavioural disorder counsellor, disappeared whilst on a home visit. 70 St. Denys Street. One Mason Banks. Banks? The name was familiar. He was on bailiff Alexander Wells calling list. It was the first positive cross-reference in the case. Anderson sensed trouble coming. They’d already sent uniform around to St Denys Street and spoken to Banks, and he had come back clean. Detective Milo Fraser ran a quick check, and sure enough, he had come up on the system, minor disorder offences, and a suspect in two deaths as a juvenile, unproven. He had a notable risk indicator on the system. Jesus Christ, how had they missed him?

Anderson sent two of his colleagues to haul in Banks, one to sort out a warrant, and Fraser to get whatever he could from the counsellor’s case notes on Banks.

Transcript from M. Fox - interview with Mason Banks, file B- 23/07833

The house is haunted, I swear, and it’s not just me this time. I’m taking my meds, I don’t miss a single one. I’m not hearing voices, because it only happens at home.

What happens, Mason?

I get visits. You won’t believe me, I know you’ll think I’m imagining it, it sounds insane. I wouldn’t believe it, listening to someone else. They come to the house, they are in there, somewhere, and they have come for me.

We’ve talked about this confusion before, Mason, do you think this is the salient syndrome talking?

No! No. I’m not imagining them. They are ghosts, they talk about me, they know me, but they cant be my imagination, because of the medication -

Perhaps we need to think about changing it?

No, it works. I’ve got a life now, outside of that house, everything is normal, but when I go home…

If we were to think about moving you? Sometimes, people end up in places where they feel uncomfortable, for what ever reason, sometimes for no discernible reason -

They would find me, they have coming looking for me, they have a purpose for me.

Who are they, Mason? What purpose do they have in mind for you?

There are three of them, I only know one of them by name (Mason laughs here) you won’t believe it, even I think it sounds mad.

Tell me, Mason, who haunts your house?

John the Baptist.

The Paradise Hotel

Now was come to the nirvana of Paradise Hotel that Matthew Fox who was a Buddhist and counsellor to Mason Banks in his last life, before he was acquired for the Sondry Folk by methods of which we dare not yet speak - for dramatic effect and suchlike. And his coming to nirvana was broadcast on the big screen in a certain hall of Wight Spit, wherein Anaxagoras King of Uncertain Dimensions and his court were enjoying the continuous streaming. For the whole place was wired for sound and vision, so that every aspect of each heavenly floor could be watched, and the guests therein become stars of the big screen in granite Wight Spit, unwittingly. And Truman Burbank, who was familiar with such projects, was the hotel manager and director of the broadcast.

So comes Matthew Fox through the rotating door in the lobby of Paradise Hotel (though it was impossible to leave by the same door, for at every turn it comes back into the lobby) and he is greeted by Yul Brynner the concierge and this time at the desk is Marlon Brando as he was from Apocalypse Now, all gone to seed and bald and lost in his own meditative contemplation. “Welcome to Nirvana!” said Yul Brynner, all friendly and only minutely menacing. As the staff at the Paradise Hotel would soon learn, Matthew Fox asked the question that every ascendant asks first:

“Am I dead?”

“As a great auk,” said Yul Brynner.

“Are you Y-“

“No I am not, it is just a strange coincidence. And that is not Marlon Brando, before you ask, it is Buddha Amitābha.”

Yul took Matthew gently by the arm and guided him to the front desk, where Marlon Brando was method acting the role of the buddha Amitābha. Without opening his eyes, and with his chins pointing vaguely upwards toward the ceiling and some inner plane of wonderment, he mumbled something about being welcomed to the Pure Land. In the Viewing Hall in Anaxagoras’ granite citadel the guests strained to hear him, and someone - was it Sir John Gielgud? - complained about his sinusoidal enunciation. Kenneth Williams speculated that if he hadn’t disappeared up the backside of his own Don Corleone, then I don’t know what.

“So I have ascended to the Pure Land of Amitābha Buddha?” asked Matthew, somewhat astounded. Marlon Brando opened one eye and stared at the future jerseyman of the Sondry Folk. “I have attained buddhahood already?”

Marlon put a finger to his lips and shushed the ascendant guest, at which point, Yul took him by the arm and lead him to the elevator. “Top floor for you, Matthew Fox, and no more incarnations to bother about, just the supreme detachment of the Buddha and the occasional game of greasy churning. See you on Tuesday night for training.”

Matthew was about to ask more questions, but Yul bundled him into the lift, pressed a button or two, and left the recently murdered counsellor to his thoughts, as he ascended the various levels of heavenly enlightenment towards the top floor and the Pure Land of Amitābha Buddha.

St. Denys Street

Extract from The News, Portsmouth.

REAPER CAUGHT GRUESOME SCENES AT TWO HOUSES by Harley Parkes

With the number of missing in Portsmouth rising all too rapidly, police believe they have finally apprehended the frenzied killer known locally as The Reaper for his sinister night-stalking activities. In a late afternoon raid on a house in Landport yesterday, police arrested a man in his twenties whom they have detained at Kingston Crescent Police Station pending charges for kidnap, false imprisonment and murder. So far the police are refusing to provide any details of the identity of the man or his victims, or the exact nature of the crimes involved. The News has learned from local sources that the address, 70 St. Denys Street, was occupied by a lone tenant, a young man by the name of Mason Banks. Neighbours have described him as a quiet, private person who “wouldn’t say boo to a goose” according Jackie Tinn, 70, who lived opposite Mr. Banks. But The News is investigating an anonymous tip-off that far from being a quiet, hard-working neighbour, Banks may have previous convictions for violent crimes and the murder of at least one of his parents.

In a shocking new development just as The News went to press, we understand police have also sealed off the next door house at 68 St. Denys Street, where it is believed three of Banks’ victims lived in a bohemian relationship of sex, music and religion. Hippy homosexual Methodists George Mills, 34, Alfie Morgan, 26, and James Manning, 17, are all reported missing. As yet there are no firm reports of what hellish scenes are to be found in the two houses, but with Banks being linked to up to twenty disappearances, and both homes firmly secured behind huge plastic sheeting and police guard, the rumour is of a Texas Chainsaw Massacre-like slaughterhouse.

