SATAN BABY


 

SATAN BABY

A Satanic Chiller For Yuletide

By Sir Desmond Stirling

@sirdesstirling

 

Chapter 1

 

Charles, Viscount de Bourbon a Bisquit, gentleman, adventurer, patriot and Englishman – despite his Gallic title – stood back to admire his handiwork.

‘On with the lights,’ he instructed his man, Staunchpole, once his loyal and brutal sergeant in the trenches, now his equally steadfast and no less brutal factotum.

Staunchpole flicked a switch, and the Christmas Tree lit up very gaily, reminding Charles of a tart he had once known – or was it twice? – in Bruges.

‘Well done, Staunchpole!’ said Charles. ‘It’s beginning to feel a lot like Christmas.’

This year, Charles had decided to celebrate Christmas at his family home, the 17th century Hazel Court, just outside the little Hampshire village of Hinchcliffe’s Combover. He usually fled to sunnier climes, but what with Europe rumbling with beastliness, thanks to the wretched Hun, he suspected this could be the last peacetime Yuletide for some years.

So he had decided to open up his country seat to his closest friends. His young nephew Simon Tubular-Wells would be here, along with – Charles sniffed with disapproval – his latest girlfriend, Lady Selena Topographic–Ocean. She was a good prospective wife for Simon, sound family, wealthy, good breeding stock, but Simon was too young to be thinking of marriage. He still had oats to sow and, with a war imminent, foreigners to kill before he needed to settle down with a wife and start spawning.

In a fit of seasonal benevolence Charles had even invited his ex-wife, Marjorie, to join them. She’d been jilted at the altar by her latest beau, a cove in oil, wealthy, but black as your hat, who’d seen the light and scarpered. Charles couldn’t blame him, but he’d also suffered a twinge of sympathy for the old harridan, particularly as she was Simon’s aunt.

Besides, she usually behaved herself in front of her nephew and was less likely to wrap her legs around the nearest male. However, apart from Simon, the only males present would be Charles himself, Staunchpole (who’d had his manhood partially shot off by the Bosch at Wipers), and the Reverend Inman-Grayson, once he’d torn himself away from the Home for Wayward Boys of which he was the patron. The Vicar had promised to bring along some of the boys if they might be required, but Charles had assured him that Hazel Court had ample staff.

Charles took another satisfied look at the Christmas Tree which filled the atrium of Hazel Court. All he needed to do now was place the Christmas presents under the tree, get Staunchpole to pour him a large whisky, and, while awaiting the influx of house-guests, start to enjoy the Yuletide season!

 

Charles glanced at himself admiringly in the mirror, marvelled at his fine looks for a man of his age, straightened his bow-tie, and set off downstairs for pre-diner aperitifs. His guests had arrived earlier, safe and around. Simon and Lady Selena had driven down in his nephew’s brand new and nippy Austin Mitchell.

Marjorie had phoned from the station demanding to be fetched: unlike her to travel by so common a transport as train, so her purse must be uncommonly tight.

Staunchpole had mulled some wine, not just for his guests, but in preparation for any passing mummers or carol singers. Christmas Eve was the only time he allowed the villagers to approach the front door without having the dogs set on them so the locals relished the chance to walk up the main drive and peer, saucer-eyed, into the hallway and see a lifestyle they could never hope to achieve themselves.

If anything, the Christmas tree looked prettier than ever. Charles stared at it, entranced by the twinkling lights, as childhood memories of being in this very spot arose from the depths of his mind; 8 year old Charles eager to unwrap the enticing parcels lurking around the base. Would there be toy soldiers? A puppy? A gun? Perhaps his first manservant?

He was shaken from his reverie by Staunchpole’s voice.

‘What is it, Staunchpole?’

‘Staunchpole bowed. ‘There is an old gypsy woman outside, Sir, with a donkey. She is asking for water and shelter.’

Charles sighed. The poor were such a nuisance, particularly at Xmas. But he didn’t want a donkey dying on his land over the holiday, nor an irate Gypsy.

‘Let her use the old barn down by Old Nick’s Moob. But make sure she stays away from the house.’

As Staunchpole walked to the front door to give the instructions, Charles caught a glimpse of the old Romany. She was a shrivelled, walnut-faced thing, swathed in shawls, stoop-backed and seemingly dwarfed by the skeletal donkey she held by a string. But as she glanced up, Charles shuddered. Her eyes blazed at him, radiating the sort of contempt for her betters that frankly deserved a horse-whipping. But there was also something seemed eerily familiar about her.

