Post by fenris on Apr 4, 2007 21:58:33 GMT
AAAAAAAGH!! When will it end?! As I've explained in my introductions to the last couple of episodes, originally I intended that the story of Ella, Leon and Thelma's assault on Rachel's mansion would take place in a single, action-orientated episode. However, I soon discovered that I'd totally misjudged the pacing that was required, and practically all the sequences (and the build-up to them) needed to be longer and more detailed than I'd originally planned. On the positive side, it's been a useful learning experience for me.
So here's the latest instalment, which continues the Rachel story-arc but doesn't actually conclude it. However, I can confirm that the next episode (when I manage to finish it) will definitely bring the McBain storyline to a close, and lead directly into the Season Finale.
Please be advised that this episode contains scenes of an adult nature. Feedback is most welcome, and will be gratefully received.
Episode #12: God’s Gift.
Previously on Hex: brief clips from Episode #11 – Thelma saying into her mobile “I can confirm is whose house this is”; Rachel declaring “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Rachel McBain.” Malachi commenting “You’re remarkably well preserved for someone who’s supposed to have died two and a half centuries ago” and Rachel replying “And you look very old, considering you’re still a few months short of your sixth birthday”; Malachi murmuring “You have the five remaining female descendents of your brother?”; Rachel sweeping her arm towards the cell doors and announcing “All present and correct.” Malachi pointing at Amber and declaring “She’s the only one I want/Part of my lifeforce resides in her.” Rachel saying “I know a place that I’m sure will meet your requirements”; Corvide sinking her teeth into Monika’s neck. Monika looking at Corvide and Jo and asking “What am I?” Corvide replying “A hybrid. Free of Malachi’s control.”; Thelma standing in the armoury, boxes of weapons open on either side, revealing their contents. Ella talking into her mobile, asking “Munitions?” and Thelma replying “Enough to start a small war.”
We’re in the armoury within Rachel’s mansion. Emerging from behind a row of crates, Thelma finds what she’s been looking for – a sturdy looking metal cupboard, tall and wide with twin doors, stood against the bare concrete wall. An electronic keypad lock sits at chest-height on one of the doors, slightly to one side of where both doors meet, and below a sign with red lettering that declares ‘AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY.’
“We’ll see about that.” Murmurs Thelma.
She pulls from her toolbelt what appears to be a smooth metal flask, then carefully unscrews the top to reveal a nozzle. Holding the canister at arms-length, the nozzle pointing at the keypad, she depresses a tiny lever behind the nozzle and a thick spray of liquid bursts out of the nozzle with a heavy hiss, splashing all over the keypad and the section of door surrounding it. As Thelma screws the lid back onto the canister, the liquid instantly freezes with an audible crackle. Placing the canister back in the toolbelt, the ghost pulls out a hammer, and without hesitation, swings it and strikes the keypad dead centre. Both it and some of the metal door around it breaks and shatters, as brittle as glass, leaving a jagged hole. Shoving the hammer back into the belt, Thelma grabs the side of the damaged door with both hands and yanks it open, an action that is accompanied by a short protesting screech of metal. Inside the cabinet, small grey metal boxes are neatly stacked on the top four shelves, with larger black metal foot lockers sitting three abreast on two shelves underneath.
“You are a dark horse, aren’t you.” A voice behind Thelma suddenly declares.
Shocked, the ghost spins round. A few feet away, Mary Warren is standing with her arms folded, gazing at Thelma with a slight smile. She’s wearing her bright blue leather biker’s jacket, matching skin-tight trousers and high-heeled boots, with black fingerless leather gloves.
“Detonators and timing mechanisms, unless I’m mistaken,” Mary murmurs, glancing at the contents of the cupboard, “and I’m not. Thelma the friendly terrorist ghost. Who’d have thunk it?”
“What are you doing here?” Blurts out Thelma, finally overcoming the shock of seeing Mary there and finding her voice.
Mary taps her nose, and winks.
“Strictly speaking, I’m not here at all.” She smiles, then in answer to the bewildered look on Thelma’s face, she unfolds her arms and fans out her hands with a showman’s flourish.
“Astral projection.” Mary announces. “The real me is stretched out on a sofa with a glass of slightly chilled cranberry juice. Catherine’s curled up asleep next to me, and I’m listening to a Curve compilation that I burnt myself. Halfway through ‘On The Wheel’ at the moment. Great stuff. So, how are things with you?”