The Paradise Hotel

Now was the Paradise Hotel in full swing, for Mason Banks set to his life’s work with vigour, and the guests were arriving sometimes three at a time. And look, here now come the three Methodist musicians fresh from their passing, one after the other, and each in turn asking, “Am I dead?” of the concierge, who was Yul Brynner, masquerading as a somewhat gypsyesque Saint Peter. Sir John Gielgud was at the front desk pretending to be father John Wesley himself, with crystal clear enunciation. James Manning being the youngest of the three gave not a second glance at either, while Alfie Morgan the middle of them took a double-take at Yul, but could not place him. George Mills the eldest and best educated asked “Am I dead?” and Yul said,

“As an Anatolian Leopard, and before you ask, no, I am not who you think I am. I am the Angel Peter. Welcome to paradise.” After father John Wesley had checked them in, Yul Saint Peter Brynner accompanied them in the lift to the seventeenth floor, where was arranged the holiest paradise in accordance with the design of the Wesleyans. In the lift there was a momentary uncomfortable silence, and the mechanics of the elevation system were plainly audible, and then, to break the awkwardness of the moment, Yul asked them if they enjoyed playing football. It was an incongruous question, given the circumstances. The three gospel musicians were at a loss in their answers, and Saint Peter who was really Yul Brynner was about to change the subject when there was a grinding sound as of metal brakes screeching, and a shuddering in the elevator, and it could be seen that the thing had stopped between the thirteenth and fourteenth floors. “Not this again!” cursed the angel at the gates of heaven, bashing the elevator buttons impatiently. He was worried that the lift would open on the fourteenth floor and deliver the three devout Methodists into the paradise of the Scientologists, which would not do at all. Of all the places. If it had been the Presbytarians or the Modern Day Adventists, well, perhaps they wouldn’t notice. At least not straight away. But on floor fourteen? With all the Operating Thetans and the giant spaceship interior styling? How dreadfully hard to explain away. How embarrassing for everyone. Truman Burbank the Hotel Manager would be furious.

The lift was stuck for some time. There was little by way of conversation, since Saint Peter was plainly seething and discouraged the asking of questions. The Methodists spoke amongst themselves, quietly and awkwardly.

“How are you both?” asked George.

“I think I’m alright,” mused young James. “Yes, me too, considering,” said Alfie.

“What happened back there? With Mason, and the o- “

“No speculating on your crossing over to paradise!” commanded Saint Peter, “at least, not in the elevator.”

They fell then to debating whether or not elevators should break down in paradise, and while Saint Peter insisted it was just one of those things and not even heaven was perfect, the three Methodists were of the opinion that in heaven at least they ought to expect perfection. The conversation had turned into bickering when the hatch in the ceiling of the lift suddenly popped open, and the head of Marty Feldman appeared in the frame of the opening. “Slight technical error,” said Marty, cheerily, showing them a spanner, “have you moving again in a jiffy.” He looked at them as if he was it was Wednesday, and him with one eye on each weekend.

“Are you, are you Marty Feldman?” asked George, incredulously.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Yul Saint Peter Brynner, irritably, “it’s plainly Saint Simon the Mechanic.” Marty waved his spanner again with a smile, to prove the point.

“Well,” mumbled George, not a little sulkily, “I should say that was definitely Marty Feldman.”

“Saint Simon” said Saint Peter.

“Marty Feldman” said George.

“Simon” said Peter, and they continued thus until the lift was fixed.

St. Denys Street

Transcript of interview with Mason Banks (MB) by Detective Chief Inspector Jude Anderson (DCI) and Detective Inspector Milo Fraser (DI) recorded at Kingston Crescent Police Station - Serious Crimes Unit.

(Excerpt)

MB: Look, I didn’t kill anybody, alright? DCI: Mason, a couple of minutes ago you told me - and we have it recorded - that they were all dead. Are you saying it wasn’t you who killed them? MB: No, I just sent them on to a better place. DI: How? How did you send them to a better place? (long pause) MB: Poison. DCI: What kind of poison, Mason? (long pause) DCI: Mason, what poison did you use? DI: How did you administer it, Mason? (long pause) DCI: Where are the bodies? (long pause) DCI: Mason, you said you were willing to help us. Can you - MB: They made me do it, they told when to wait in for people, and when to go out. My whole life was leading to this. They said. DI: Who, Mason? Voices in your head? MB: Ghosts. DI: You really think we’ll buy that? Come on Mason, help us out here, tell us the truth. What did you do with the bodies? MB: I will help you. I will. I’ll tell you everything, how many, who, where they went, everything. But I need a break now, I want a cup of tea. You have to give me that, if I’m thirsty. It’s the law.

The Paradise Hotel

Now was come to The Paradise Hotel by the Lonely Road poor Bhenwesh Brhane, and on his arrival he was greeted by Yul Brynner the concierge, posing as Jibril the Islamic Revelator.

“Am I dead?” asked Bhenwash, to which Yul replied,

“As a Christmas Island Shrew, and before you ask, no, I am not Yul Brynner.”

“Who is Yul Brynner?” asked Bhenwash, to which the gypsy king and fake angel explained, with a small amount of injured pride and irritation, that he was a fine and handsome actor most revered and most missed back on earth. “But you are in Jannah, now, humble Bhenwash, and good things come your way, once you have checked in with Ridwan at the reception desk.”

It was Omar Sharif again, acting as The Angel of Jannah. “Welcome to paradise. Let me see, Bhen, Bhenwash, Bhenwash Brhane, yes, here we are. You are well blessed, humble brother. These are for you -“ and Omar reached under the desk, and brought forth magnificent clothes and the finest jewellery. “Jibril will see you to the sixth level of heaven, just one below the prophets! But unfortunately you will have to take the stairs, because the lift is out of order at the moment. On the positive side, this being heaven, you have been remade into the image of yourself at thirty-three, since everyone in heaven is themselves at thirty-three. So a few flights of stairs won’t kill you.” Omar did a small drumroll impression with his fingers on the desk, followed by the noise of a cymbal crash, made a pointy sign at Bhenwash and winked. It was his way of letting people know he had made a joke.

“But I was thirty-three when I, when I, well, you know…”

“So you were, so you were! Well then, nothing lost, nothing gained. Now do you get yourself up to paradise and stop your yammering, I can’t sit here and listen to you going on for all eternity. Jibril will show you the way.”