Charles dragged his eyes away, took a slug of mulled wine, and, determined not to let an old crone spoil the evening, strode in to the drawing room to join his guests.

 

Simon stood by the hearth, the flickering fire reflecting in his dazzling blue eyes, his still-boyish skin tanned from a recent visit to South Africa where he played cricket with the natives and sold armaments to the government. His broad shoulders, slender waist and firm buttocks suited evening wear, and, as always,  Charles felt a stirring of pride deep down inside whenever he saw his nephew.

Marjorie lay on the sofa like a slut, her shoes  discarded, her hair not what it should be, an inch of ash teetering at the end of her cigarette. She had eschewed the proffered mulled wine for a tumbler of brandy. As always Charles marvelled at the thought that he had been capable of intimacy with her.

Of Lady Selena there was no sign, but young ladies did seem to spend a lot of their time at toilet these days.

‘Yuletide felicitations, Uncle Charles!’ yelled Simon, who then greeted his uncle with a hug which took Charles back, but didn’t altogether displease him, although he would have had flogged any other man who tried it.

‘Where’s the delightful Lady Selena?’ asked Charles.

Marjorie muttered something which Charles didn’t catch (probably the first time someone didn’t catch something off Marjorie, he thought to himself).

‘She is taking her time,’ exclaimed Simon. ‘Ladies, eh? I’ll chivvy her along.’ And he bounded out of the door.

Charles dutifully bent down and kissed Marjorie who proffered her over-rouged cheek.

‘Glad you could make it, Marjorie,’ Charles lied.

To his horror, Marjorie replied by starting to sob. ‘Oh Charles, why do you men treat me so abominably. I loved him, I really did, and not just for his money although there was a frightful lot of it. He was so handsome and for the first time I thought I’d met a man who really made me feel like a woman…’

Charles ignored the implied insult to himself and told Marjorie to pull herself together.

Inexplicably, she cried even more.

Fortunately, before Charles had to try and comfort her further, Simon, rushed back into the room.

‘Lady Selena!’ he huffed. ‘She’s gone!’

Chares took charge. ‘Gone? What do you mean? Perhaps she is powdering her nose?’

‘But she never does that,’ explained Simon. ‘Her bedroom window is open and there’s signs of a struggle.’

From outside in the garden a scream rent the air.

‘Lady Selena!’ gasped Simon.

Charles and Simon rushed out into the cold winter night. Snow was beginning to sprinkle down from the sky. God’s dandruff, someone had once called it, Charles vaguely recalled.

A small group of young carol singers were marching up their drive, each clutching a lantern. The tune they sang was familiar, but Charles was shocked by the words. Not the usual beautiful words celebrating our Saviour’s birth, but an twisted, evil libretto about ‘shepherd’s washing their cocks with shite.’ Charles was about to berate the carol singers, even administer a sound spanking to a selected boy, but then he looked at their drooling mouths and their blank eyes, and realised that they were not in control of themselves.

‘Look, Uncle!’ Simon screamed, unnecessarily hysterically. The darling lad was pointing towards Old Nick’s Moob, the lumpy hillock a quarter of a mile away, purported in local legend to be where Lucifer himself had given suckle to the evil witches who infested the county in the olden days.

An old barn belonging to the estate sat atop Old Nick’s Moob, and it was lit up dazzlingly bright, almost as though it were daylight. Charles shielded his eyes from the glare, trying to see from where the light was emanating.

In the sky above the barn was a cluster of stars. But this wasn’t a natural cosmic phenomenon, nor was it a sight of breath-taking beauty. For a start, the stars glowed an evil dirty scarlet, a colour Charles always associated with whore-houses in the grimier parts of London’s wicked East End. But also the stars were clustering together to form the shape of a chap’s member, drooping sadly downwards (as Charles gathered happened to men who didn’t keep themselves virile with exercise and regular consumption of red meat), pointing directly at the barn.

‘The gypsy!’ Charles exclaimed, recalling the plea for sanctuary from the old crone with the malevolent eyes earlier. ‘A poorly donkey, my arse!’

Charles looked around to see where Simon was. The  big-hearted boy was dishing out sixpences to the carol singers, who were now singing something about a ‘ponce’ in Royal David’s City

‘Come on, lad,’ shouted his uncle. ‘No time for that now.’

Charles grabbed Simon by his arm, firmly muscled from years of pulling through, and dragged him away from the house and the carol singers and towards the barn atop Old Nick’s Moob.