Thelma blinks and looks at Mary again. Something isn’t quite right. The Anointed One looks perfectly solid, but the colour of her clothes, skin, and her distinctive green & red hair seems to be slightly faded, like a photograph that’s been delicately washed out. Glancing down, Thelma sees that although Mary at first glance appears to standing firmly on the bare, dusty concrete floor, her booted feet are actually placed on thin air. She’s standing at least an inch off the ground. Cautiously pulling a small screwdriver from her toolbelt, the ghost hesitantly tosses it at the leatherclad immortal. The screwdriver passes through Mary where her stomach should be, meeting no resistance whatsoever, and exits out of the small of her back, landing with a metallic ‘chink’ on the concrete floor a few feet behind her.
“Ta-daa.” Trills Mary.
“Alright,” Murmurs Thelma, nodding, accepting Mary’s presence, “but you haven’t answered my question.”
Grinning, the Anointed One tilts her head and gazes at Thelma for a moment before responding;
“Remind me.” She remarks.
“What. Are you. Doing here.” Thelma declares with more patience than she feels.
“Oh that.” Mary opines, then shrugs. “Just checking in. Seeing how you’re doing. Thought we could have a girly chat.”
“How did you know I was here?” Thelma asks.
“I didn’t,” Counters Mary “but you’re not exactly difficult to find. In fact, it’s ridiculously easy if you’re spent a century with nothing to do but fine-tune your psychic abilities. Ghosts send out an incredibly strong signal. You’re like CNN and the BBC World Service combined. So, shall we share the latest goss? C’mon, spill.”
Slightly un-nerved by the notion that Mary can locate her with ease, Thelma forces herself to concentrate on the task at hand, and glances at her watch. Time’s a wasting. Half-turning away from the Anointed One, she starts opening the boxes of detonators and examining the contents.
“What would you and I possibly have to talk about?” Thelma mutters, not even glancing at the immortal.
“Nothing and everything. You choose. Anything you want.” Mary bats back unperturbed, folding her arms again, then adding: “Ella and I are closer than blood, and I’ve gotten to know Leon quite well during my brief time with him. But you…”
The immortal tilts her head slightly and regards the ghost for a moment.
“I barely know you at all.” The Anointed One muses. “You’re part of the family, Thelma. I just thought it would benefit us both to become better acquainted.”
“Well, I prefer not to socialise with people who kidnap, torture, and try to blow up my friends, so you thought wrong.” Declares Thelma, still concentrating on what she’s doing.
“Can’t believe you’re still holding that against me.” Mary smiles, pretending to look mildly abashed. “I think I see the problem here. You, Ella – you’re thinking too small scale. Malachi? The End of Days? You’re still occupying yourselves with a story that’s already finished. Everybody else is a couple of chapters into the next volume. You should really think about joining us.”
“I don’t time for your ramblings, Mary.” Thelma states firmly, pointedly not looking at her. “I’m busy.”
The ghost grants the Anointed One a glance.
“Just go. Leave me alone.” Thelma says flatly, then returns her attention to the contents of the cabinet.
“Fair enough.” Mary smiles. “But not so much of the ‘rambling.’ One of the advantages of non-linear thinking is that you realise how ridiculously structured and predictable everybody else’s behaviour is. It’s the ultimate outsider’s perspective. If you sit back and study other peoples’ actions for long enough, then everything can be worked out, provided you think it through. For example, your lover – Maya? – didn’t go to Hell, did she? Want to know why?”
“What?” Thelma murmurs, startled, turning to look at Mary.
But the immortal has gone. Thelma is alone in the armoury.
Cut to elsewhere in the grounds of Rachel’s estate. A convoy of three sleek, black, 4x4 off-road vehicles and a flatbed truck move at speed across the open and mostly flat terrain, the headlights of the lead vehicle cutting through the darkness. The truck is at the rear, and on it’s flatbed section are long metal poles, large rolls of cabling, and other objects which have been firmly secured, and are partly covered by a tarpaulin. The lead vehicle slows, pulls over to the side, and comes to a halt. The three vehicles following do likewise, parking alongside each other. Small but powerful searchlights – two of the roof of each vehicle, fixed facing forward – blaze into life, adding considerably to the light being cast by the headlights, and there’s the sound of the doors opening and being slammed closed as those within the vehicles - Rachel McBain, Kessel, Malachi, Alex, Shannon, and a half-dozen of Rachel’s men - emerge. A dishevelled Amber Chase is also there, gagged, her hands tied behind her back, and sandwiched between two of Rachel’s heavies, who both have a firm grasp on one of her arms. The assorted group pause, and we see that beyond them, partly lit by the glare from the lights, is a circle of standing stones, approximately forty feet in diameter. There are eight stones in total, ranging in height from four to six feet. They have all been worn smooth by time and the elements, and at least half of them are leaning at angles of almost forty degrees. Standing a couple of paces in front of Malachi, Rachel turns to face him, so that the circle is behind her, and extends her arms like a circus ringmaster welcoming the audience;
“The perfect place, don’t you agree?” She declares with a smile, intending it as a statement, not a question.