St. Denys Street

According to the psychiatric transcripts, Mason Banks was not ‘shitting’ them, as Detective Jude Anderson suspected. So far he had denied the killing, and told them the missing were all dead in the same breath, that he didn’t know what had become of the bodies, that they would never be found. That he was receiving instructions from ghosts on who to take and how, and that he wasn’t mad, but medicated. So far, thought Jude, he had played a clever game. An innocent. Confused, disturbed. He had pretended to be helpful, but what had he given them? Nothing. Except what they already knew. If they needed him to shed light on any detail, he couldn’t, or wouldn’t. And now this. A bloody pile of reports from the psych teams. Visitations from John the Baptist, and a mad scientist called Herbert, and some ancient muslim soldier or god knows what, some religious assassin. He was unable to tell reality from imagination. He hallucinated. He was paranoid.

Great, thought Jude, just the ticket for Banks. He’s playing the whole system.

What was really bothering Jude, thought his partner Milo Fraser, was the fact that Banks had been working at Jude’s favourite post-piss-up takeaway, Kev’s Kebabs. As soon as it came out in the interview, and Jude connected his kebab- induced sick day with the fact that Banks had already admitted using poison on his victims – not that he, Banks, seemed to know anything about poisons – as soon as Jude connected the dots, he was out of the interview and retching down a station toilet. Jude suspected Banks had contaminated his kebab, given him a minor dose of whatever had killed all those missing persons. He even wanted to give a stool sample till the on-call duty doc had convinced him there was nothing in it.

But Milo was worried. For his senior partner, this was getting personal. Over a kebab.

The Paradise Hotel

Look now, but who comes to Paradise if it isn’t Girmay Shâd who was a muslim but has converted to the Kingdom Hall? And Yul Brynner greets him, “Welcome to Paradise, number 143,999 of God’s chosen government!” For he was dressed as a minor saint with no name, and beyond him at the reception desk was Vincent Price playing the part of Saint Peter, though he was of the superior kind, and looking down somewhat on proceedings, and being Vincent Price, he had an air of menace about him.

“Am I dead?” asked Girmay Shâd the poor Kurd, to which Yul Brynner said:

“As a Chinese River Dolphin. Now don’t tell me you recognise me, because you don’t. I am nothing like a famously handsome actor and I’ll not hear a word to contradict me. Best you hold your tongue a blessed minute and let me tell you something. Now, see, over there is Saint Peter -

“ - is he Vin-”

“Why that is preposterous, Girmay Shâd, of course not. A prince of the Hammer House of Horrors, here, on the Watch Tower of Jehovah’s Witnesses? Why, if I wasn’t a minor saint without a name I might be tempted to curse or guffaw at the suggestion, but luckily for you I’m a diligent kind of angel and I’ll not dwell on such contemptuous argument. I sincerely suggest you do not treat Saint Peter with this same tardy attitude, lest he strike thee down, as the Baptists say…”

At that, the revolving doors of the Paradise Hotel rotated again, and in came Girmay’s mentor, Leon Kennedy, somewhat befuddled.

“Am I dead?” he asked, and Yul gave Girmay a conspiratorial wink, rolled his eyes, and said:

“Welcome to Paradise, number 144,000 of God’s chosen government, and now we are at our full number!” at which he demonstratively took a sign from his lectern, which said ‘NO VACANCIES’ and he hung it, rather unnecessarily, in the window.

At the reception desk, Vincent Saint Peter Price looked down on Girmay suspiciously, and with a voice rather less comforting than one might expect from an angel at the gates of heaven, asked the Turk if he had truly rejected the way of Allah the Furious, no matter how bad his temper might be when he found out, and Girmay, though he hadn’t thought of it like that and had momentary cause for doubt, asserted that he was turned from that medieval path. Likewise Leon Kennedy was certain that Jehovah the English Protestant had no more hold on him, and his soul was for Jehovah the King of the Kingdom.

Begrudginly Peter let them past, and Yul the unnamed saint saw them to the lift, when a shocking thing happened.

For let us not forget that this was not Paradise, but the Paradise Hotel, and therefore, it was not all perfect, and being new, there was much snagging still to be completed. And so while in the Witnesses’ heaven the lions and the tigers are tame and desire not to eat one another nor the angels nor the men and women of heaven, the same could not be said of the lions and tigers of the Paradise Hotel, which were borrowed from Wight Spit Zoo and still as ill-mannered as the beasts of earth. How it came to be that a tiger was in the lift is still under investigation by Truman Burbank the hotel manager, but when the lift door opened, to be sure, the thing leaped out of the elevator in a fury, since the Bengal tigers in particular are both somewhat claustrophobic and very disparaging of technology. In a moment of chaos, the tiger ran yelling into the lobby, and took a swipe at Yul Brynner on the way. It proceeded to chase Yul, howling most ungraciously and with language not fit for an angel, even a minor one being chased by a big cat. Suddenly Hemingway of the Watch appeared through the revolving door with a big gun, and cooly took aim. His first dart missed its mark and slugged Yul, who fell instantly to the floor, drooling. The tiger turned on Girmay and Leon while Hemingway reloaded. After what seemed an eternity – in which Girmay wondered if Allah had sent the tiger – Hemingway got his good shot off and stunned the tiger. Rod Hull the emuologist and manager of Wight Spit Zoo arrived shortly thereafter with a team of deceased veterinarians to take the slumbering tiger – and Yul Brynner – away.

For Jehovah’s last two witnesses, it was a peculiar and unsettling way to gain entry into the Government of the Kingdom.

St. Denys Street

Extract from The News

NO BODIES BANKS BAFFLES OLD BILL by Harley Parkes

Despite having held Mason Banks in custody for sevety two hours, and having charged him with murder on a staggering eighteen counts, the police are no nearer finding the bodies of the missing and presumed dead victims of the St. Denys Street Reaper. The News can confirm that early reports of gruesome scenes at the house of Banks and his neighbours were wide of the mark. Although the police are saying nothing, inside reports suggest that Banks, 24, has confessed to the murders, but is yet to reveal where he has put the bodies. Rumours have it that Banks, a former burger-server at Kev’s Kebabs in Arnold Road, the legendary late-night snack bar where Banks is presumed to have met some of his victims, used poison to kill his victims, but speculation on how he has disposed of the bodies remains only that – speculation.