‘But what about Aunt Marjorie?’ Simon gasped.

‘Staunchpole will look after her,’ Charles replied, impatiently. They had more important things to worry about than his drunken ex-wife.

The two men ran towards the hillock, but were only about halfway there when a noise stopped them in their tracks. Was it… sleigh bells?

Both men stared around, but could see nothing. Then they heard the crack of a whip, followed by a deep rumbling laugh, a sickening gurgle like a lavatory trying to flush away the evidence of a particularly nauseating crime.

‘Ho… ho… ho…!’

The sound came from above them. It was joined by the noise of hoof-beats and the hoarse sniffling of animals. The sleigh bells got louder too, but not a pretty tinkling noise, more the sound of a barefoot man trampling inside a bucket of broken glass.

And from the sky there swooped a sleigh pulled by the most evil-looking creatures Charles had ever seen. Reindeer, but not the endearing chaps seen on most Christmas cards. These beasts had fur like slimy black leather, foam-drenched fangs protruding from their cruel mouths, steam erupting from glowing scarlet noses, and their antlers were twisted into the shape of upside-down crucifixes. Manure erupted from their hind-end in a never-ending stream, akin to the oratory from a trade union leader. The stench was unbearable, like being in a poor person’s house.

The sleigh dive-bombed our heroes, only narrowly missing their heads. They both fell to the ground as heavy presents landed all around them and exploded, accompanied by fetid reindeer droppings.

‘Ho… ho… ho…!’ came the mournful hollow laughter. Charles thought it the most dismal noise he had ever heard.

He caught his first glimpse of the pilot of the sleigh. Father Christmas! But not the lovable, fat be-whiskered present-giver of legend. No, this creature was a pop-eyed, sozzle-nosed, whisky-breathed, puce-complexioned mockery, like a drunken actor pretending to be a Father Christmas in a department store. On Oxford Street, probably.

‘Come, Himmler and Bastard, Noncer and Poncer, Attlee, Vomit, Stupid, and Bitch!’ shouted the bearded red-cloaked monstrosity, his rancid halitosis eye-watering even from above.

‘It’s Father Christmas, Uncle,’ Simon yelled.

Charles stood up and shook his fist at the sleigh.

‘I defy you,’ he shouted. ‘There is no such thing as Father Christmas!’

The sleigh tuned to make another attack.

‘Impossible,’ breathed Charles. ‘I defied it’s existence, it should just vanish.’ He tried again.

‘We don’t believe in Father Christmas!’ he bellowed once more.

The sleigh continued its downward trajectory.

‘WE DON’T BELIEVE IN FATHER CHRISTMAS!’

Simon tugged at his uncle’s elbow. ‘Actually, Uncle, I do,’

Charles stared uncomprehendingly at his nephew. How could this be? Simon was a grown man. Had no-one ever explained…

He grabbed his nephew by the shoulders and gazed right into his baby-blue eyes.

Now, listen, Simon,’ he said, ‘This is the hardest thing I have ever said to you, but it’s the truth. There is no Father Christmas!’

Simon’s lower lip quivered.

‘But… but… but…?’

‘No buts,’ his uncle replied, brusquely. ‘It was your parents all along. The fairy bike, the cricket bat, the clockwork Hitler… all bought from Gamages and not the North Pole.’

Simon collapsed to his knees, An anguished wail started somewhere deep inside him and then erupted, a primal Krakatoa of a collapsed childhood.

As Simon sobbed pitifully, Charles looked up in the sky. The evil sleigh was evaporating fast, the last remaining glimpse was of the warped Father Christmas shaking its fist at the men on the ground.

Then with a final rattle of the sleigh bells, it popped out of existence.

All was calm, all was bright.

Charles hauled Simon back up onto his knees. ‘Sorry, lad, but you had to find out some time.’

Simon looked at his uncle with red-stained eyes. ‘I will never ever trust another grown-up ever again.’

‘That’s the most important lesson you will ever learn.’ Charles thumped Simon on the back. ‘Now let’s rescue Lady Selena.’

 

Cautiously, the two brave Englishmen approached the barn. Charles didn’t believe the Satanic Santa was the only protection which had been conjured by whoever was responsible for this. He kept a watchful eye out for elements, spells and goat-footed dwarves.

The brightness from the obscene stars above the barn became dazzling, and both men had to shield their eyes. Charles shivered but he didn’t know if it was from anticipation or the cold. The snow was getting thicker too, and neither were wearing hats.