Malachi walks past her, into the circle, followed by Alex and Shannon. He stands in the centre and slowly turns round, gazing at the stones surrounding him.
“Who erected these stones?” He asks.
“No-one knows for sure.” Purrs Rachel, entering the circle and walking up to him and his entourage. “But they were placed here at least five thousand years ago. Long before Christ. Even before Man knew Yahweh.”
Making a point of walking past Alex and Shannon, Rachel stands in front of Malachi and looks him in the eye.
“It’s believed that at one stage, this place was used for human sacrifice.” She continues, meeting his gaze. “Can’t you sense it? All that death? All the blood that has seeped into the soil here? The strength, the sheer power, of that pure, unwavering belief?”
Lowering her chin slightly, she looks at him knowingly;
“During hot summer nights, I’ve had the most amazing alfresco sex here.” She murmurs. “This very spot.”
Malachi breaks into a smile that matches hers. Reaching out, he strokes the underside of her chin.
“The perfect place.” He confirms with a nod.
Rachel indicates over to the flatbed, which is illuminated by one of her employees holding a powerful flashlight, as two of his colleagues pull away the tarpaulin, revealing a small portable generator.
“My men will set up lights for you.” Rachel reports.
Malachi acknowledges this with a nod, then gestures for the two heavies holding Amber to bring her forward. The
men wait for a second and glance towards Rachel, who nods her approval, before manhandling the frightened girl into the circle. If Malachi notices or is displeased by the men’s subtle insistence on only taking orders from their employer and not him, he gives no sign. With Amber placed in front of him, Malachi reaches across and gently brushes some loose hairs away from the girl’s face while gazing at her tear-stained features.
“Human sacrifice.” He ponders softly. “I’m all for reviving old traditions.”
Opening titles.
On-screen caption: 1613.
A wind-swept hillside under a dark, storm-laden sky. A cloaked and hooded figure on horseback approaches a small, weather-battered stone cottage that has a roof of jagged slate. Reaching the structure, the rider dismounts and pats the horse’s neck, whereupon the animal wanders off to graze. The figure opens the cottage’s wooden door and steps inside. The interior of the cramped structure is dim and murky, the only illumination coming from a slowly dying fire in a small fireplace set in the wall on the left. The rider reaches up and pulls back the hood, revealing a strikingly beautiful young woman, seemingly in her early twenties, with long blonde hair and a crescent shaped birthmark encircling her left eye. She pauses to lift a couple of small, roughly-cut logs off a pile next to the fireplace, and places them carefully on those embers that are still burning. Then she turns and surveys her surroundings through the gloom. The interior of the cottage consists of a single room. In the centre is a simple wooden bed in which a bearded man in his late forties/early fifties lies, covered in rough, thick blankets pulled up to his chin. His eyes are closed, his features shrunken and his skin extremely pale, with a greyish tint. A girl with auburn hair is also lying under the blankets next to the man, her face pressed against the side of his head. The only other part of her that is visible is her bare left shoulder and arm, the latter placed protectively over the coarse sheets that cover his chest. The man in the bed is clearly dead, but the rider goes through the motions of touching the side of his neck and trying to detect a pulse. Her search merely confirms what her eyes have already told her. Straightening, the woman addresses the man’s companion;
“Your man is dead.” She declares emotionlessly. “Two days gone. But you already knew that.”
The girl makes a quiet noise that is half-whimper, half-sob. She slowly lifts her head – the first movement we’ve seen from her – and looks at the cloaked woman. It’s Ella. Tracks of dried tears mark both cheeks of her distraught face.
“No.” Ella chokes hopelessly.
“Do you know who I am?” The woman asks firmly, ignoring Ella’s self-denial.
The tone in her voice partly snaps Ella out of her grief. The Anointed One gazes at the cloaked woman for several seconds, trying to focus her thoughts through a fog of despair, before nodding;
“Yes.” She murmurs distractedly, “My father told me about you. You’re Madeline Thawn.”