Meanwhile The News has tracked down Banks’ landlord, the owner of 70 St. Denys Street, Tariq Hashashin, who told this reporter that Banks was a quiet private person who always paid his rent on time. He added that he had however always felt a peculiar unease around the mass murderer. He also confirmed that while he had not been able to gain access to his property since the police arrested Banks, he has been told that there are no bodies buried in the garden or stuffed down the U- bend of the toilet, as had earlier been reported.

The Paradise Hotel

Now comes to Paradise Hotel the father and son, Henry and Lucas Finch the Scientologists, and Yul Brynner was there to greet them in a 1960s Russian Cosmonaut get-up. “Welcome to Paradise, fellow travellers!” he said, and his voice was muffled by the helmet being sealed shut.

“Are we dead?” asked Henry Finch.

Yuri opened his helmet visor up, with a hiss of depressurisation. “What,” he asked, “I can’t hear a thing through this,” and he tapped the side of the helmet.

“Are we dead?” asked Lucas Finch.

“As a pair of Russian Sputnik Hounds. Welcome aboard the Interplanetary Starship Freewinds. I am Commander Mish, and over here is the Heroic Rawl who will check you in ahead of our imminent departure across the Bridge To Total Freedom.” He led the gentlemen to the reception desk where The Anticipation of Lee Majors was waiting for them, also dressed in Russian Cosmonaut outfits.

“Are you Lee Majors?” asked Henry Finch.

“Who is Lee Majors, Dad?” asked Lucas.

“The Six Million Dollar Man” said Henry.

“But he’s Russian. Shouldn’t that be Rubles?” asked Lucas.

“I am neither Lee Majors nor Russian. I am Rawl. You have achieved Operating Thetan status level IX.”

“But I thought there were only eight levels!” said Henry.

“Well then, you reached a higher level. Now jump in the lift to your quarters, and watch out for tigers.”

St. Denys Street

On the advice of the specialists, and with his junior partner Milo urging him to back off a bit, Detective Chief Inspector Jude Anderson had finally got Mason Banks talking, by pretending to accept his argument that he was neither insane nor entirely culpable for his actions. Alright, thought Anderson, we’ll walk the middle path. Let Banks feel he can abrogate responsibility for this whole damned nightmare by blaming his ghosts, the Unholy Trinity as he called them. And it worked. Banks was opening up, finally. Yes, there were limits. So far, he still wasn’t talking about the location of the bodies. Milo felt it would come eventually, if Banks thought he was being listened to and accepted on his own bizarre terms. “Play along, Jude, and he’ll open up like a tom’s brazier” said Milo. Looked like he was right. So far they had cross-checked eighteen missing persons, and they were all on the money – Banks was able to name most of them, describe them all, give enough detail about them and when they went missing to tie in with all the missing persons reports. Of course, a number of other unconnected MP reports were coming in because of the media hysteria – some genuine, some pranks, some from the lunatic fringe – and though it was taking time and resources to rule them out categorically, so far, whenever they ran a name past Banks, he seemed to be able to honestly tell them yes or no. He was on a disclosure track now, and Milo was probably right – he’d spill it all, soon enough.

The hardest part to understand, the bit that they weren’t able to decode from Banks’ own delusions (or fake delusions, thought Anderson) was the reasoning behind his selection process. Alright, they’ll all be wrestling in paradise, if you want to take Banks at face value. But ignoring that, it was difficult to see a pattern. Sure, there was an amount of opportunism about his method. The postman, Archie Rhodes, for example. He just pulls up one day, knocks on the door with a book to deliver, and that’s him done, somehow – we’ll come to how, in good time. Two days later, Benjamin Dennis, standing in for Rhodes, he gets it too. A bailiff turns up looking for Banks, Alexander Wells, and that’s him done. Then there are the preachers, the Jehovahs Witnesses Shâd and Kennedy. They’ve just called to tell their tall tales of redemption. Opportunism.

Some are premeditated, but still, opportunistic to some degree – the travelling salesman Joe Curtis comes to St. Denys Street on an appointment made by Banks. But there was no way for Banks to know who was coming, and even if he knew the name of the man who was due, he didn’t actually know him. Banks of course was talking nonsense about some knitting circle, he maid Milo Fraser write it down, The Maid of Orléans Ladies Knitting Circle – Anderson could barely contain his disdain - making the decisions like that, more of his nonsense, some fate- weaving harpy idea he probably read in Shakespeare, if he’d ever read Shakespeare. There were his team-mates at the local football club – Charlie Russell, Luca Bibi and Jay Stewart. He lured them back after a night on the town. Part opportunity, part premeditation. Banks wasn’t a night out sort of guy – and others at the club said he almost never socialised with them. He went out on the lash knowing what he was going to do. Was it just chance that he got Russell, Bibi and Stewart back to his house? He says it was design, that they were the three he needed. Investigations indicated that they probably were the best three of the team.

Then there were the neighbours. The three Methodists. Did he get on with them? Did he have a grudge? It seemed not. If you could believe Banks, he didn’t bear grudges. As he put it, the only people he had a grudge against were dead already – his parents. Banks said he got on just fine with the bohemian trio from next door. Did he have a problem with their sexuality? Or their unusual relationship arrangements? Apparently not. Just opportunity. His argument that he was recruiting for some heavenly wrestling project didn’t stack up either – none of the three of them were, nor never had been, wrestlers. Banks didn’t have a satisfactory answer for this – just the Knitting Circle mumbo-jumbo.

What really defied understanding were the takeaway workers. Three victims from Big Daddy’s Grill in Alfred Road. Sure, they fit the modus operandi – delivering takeaways to St. Denys Street. Anderson and Fraser already knew Banks had selected two of his first victims, the homeless pals Dru Mhasalkar and Harry Brookes, from his own place of work, Kev’s Kebabs, directly opposite Big Daddy’s in Alfred Road. Why not take staff from Kev’s, wouldn’t that make more sense? Banks said he’d made a judgment call, he was loyal to his employer. He wanted to teach Big Daddy a lesson. It was his only maliciously-motivated explanation. The only time he admitted any emotion or underlying anger. Some perverted sense of loyalty to a kebab house. And a bad one at that, thought Anderson.