When they arrived at the barn, Charles and Simon each stood stealthily at either side of the door. Charles was about to peer in through the open doorway when a hand grabbed his shoulder.

He suppressed a yell and quickly glanced around.

It was Staunchpole.

‘Staunchpole, you blasted idiot. You nearly made me give away my presence!’

‘Sorry, sir,’ Staunchpole whispered. ‘But Lady Marjorie has disappeared.’

‘You were supposed to be keeping an eye on her,’ Charles admonished his man.

‘I was, sir,’ responded his shame-faced menial. ‘But she seemed to be befuddled as a newt so I thought it would be alright to leave her on the sofa and get on with the stuffing for tomorrow.’

‘Hmm,’ said Charles, not entirely mollified. ‘Let’s hope she’s just staggered somewhere and passed out. Now, you’re here, Staunchpole, you can be useful. Come on!’

The three men crept silently into the barn.

It was an old brick building, thatched, once a tiny cottage for a shepherd, feature-less inside except for an old hearth.

The sight that greeted the men as they stared inside the building filled them with astonishment and revulsion.

Lady Selena lay flat on her back on several bales of hay, gagged, but unconscious, her knees brutally exposed to the elements.

The old Gypsy woman stood over her, a baby in her shrivelled arms. All around, animals indulged in grotesque beastliness, a veritable orgy of awfulness. Sheep lay with chickens, cows with goats, the donkey pleasured itself, while three shepherds indulged in activities with each other that would soon get them booted out of the army, if not the Navy.

Simon couldn’t restrain himself. He marched into the barn, and in a loud voice demanded, ‘Release Lady Selena at once, old crone!’

‘Bally Idiot!’ hissed Charles.

He and Staunchpole glanced at each other and reluctantly followed Simon into the barn too.

The Gypsy cackled with pleasure.

‘And now my nativity is almost complete. The Three Foolish Men!’

‘Who are you, vile harridan!’ asked Charles, ‘And what do you want with Lady Selena?’

The Gypsy stood, somehow seeming taller than she had before.

‘Do you really not recognise me, Sir Charles?’

Charles rubbed his eyes. The Gypsy woman was blurring, her features almost melting, becoming less Romany and more… Oriental.

Charles gasped, his heart almost stopping with the horror at what he now saw.

‘Cunnilinga!’

 

 

Chapter 2

 

Yes, Doctor Cunnilinga, Charles’s old nemesis, the evil Necromage and Satanist from darkest Burma. Many the battles they had fought with each other, and each time, Charles had won, but always the wily sorcerer had escaped justice, despite seemingly dying in all sorts of ghastly, but self-inflicted ways.

Charles swallowed his surprise and affected a nonchalance he didn’t feel inside. ‘So, Cunnilinga, you managed to escape Mucky Ho?’

Cunnilinga smiled, although only with his tooth-crammed mouth. His inscrutable eyes, encased behind bottle-thick glasses, stayed as dead and shark-like as ever.

Mucky Ho, a place of great archaeological importance just outside Swindon, was the scene of Charles’ last encounter with the little Diabolist. Cunnilinga had attempted to open the very gateway to Hell itself with the help of a dozen unfrocked nuns, a fiery bonfire of pure opium, and the usual goats. Charles had defeated him using only his pure heart and a fireman’s hose. The last sight of Cunnilinga had been as he fell into a fiery chasm, screaming at the top of his cowardly lungs as he plummeted towards the eternal torment of Hades.

‘How did you escape Hell, Cunnilinga?’ asked Charles casually.

Cunnilinga shrugged. ‘Oh, you know…’

‘So what dastardly deed are you up to now?’

Cunnilinga giggled girlishly, a sound which never failed to turn Charles’ stomach.

‘I thought you’d never ask, my dear Viscount.’ Cunnilinga chucked the sleeping baby down on a bale of hay. ‘As you know, we Satanists like to subvert the rituals of hated Christianity. At Christmas…’ Cunnilinga struggled to say the word, ‘… there are ample opportunities.’

‘And where does Lady Selena fit into your vile plans?’ shouted Simon?

‘Very simple,’ said Cunnilinga. ‘She is a virgin. So, in an elegant parody of the Nativity, I will, at the chimes of midnight, insert a baby inside her.’

There was silence.

‘What?’ asked Charles.

‘I said…’ started Cunnilinga impatiently.