The blonde woman nods formally;
“That is the name by which he knew me.” She confirms. “I am the Anointed One who taught your father. And what he learnt from me, he passed onto you.”
Madeline glances at the corpse that Ella still protectively has her arm across.
“Your lover?” The older woman remarks.
Ella looks at the body beside her. Her eyes glisten, and her mouth slowly forms into a saddened smile.
“My husband.” She whispers. “We played together as children. Grew up side-by-side. He stood by me, stayed with me, even after I was Anointed. He was my first… and I was his. First and only.”
Madeline is walking around the bed, seemingly not paying much attention to Ella’s sorrowful reminiscing, instead glancing at the cottage’s few contents. She spies a simple wooden cross nailed to the wall.
“He was a Christian?” Madeline queries.
Shaken out of her memories, Ella looks across at the elder Anointed One and nods;
“Yes.” She says simply.
“Then I suppose it falls to us to follow the traditions of his faith.” Madeline declares.
Ella gazes at her, still too numb and confused to comprehend what the older woman is saying. Madeline bends down slightly so she can look Ella in the eye.
“We must dig a hole in the ground, child.” The blonde woman says patiently, as though talking to an infant. “And put him in it.”
We cut to a close-up of Ella in the present, gazing thoughtfully from behind glass, her expression unreadable. The camera pulls back to reveal she’s in the back seat of the Corsa, looking out though the rear side window. Leon is sitting next to her, one arm round her shoulders, his face resting amongst her hair. The camera cuts to inside the car.
“We might not make it out this time.” Ella suddenly announces.
Her voice is sad but calm. She is simply stating a fact. Leon moves his head back slightly and looks at her, his face as expressionless as hers, as – still looking out into the night - she continues;
“The odds are stacked high against us. Rachel effectively has a small, well trained army at her deposal. And they know the layout of the buildings and the grounds. Even with Thelma guiding us…” Her voice tails off.
Leon pauses for several seconds, clearly thinking carefully about what he’s about to say. Then he speaks;
“Even if tonight is it,” he intones, as Ella turns her head to look at him, “even if it goes all Butch and Sundance on us,” - his remark makes Ella smile, just as he’d hoped – “even when the bullets start flying, there is absolutely no place I’d rather be tonight than here, with you. By your side.”
The lovers regard each other.
“I’m sorry Leon.” Ella murmurs. “I want you to know that.”
He smiles and shrugs.
“Don’t be. I knew what I was signing up for. I could have walked away at any time during the last six years. Some things are bigger than any of us. And they’re worth fighting for.” He declares.
“Worth dying for?” Ella asks, taking hold of his hand and giving it a squeeze. “You’re so young, Leon. You’re got decades ahead of you. This is my fight, my war. And I dragged you into it.”
He shushes her with a quick, gentle kiss. Pulling back, her gazes into her eyes;
“Have you listened to a word I’ve said?” He gently chides her, grinning. “Have many times have we had this conversation? Are all immortals this stubborn? It’s my life to live, and mine to give, if necessary. Now, shut up and kiss me.”
Ella smiles and the two of them kiss, first softly, then with slowly increasing urgency. Ella’s hand snakes down to Leon’s groin, finds the bulge, and starts rubbing it firmly and deliberately through the denim of his jeans. Surprised, he breaks off the kiss and sees her grinning wickedly at him.
“Do we have time?” He cautions.
“We’ll make time.” She declares mischievously.
Cut to Thelma, making her way through a wide, well lit corridor within Rachel’s mansion. In addition to the jangling toolbelt, she’s now also weighted down by a bulky satchel that she acquired in the armoury. Two of Rachel’s guards approaches, coming in the opposite direction. Thelma grants them a beaming smile;
“Don’t mind me,” she cheerful exclaims, “I’m just looking for a cake to jump out of.”
Unable to see or hear her, the guards simply pass by. Spotting an air vent at shoulder-height in the wall, Thelma places the satchel on the floor, studies the screws holding the vent cover in place, produces a battery-powered screwdriver from her toolbelt, then selects and fits the relevantly sized head. Reaching up, she swiftly unscrews each screw in turn, the screwdriver whirring away. Having placed the screws in a pocket on the belt, she carefully lifts the cover away from the vent and leans it against the wall at her feet. Reaching into the satchel, she produces a block of plastic explosive about two-thirds the size of a house-brick, with a detonator and radio-receiver both wired in and firmly attached by having black electrician’s tape wrapped round them and the explosive several times. Thelma flicks a metal spoke switch on the detonator, causing a tiny red light to come on. It’s armed. The ghost places the device inside the vent, and gives it a reassuring pat.