Detective Jude Anderson had heard enough, for now. He was more convinced than ever that Banks was leading them a merry dance. He wanted Banks to cut to the chase. He’d admitted using poison. He’d admitted ‘sending them over to the other side’ although he would not admit outright to killing them. And there was no movement on what he had done with the bodies, although there were dark hints: they are being processed, he said once, though he would not expand on it.

The Paradise Hotel

In some far and peculiar place at the intersection of our universe and that place known by Anaxagoras as the Uncertain Dimensions, stands the brazen imitation of many kinds of heaven, the Paradise Hotel of Wight Spit, wherein are housed the victims of Mason Banks; and them all thinking that they have ascended to the highest plane of their existence. On this day in the lobby Yul Brynner the Concierge is welcoming new arrivals, from a variety of christian denominations that require subtle but significant alterations in approach of his role as Saint Peter the Greeter. And at the reception desk is Michael Landon, fresh from his little house on the prairie, in the role of Saint Michael the Receptionist. Yul and Michael are busy this day, for this is the day when Mason Banks is at his busiest, and first Roman Catholics, and then Anglicans, and then Seventh Day Adventists are arriving one after the other, asking “Am I dead?”

And they are. As a Labrador Duck.

Then the poor deceased are checked in by Saint Michael the Receptionist, and attended on by Yul Saint Peter Brynner, who sees them to the elevator, and takes them nigh unto heaven, as it would seem to them, all the time checking with them that they are interested in greasy churning, and insisting, even if they are not, that they should attend practice next Tuesday evening, for their being in heaven is contingent upon it. And each of them, Catholic, Protestant or Adventist, was most baffled by this peculiar turn of events, but with Saint Peter telling them to start practising keepy-ups with the balls they will find beyond the pearly gates as well as wrestling holds on winged coaches, they were loathe to protest. And indeed, since heaven was on the whole a pleasant and largely consistently predictable paradise as they had been promised in their various churches, they were pleased to dutifully attend the churning practice, where they were doubly surprised to find the fine facilities were patronised by churners of many faiths come from their own heavens for training, and also that training was being run by Mr. Clough, who, somewhat blasphemously to their thinking, was called The Resurrected. Furthermore, since they did not know that the eternal honeyed rivers and falls from which they drank were laced with the churning gene Crabtree-50, they were often stunned to find that, in heaven at least, they were quite good wrestlers, and very keen.

But think not that all was rosy in paradise. For after all, this was hardly Paradise, but in fact the Paradise Hotel, which was new-built and not without its faults. Now Truman Burbank the manager of the Paradise Hotel was come to Anaxagoras’ great halls in Wight Spit to address a number of complaints from staff and guests, some minor, some less so. The court heard them in good order, and addressed each of them as may seem fit, and it was the hope of all there that solutions might be found to keep Paradise running smoothly, so that there was not some ugly schism as had occurred in Jove’s Paradise, on account of his pigheadedness and generally poor management skills, when his supremely gifted brother Abaddon got the needle and founded his own rival paradise with broader appeal and legendary eternity-long parties of decadence and debauchery.

Among the complaints brought to Anaxagoras’ attention were the following:

(i) That in Catholic Paradise, there were no chairs and John Mills, the actor who was playing Gabriel who was the highest authority upon whom the residents of paradise were able to look with the naked eye, had been somewhat unaccommodating of the complainants. After all, said the Archangel John Mills, it was written in the small print, ‘no sitting down in heaven’. But, said Truman, there would be riots soon if they didn’t get some sofas in, small print or no. Further, there was a shortage of UV-protective sunglasses, so that as well as not being able to look upon their god with the naked eye, they couldn’t even look upon him with goggles, and there was a general feeling that in heaven at least, one had earned the right to look upon thy God. Of course, said John The Baptist Third Lieutenant of Anaxagoras, this was always going to the problem with making a heaven in the mould of the Catholic Paradise: tenants of such heaven’s were always complaining about one thing or another, what with the landlord being such a stubborn old goat.

(ii) That in the Shi-ite Islamic heaven there were not three thousand virgins for every male ascendent. Anaxi rolled his eyes. As if! And if they really thought about, he speculated – what with the trouble he was having with his own temperamental girlfriend Virgin Mary, who was gone all cold and silent on him again – would they really want three thousand headaches for the rest of eternity? Pah!

(iii) That in several heavens there was a damp climbing moss that was everywhere proving a pestilence on the new building, and difficult to remove. Rising damp? asks Anaxi. Truman Burbank had the builders in looking at it. Other infrastructure problems included the unreliable elevators, which was proving very hard on the buddhists since their Nirvana was on the top floor with the best views, and a scattering of dangerous animals from Wight Spit Zoo which had been placed on the floor housing the Jehovah’s Witnesses, but since they were such liberal and careless keepers of animals, thinking them of equal sentience and endowed with free will, had let them wander hither and thither, keeping no account of them. And now several of them were on the loose in other heavens, and this was proving unpopular, especially with the Roman Catholics and the generally angry Islamists.

(iv) That many of the angels in various paradises appeared to be hired actors, and not very good at that, so that many were suspicious of their true place in the hallowed afterlife, as if in fact they were but characters in a play or screen show. Which of course they were.

(v) That the telephones and the internet weren’t working. Which of course they weren’t.

St. Denys Street

There were two problems with Mason Banks’ story. Firstly, he didn’t know anything about poison. They had questioned him for hours around the subject of poison because he insisted that was how he was ‘sending his victims on their way’ – he still wouldn’t accept that he was ‘killing’ them. He knew next to nothing about what poison he used – it was a clear, tasteless liquid, he put it in hot drinks he made for his victims. He claimed that the poison was given him by one of his damn ghosts, this islamic monk that supposedly haunted his house. Hassan or Hossaim or something. They had turned the house upside down, and there was no sign of any poison. Banks described where to find it, what kind of bottle it was in, but there was nothing in the house. And Banks would not move from his story. In every other aspect of his interviews, he seemed to be straight with them. But he had no answer to the problem of his claim to having administered poison when he knew nothing – or next to nothing, about the art. In their background checks, they found Mason to have had almost no schooling, and he didn’t give the impression of being very bright. He was no Nobel chemist, so far as they could tell.