‘I heard what you said, you vile toad of a man,’ snapped Charles. ‘I just didn’t believe it. Even by your low standards, this infernal scheme scrapes the depths.’

‘Uncle,’ whispered Simon, ‘How is he going to get a  baby that big up Lady Selena’s bottom?’

Everyone stared at Simon.

‘Does the idiot boy really not know…?’ asked Cunnilinga.

‘Simon,’ Charles began to say. His nephew looked at him, anguish and bewilderment etched in those divine eyes. Charles thought better of it. ‘I’ll explain later.’

While this exchange had been occurring, Staunchpole had been sidling ever closer to Cunnilinga. Charles watched him out of the corner of his eye while keeping his gaze fixed firmly on Cunnilinga. Charles didn’t know what Staunchpole was planning. Snatching the baby? Or sweeping up Lady Selena? Or clobbering the wicked little magician?

But just as Staunchpole was about to leap, Cunnilinga snapped his fingers, and the donkey bared its teeth and leapt for the manservant’s throat. Staunchpole’s reactions were still top notch despite his war wound, and he punched the donkey in the jaw. It hee-hawed in fury, and the pair of them – man and beast – disappeared in a flurry of bites and kicks and half-nelsons.

Everyone else ignored them.

Cunnilinga picked up the baby.

Charles thought quickly. ‘Surely,’ he asked, ‘to complete the picture you need a Herod? Or rather, an anti-Herod.’

Cunnilinga giggled. ‘You are such a worthy adversary, Viscount Charles. Yes, an anti-Herod, someone who wants to protect the child, rather than slaughter it. For that we need someone maternal and nurturing and caring.’

And with that, something fell down the chimney in a cloud of dust and hay and centuries-old soot.

It was Marjorie.

She lay in the earth dazed, but still clutching her half-full glass, Charles noted, grudgingly impressed. She took a large swig, stood up, and approached the abominable Nativity scene.

Surely Cunnilinga didn’t mean….?

Marjorie peered myopically around. She sized up Cunnilinga, dismissed him as alimony material, snickered at the prostrate Lady Selena, and then her eyes landed on the baby. She grimaced.

‘Where did THAT come from?’ she sneered. ‘I can’t abide babies. Not one of your dozens of bastards, is it, Charles?’

Cunnilinga’s petulant face fell.’ But…but… but…’

Charles laughed and clapped his hands. ‘Well done, Cunnilinga, you’ve found a woman so maternal that if there wasn’t an ash tray available she would use the nearest baby’s mouth.’

Cunnilinga’s expression contorted as his brain whirled through many combinations of new ideas.

Charles tensed. If he was going to act then now was the time. But what first? The baby? Lady Selena? Marjorie could take care of herself. He glanced at Simon hoping his nephew would react at the same time. But the darling boy was watching Staunchpole and the donkey who were now kick-boxing each other from one bale of hay to another.

Right, Charles decided, baby first. It was probably just a local child, but there was just a chance it could be of his own class. Nannies were always mislaying their charges, he had found, especially at this time of year when the sherry was flowing rather too generously in the staff’s direction.

 

Charles was about to spring into action… when a new noise filled the air. It was a rhythmic clanking, as though metal objects were being bashed together. It got rapidly louder until even Cunnilinga awoke from his reverie and looked around. An expression of horror spread across his usually sphinx-like face.

Charles whirled around. A figure had entered the barn, a tall, translucent man, haloed with an unearthly glow, entirely enveloped in what looked like Christmas decorations and tinsel, but forged from a very solid and heavy metal. Agony was etched on the queer chap’s face, and his gait was that of man weary of his existence.

Cunnilinga fell to his knees. ‘Are you… are you…?’

The ghoulish cove‘s jaw flapped open, revealing a veritable cemetery of teeth and breath to match. ‘I am the Ghost of Christmas Hell,’ he intoned.

‘Christmas Hell?’ repeated Cunnilinga, slowly.

‘I am the spirit of all the bad Christmases past,’ the baubled banshee wailed. ‘The arguments, the  indigestion, the ingratitude, the disappointment… It all lives on in me.’

Cunnilinga tried to put on a brave face – unconvincingly, Charles thought, it was just a variation on his usual weaselly one

The dead chap looked vaguely familiar somehow to Charles, but he couldn’t put his finger on it; maybe a member of his Club – Moseley’s of Pall Mall? The phantom exuded the air of a Club bore, the sort of cove with whom one frantically avoided eye contact for fear of having to talk to them about their grandchildren or their upbringing in Swaziland.