The second problem with Banks’ story was his refusal to explain what had become of the bodies. No matter what they tried on him, for days he insisted he didn’t know. It was the clearest, in fact the only, detectable lie he was telling. They pressured him with positive and negative techniques. Eventually, he cracked a little, and admitted that his ghosts had taken care of the bodies. The bloody assassin was doing it. After that admission, they could get no more. His name was Hassan, he was a ghost, an assassin, and a wrestling scout. Fraser looked into it – the character Banks described had a historical basis, and had appeared in fiction from the historical to the contemporary. Banks could’ve read about him. Although he didn’t come across as much of a reader. All they had to go on, as far as the bodies was concerned, was this fantasy Banks was weaving, either because he believed it (as Fraser suspected) or because he simply wouldn’t tell the truth for fear of facing his own conscience (as Anderson believed).

An uncomfortable third proposition faced detectives Anderson and Fraser. The possibility of an accomplice. Not this ghost Hassan the Assassin, but a real and present killer. Was Banks working with someone else, someone who was disposing of the bodies? Someone who supplied the poison, if indeed the victims were poisoned? The detectives raked through the missing persons reports that still trickled in even after Banks was arrested. Was someone still out there, completing Banks work? All indications, however, pointed to the disappearances finishing with the detention of Mason Banks. Everything else was faked or hysterical or just plain lunatic nonsense. Banks surely was doing the killing, but what was he doing with the bodies? Fraser had another suggestion – maybe this Hassan guy? Maybe he wasn’t a ghost. But Banks had nothing to give on him except that he appeared in the house, and came from some ‘Uncertain Dimension’ as Banks would have it.

Failing all else, they had no choice but to make enquiries, as best they could, about these ghosts. Anderson was barely able to countenance asking questions relating to it. Fraser led the ‘ghost-based enquiry line’ – he interviewed some of the locals, did they have any stories about hauntings, or for that matter, real-life comings and goings. They drew a blank. One or two of the victims had been seen entering the premises, and apart from that, just the odd visit from the landlord. Fraser went to see Tariq Hashashin, Banks’ landlord, to see if there had been any complaints of hauntings by previous tenants, or anyone called Hassan either as a previous tenant or as someone who had been known at that address in some form. There hadn’t. Had Banks complained to Tariq about these ghosts, or about unwelcome visitors? But Tariq knew nothing. He collected the rent, which Banks always paid on time, and that was all he knew. He’s inspected the house once, as Landlords do, there was nothing out of the ordinary.

Anderson and Fraser were no nearer to the bodies after a fortnight of intensive interviews, and Banks was no nearer to giving up his secret.

The Paradise Hotel

Of all the heavens that were recreated in the Paradise Hotel, perhaps the most difficult was the second of the Anglican variety. For on the one hand there was the devout Anglican paradise, which was somewhat bijou on account of the limited number of practitioners who qualified as devout, in the Anglican creed. And this heaven was bright, and sparse, and filled with the sounds of singing angels and harps and all the sounds of the upper atmospheres. Those that came there were most happy with their lot for the heaven matched precisely with how they had understood it to be, and on the bonus side, thanks in part to the protestant reformation of Luther and Calvin and such, there were sofas and chairs in the shape of clouds to sit on, so that the devout Anglicans did not have to spend eternity standing up like the Roman Catholics. And so, to coin the language of the vicars and holy reverends, all who came there were satisfied.

But now, there was of course the second Anglican heaven, which was more for the life-style Anglicans and those agnostics who had Anglicanism more as a flag of convenience than a belief system, so that if anyone in authority asked of them, “Religious Denomination?” they could quickly and simply reply, “C of E” without even so much as a thought of what it stood for, let alone what it stood for. And how does one design a heaven to satisfy the needs of such a large majority of Anglicans, who, on the one hand, probably don’t even know they are Anglicans, and on the other, have never given much thought to what heaven must be like, except that it would be rather nice, probably a bit like their favourite holiday destination, but without the long-haul flights and absolutely and forever free of charge? For these vast numbers of lifestyle Anglicans, ascending to heaven is nothing more than ‘like winning a competition’. After an extensive survey, the only really strong opinion of what heaven must be like for such a laissez-fair mob, is that Lady Diana Spencer was most probably in charge of the place. It was no foundation on which to build a counterfeit heaven, but the hope was, so long as Diana was on Reception at the time of arrival of such lazy agnostics as Alexander Wells the bailiff, or Harry Brookes the homeless artificial inseminator, or Christopher Jenkins the kitchen-fitter, then that would be enough for them to be convinced that they hadn’t been duped.

And so comes eccentric tramp Harry Brookes into the lobby of the Paradise Hotel, and Yul Brynner is there, officially as Saint Peter at the Gates of Heaven, but every now and then making up some other name just because, these being lifestyle anglicans, they would not know any better. And there at reception is Diana Spencer, since she had no more use of the surname Windsor, and out back Dodi Fayed making tea and doing some photocopying.

“Am I dead?” asked Harry, on seeing Yul Saint Peter Brynner.

“As a Double-banded Argus. Welcome to paradise, Harry Brookes of the street! I am the Arch Pope, Saint Maximus of The Monastery on The Mount, and over there is Saint Diana of the Doors, Princess of Heaven and patron saint of The Channel Tunnel!”

It was mostly nonsense of course. But Yul was become bored of his job and looking to pepper his day with lies and falsehoods, which of course are wonderful things to play with. Yul took poor Harry to reception, and when he cast his eye upon Lady Diana, why, did he not cross himself in poor and instinctive imitation of the Catholics, and kiss his own hand, and curtsey awkwardly like a girl guide. Diana laughed sweetly, and Harry muttered to himself, “To be sure, I have died and gone to blinking heaven.”

Well, thinks Yul, we’ll see about that when you get up to the fourth floor, whereon was located the hotch-potch paradise of the lazy agnostics. In the lift on the way up, Yul questioned Harry about wrestling. But the poor man, all confused and besotted with the Princess on reception, was speaking nonsense and irritating Yul Brynner with his eccentricity. So they came at last to Paradise, and when the lift door opened, there before them was a bright gate, full of electric lightbulbs of all different colours flashing on and off, and beyond it was a busy funfair, full of Romanies running the rides and bending the barrels of the air pistols on the pot-shot stalls. And beyond the fair was a shabby seafront, of arcades and amusements half rundown, and a shingle beach, and waves crashing upon the shore all brown and greasy-looking, and leaving a foam like sickly candy floss. “This, this is Rhyl!” exclaimed the tramp, startled.

And before Yul could counter, for he was going to argue the matter, Harry resolved the issue himself, by saying, “To be double sure, Lady Di and Rhyl seafront! My God, I am in heaven!”

So Yul said nothing except to remind Harry to turn up for churning practice on Tuesday night, and then he got back in the lift, and went down to the lobby to greet the next lifestyle Anglican coming through the revolving door of paradise.

St. Denys Street

Sometimes, you just need to stop and think about it. Hours and hours of interview will get you most of the way there, but in any but the most straightforward cases, a good application of the critical process is what will turn the corner for you, or put the last piece of the puzzle in place. Detective Jude Anderson had probably gone as far as he could with Mason Banks in interviews, and the boy wasn’t going to give up his bodies. No point reflecting on the old days when you might’ve been able to beat it out of him. God knows Anderson would be head of the queue for that. He didn’t agree with his partner Milo Fraser that Banks was living in a paranoid fantasy world. Living out a paranoid fantasy maybe. But he knew black from white alright, and he was playing with them. Power trip. A good beating would change all that. But those times were gone, now that they had themselves a modernising young ambitious Superintendent. There was only one thing for it. Get out of the office for a couple of hours, change of scenery, engage brain, think about it, mull it over with Milo, who always had a different perspective. Between them, they could problem solve from two angles. The mental pincer movement. After a drive around the city visiting the sites of Banks’ known activity, they found themselves drinking coffee in Big Daddy’s, opposite Kev’s Kebabs, where Banks had worked.

Something wasn’t right about the picture they had built. Forget the gaps, the known unknowns. Look at the knowns. Had they taken anything for granted? Banks had volunteered a mass of information, and ghost mumbo-jumbo aside, it had pretty well proved accurate. All the big facts – names, times, locations – they had all stacked up. Had they missed anything? Had he given them small facts that they hadn’t bothered to verify or at least question, because the big stuff was what they wanted? Anderson and Fraser went through as much as they could recall of the small detail Banks had painted for them. Nothing seemed out of kilter. And yet, there was something. Something not right. OK then, move on. Witnesses. Anything in the witness statements – friends and family of the victims, professionals around Banks, neighbours – anything they hadn’t properly considered, any inconsistencies? And there was one. It was small, but maybe it was important. When Fraser had interviewed the landlord, Tariq, he had not mentioned the work that needed doing in the house – work that led to the disappearance, and deaths, of two electricians, the Lucas father and son, and a kitchen fitter, Jenkins. He talked about going round to collect the rent, and about a Landlord inspection that had been quite satisfactory, to his mind. And yet, there had been work done there, and Mason had told them he had got the landlord to send out an electrician to sort out some wiring problems, with the express intent of killing whoever turned up. Same with the kitchen-fitter – some repairs needed doing, Mason had Tariq organise a fitter to sort it out. But Tariq had not mentioned it to Fraser when he paid the landlord a visit.

Was it an oversight on Tariq’s part? Had he been to see the problems that Mason had complained about? Surely he hadn’t forgotten about it, it was less than a fortnight ago. So why didn’t he mention it? He had been clear that his dealings with Mason had been nothing more than routine. They had to follow it up. But what did they know about this Tariq? His surname was Hashashin. It was Fraser who made the connection: Hashashin – sounds like Hassan. And Assassin. Mason’s ghost – it could be Tariq. Were they getting ahead of themselves – what did he do for a living, what did they know about him? Well, he was an halal butcher, that much they knew. Anderson made the next connection, and not one he was overly pleased about. He got up from his table, and went over the road to Kev’s Kebabs. They all knew him now, what with the investigation and with Banks having worked there. Anderson asked for the boss, Kev. Although, in fact, his name was Mehmed Demirci. But Mehmed-Kev wasn’t around. Anderson asked the supervisor instead, recalling his recent bout of Kev’s Kebab-induced food poisoning, and dreading the answer. “Who supplies your meat?”

It was as bad as he thought. Some guy called Tariq. Hashashin? Maybe, I don’t recall. But Tariq. Mason rents a house from him.

The Paradise Hotel

And now is the Paradise Hotel nearly full, and only a couple of atheists and a very honoured guest still due to arrive. Churning practice begins tonight, and the new members of Anaxagoras’ Sondry Folk are to begin their preparation for The Sport. And of course, until they meet Mr. Clough Resurrected, they don’t know why they have been practicing keepy-ups and wrestle holds in paradise, and wanting to churn after every draught of the heavenly honey-dew on tap in their holy apartments – it being laced with the churning gene, Crabtree-50. But they are soon to find out.

Down in the lobby, Yul Brynner is glad that the schedule today is light, and only a couple of atheists due. Plus, of course, being atheists, these guests need no elaborate deceptions and so at last Yul Brynner can be Yul Brynner, even if he cannot clearly remember who Yul Brynner really is. At the reception desk for such occasion of the passing into the afterlife of nothingness is the Clone of Doctor Richard Dawkins, who is head of I.T. in Wight Spit and had come here to say a reassuring “I told you so!” to Samuel Morton and first Archie Rhodes, the communist postman, militant atheist, Secular Society district chairman, union rep and owner of a rather fine flat overlooking Southsea Common and the water. Of course, former owner would be the more accurate assessment. And as for Richard Dawkins, well he is somewhat preaching to the converted, but at least they can all congratulate themselves on being correct and in many ways profoundly wise.

“Welcome to Nothingness!” said Yul, as the dead postman came through the revolving doors. “I am Yul Brynner, the famous and preternaturally handsome actor and gypsy, and I am here to take you to your blank and unimaginable cessation of being. Over here is the Clone of Richard Dawkins, who will be checking you out!”

“Am I dead?” asked Archie.

“As a Broad-faced Potoroo. In just a couple of minutes, you will no longer be anything. Except we would like you to come back into existence tonight, for churning practice, 7pm sharp. You will find boots and training vestments in your nothingness.”

“Point one,” said Archie, argumentatively, “if I were to come back into existence tonight, then that would be reincarnation, and I am not a buddhist -”

“Well, yes,” started Yul, patiently, before Archie carried on,

“Point two, if there are football boots in my nothingness, then it’s not nothing, it’s something.”