Whoever he was, he was spooking Cunnilinga and that was a Jolly Good Thing as far as Charles was concerned.

‘Have you come to make me see the error of my ways?’ Cunnilinga smirked, feebly.

The phantom laughed, a horrid hollow sound, like a baby regurgitating a live frog. ‘Hardly,’ he gurgled, ‘you are already doomed.’ Cunnilinga smiled weakly.

The Ghost of Christmas Hell jabbed a bony finger at the toothy Satanist. ‘Seriously doomed. With no time off for bad behaviour.’

Cunnilinga looked very frightened.

‘I am here to take you to Hell where you belong.’

Cunnilinga squeaked. From both ends.

‘But isn’t that what you always wanted, old chap?’ Charles asked in, he thought, a kindly fashion.

‘But… but… but…’ stammered Cunnilinga. ‘I haven’t finished my work on Earth yet. I still have chaos to cause, evil to unleash, wickedness to spread.’

‘Don’t worry’ said the festive spectre, ‘Humanity can do all that for themselves perfectly well without you.’

And with that, the Yule-ish ghoul rummaged in its frock coat, produced a stake of holly and rammed it into Cunnilinga’s tubby little chest.

There was a ghastly noise, a veritable children’s school orchestra playing ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem on a million recorders, and the infernal necromancer was engulfed in a ball of flame like a brandy-saturated Christmas pudding until all that was left was a sad pile of ashes.

The seasonal apparition turned to face Charles.

Charles cleared his throat. ‘Well, thank you, old chap. Sporting of you to help us out. That rogue is a blessed nuisance. So are we finally free of him?’

The Ghost of Christmas Hell stared hard at Charles, not speaking. Then its face cracked into the ghastliest smile Charles had ever seen.

‘I see when you are sleeping, I know when you’re awake…’ it hissed. ‘I know if you’ve been bad or good…’

And with that, the Yuletide ghoul vanished, leaving behind his final words. ‘So be good for goodness sake…’

Charles shivered. Was one’s behaviour really scrutinised all one’s life? Now he knew how the poor wretches who lived under the yoke of communism felt.

 

The animals in the barn ceased their filthy copulation and resumed their cud-chewing. The donkey stopped attacking Staunchpole, giving the valet the perfect opportunity to deck the beast with a swift upper-cut. The creature’s eyes crossed and it swooned to the ground.

The three shepherds ceased their revolting activities, and looked sheepishly around. They dusted themselves down, hauled up their underpants, nodded curtly at each other, and limped out of the barn, each going very pointedly in different directions.

Charles heaved a huge sigh of relief.

Simon rushed up to Lady Selena, who opened her eyes, yawned, sat up and said, ‘Hello, Simon darling, has Father Christmas been yet?’

Simon bit his lip. ‘I say, Lady Selena, I have something awful to tell you. Brace yourself…’

Marjorie stomped up to Charles. ‘Some host you are. This is the worst party I have even been too, I need a drink.’

‘You and me both,’ muttered Charles.

And they all left the barn to return to the house and resume their Yuletide celebrations.

Fifteen minutes later, Charles rushed back into the barn and picked up the baby. ‘Don’t worry, old thing, the Reverend will look after you in his Home for Wayward Boys. Merry Christmas, young fellow-me-lad, and a Happy Year!’

 

THE END

 

(c) Anthony Keetch 2012
 

Be alarmed…

Be really quite alarmed…

Sir Desmond Stirling, world-acclaimed author, patriot, bon viveur, war hero, & great political thinker of our time

offers his loyal readers an exclusive chance to eavesdrop as he writes his latest novel.

Listen as a brand new Satanic chiller spurts forth from the brain of the master story-teller!

Gasp at the horror of it all!

Feel humbled at the enormous privilege you are experiencing!

Wait impatiently for the next exciting instalment!

 

Who is the mysterious intruder in socialite Marjorie Ashbrook’s bedroom?

Why are there Nazis in Hampstead?

Will playboy and dog-meat heir Simon Tubular-Wells succumb to an act of shame which could diminish his standing in society?

What diabolical &  probably foreign mastermind is behind it all?

Can Charles, the tough, but classy aristocrat, rescue his friends and save the world from the dark Satanic forces which threaten to engulf it…

… or will even he forfeit his soul in the War Against Beastliness?

 

Now available on CD and download from

www.whatnoise.co.uk

Produced by David Darlington

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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