“Yes, but -” started Yul, less patiently,

“Point three, don’t call them vestments, this is not the Holy Asylum, this is nothingness, apparently.”

Yul paused. He waited. He wasn’t going to be interrupted again. After a fair time, and seeing as Archie was now fallen silent, he started - “The thing is -”

“And point four, how will I be able to tell the time in an eternal nothingness?”

“Well,” says Yul, angrily, “it’s only nothingness until seven o’clock tonight, and then it is something, with you in it, and some football boots, and some training vest… clothes. And don’t be arguing with me, take it up with the supreme being if you don’t like it, I’m just the concierge.”

“Wait a minute, Supreme Being you say? I’m not having that. Maybe I don’t want to be woken up at 7pm, either. Have you thought of that?”

“There is no Supreme Being, for Christ’s sake!” calls out the Clone of Richard Dawkins.

“Oh yes there is!” shouted Yul, at Richard, “who do you think built this bloody hotel?”

“Hotel?” asked Archie, “you told me - ”

“Isambard Kingdom Brunel” said Richard, pedantically.

“Hotel?” asked Archie, annoyed.

And so it went on, up the elevator to the umpteenth floor, between Archie Rhodes and Yul Brynner and Richard Dawkins, who had joined them to make his point, and when they arrived in the nothingness, they continued to argue for some time yet.

And meanwhile down in the empty lobby, comes through the door Samuel Morton the other atheist, and he says,

“Am I dead?”

But there was no reply, and the lobby was silent, and to Samuel Morton who had not much thought about ceasing to exist, this seemed a painless and rather benign nothingness.

St. Denys Street

Once Anderson and Fraser had connected Banks to Tariq Hashashin the Halal Butcher, it all fell into place. Banks wasn’t killing the victims, just as he’d maintained. Tariq provided the poison to dope them, Tariq took them away, slaughtered and butchered them, and reprocessed them as kebab meat for the local takeaways. For a fortnight, Portsmouth people were dining out on their own kind. So far, they had tracked down eight establishments that had been buying meat from Hashashin Halal. But of Tariq, there was no sign. He was on the run. And when they started to look into his background, they started drawing blanks. There was almost no documentary evidence of where he came from or how long he had been butchering. At least a decade, just from the anecdotals. Someone said they heard he was Syrian, but others said Palestinian, Iranian, Iraqi, Turkish. Wherever he was from, he was most likely on his way back there even now. His premises yielded up nothing in terms of paperwork. His customers admitting trading cash and commodities for his meat, to keep it off the books and out of sight from the taxman. Banks knew virtually nothing about him, except that he had paid rent in cash for some months until Tariq-Hassan had come up with his gruesome scheme, convincing Banks that every body would be worth a month’s rent. A month’s rent. Banks had almost two years free accommodation to look forward to.

But now, now he was going to get a lifetime’s free accommodation. Courtesy of Her Majesty.

Extract from The News

REAPER CUSTODY SUICIDE

Mass murder suspect Mason Banks has been found dead in his cell at Long Lartin Prison, where he was being held on remand pending investigation into the murders of twenty-two people, most of them in the last few months and all but one in the city of Portsmouth where he lived. The St. Denys Street Reaper, as he has become known by the locals, is believed to have committed suicide. Police say he died from a single wound, and that no others are being questioned or sought in connection to his death…

∞

The last sighting of Tariq Hashashin was in the cell of Long Lartin, by Mason Banks. It was long after lights out when Banks felt his presence in his cell, at the end of his bunk.

Hassan i Sabbah, Master Assassin and Right Hand of Anaxagoras, flashed a smile at sleepy Mason, who sat up rubbing his eyes. Despite the darkness, he could see Hassan quite clearly, as if he was lit from some theatrical spot. It was a familiar sight – he had often visited Mason at St Denys Street in the middle of the night, let himself in, woken Mason up with that feeling, that smile, that light on his dark face.

“Mason, my friend, it is time. Are you ready? What adventures we have ahead of us, in the court of Anaxagoras our King and friend!”

“Am I dead?”

“Not yet, Mason, not yet,” he turned a shining dagger in his hands, thoughtfully, and smiled again at Mason, benignly, if that is possible. “Shall we play some Sport tonight? I fancy a game of greasy churning!”

The Paradise Hotel

And so comes the end of the story about the Reaper For Our Time, and also, the beginning of the story, though it is placed at the back for the sake of art. Now come into the lobby are all the guests of the hotel, from each floor and each dubious paradise, and they have set aside their numerous complaints about the state of the craftsmanship, the faulty wiring, the dangerous animals, the bizarre spreading moss that seems to get everywhere, the intermittent elevator, the bad acting and the foul mood of Mr. Clough Resurrected at churning practice. They have come to greet an honoured guest. At reception is no less than Anaxagoras King of Uncertain Dimensions himself, and he is got up in a most formal and tidy aspect, with a dickie bow and a dinner jacket and a most flamboyant golden quill to mark the guest register; and the concierge Yul Brynner is there in curious trappings as of a Siamese King, which are his preferred outfits, and he has a great smile about him. There too are Omar Sharif and John Gielgud, Marlon Brando and Lady Diana Spencer, and many from the court of granite Wight Spit, and the lieutenants Herbert West the Reanimator and John the Baptist. At the appointed time, the revolving doors of Wight Spit began to move, and through came Mason Banks, and with him, his landlord and guide, Hassan i Sabbah who was Tariq the Butcher. A cheer and a round of applause met the surprised young fellow, Mason. Hassan laughed and put an arm around him for reassurance.

“Am I dead now?” asked Mason.

“AS A SHORT-HAIRED BUMBLEBEE!” chimed the whole crowd, and lapsed into another raucous round of applause.

“Welcome to Paradise, Mason Banks,” said Yul, “I am Yul Brynner the King of Siam and Famous Actor, and over here, on reception, is your King and friend, Anaxi. Please, go and check in.”

Mason went then all wide-eyed up to Anaxagoras, and said, “My name is Mason Banks, and I am just checking in.”

“I know, I know,” smiled Anaxi, “welcome to your happy ending. Here are a pair of Adidas Predators, and here’s a tin of Ralgex, now, why don’t you get yourself changed and warmed up, Mr. Clough would like to meet you.”