“I’ve raised you well, youngster.” She murmurs ruefully. “Do me proud.”
Then she puts the vent cover back in place, and starts replacing the first of the screws.
Cut to the circle of standing stones within the grounds. To illuminate the interior of the circle, Rachel’s men have set up an outer parameter of arc lights on simple metal stands, the cables all leading back to the generator on the trailer. Still gagged, Amber Chase stands between two tall metal poles impaled into the ground, her arms and legs outstretched, her wrists and ankles tied to the poles with strong, taut wire. Her eyes are wide and frightened, and she is still making muffled wailing sounds through the gag, to which no-one is paying attention. Standing ten feet directly in front of Amber, Malachi and Alex are going through the print outs of the ritual that Alex obtained from Jo’s computer. Malachi’s forehead is furrowed, and he looks puzzled. Rachel approaches.
“Problem?” The lady of the manor enquires.
“Nothing that concerns you.” Bristles Alex.
“This page is taken directly from a scan.” Explains Malachi, ignoring his wife’s knee-jerk reaction and studying the relevant page intently. “It’s written in an arcane language that I don’t recognise.”
“May I?” Rachel offers, extending a hand. “When war broke out across Europe in ’39, I decamped to my little hideaway in Chile, and took most of my library with me. Kept myself amused for eight years by familiarising myself with over a dozen dead languages.”
Malachi half-shrugs and hands the page to her. Rachel looks at it for a moment, then makes a show of slowly turning it the other way round.
“That’s better.” She breezes. “Yes, I can translate this.”
Malachi shakes his head;
“That part of the ritual has to be performed in the original language.” He says.
“Then I’ll tell you how to pronounce each word, and you’ll have to recite it parrot-fashion.” Rachel replies.
“You’re a useful woman to have around.” Malachi remarks, raising an eyebrow.
Rachel smiles and deliberately catches Alex’s eye as she replies;
“I aim to please. You’ll soon discover I have many skills.” She purrs.
Cut to the cramped interior of the Corsa. Knees bent and jutting upwards, his jeans and boxers crumpled around his ankles, Leon lays on the backseat with an increasingly noisy Ella straddling him, the two of them ignoring the discomfort and restrictions imposed by the confined space. Ella’s cries rapidly become more shrill and higher pitched as she approaches her peak, until she screams out that she loves him, then grabs the head-rest of the driver’s seat with one hand to steady herself as the intensity of her climax overwhelms her. Underneath, his face flushed and eyes clenched shut, Leon’s contorted expression and anguished wailing matches hers. After several seconds, Ella’s yelps die down to a subdued whimper, and her breathing slowly begins to return to normal. She blinks, then gazes at Leon as though she had momentarily forgotten he was there, before leaning down and gently kissing him on the lips. Reaching up, he runs his hand through the fringe that hangs over her forehead.
“I love you too.” He murmurs.
Almost silently, the lovers awkwardly detangle from each other. Limbs are squeezed pass each other’s bodies, clothes clumsily readjusted, zips and buttons refastened. A ring tone suddenly blares into life. Ella reaches over to her long leather coat, which is lying in a heap on the driver’s seat, and searches through the pockets, eventually pulling out her mobile. The display reads that it’s a call from Thelma.
“Yes?” Ella speaks into the phone.
“I’ve established the cells are under the west wing.” We hear Thelma’s voice say. “Initial diversion in two minutes. Contact me when you need the secondary diversion.”
“Understood.” Confirms Ella, ending the call then looking at Leon: “Two minutes.” She tells him.
Cut to Thelma, inside a maintenance cupboard within the mansion, stood in front of a large junction box, having already prised the cover off. On the floor by her feet is the satchel she was carrying earlier, which is now clearly empty. Tracing a finger across the mass of multi-coloured cables before her, the ghost finds the particular group of bunched-together cables she’s looking for, and pulls a hefty pair of pliers out of the toolbelt. Opening the jaws of the pliers and placing them around the grouping, she pauses and checks her watch, then nods to herself.
“Thank you and goodnight.” She mutters, grasping the pliers with both hands, closing them and slicing through the cables.
Cut to Ella and Leon, crouched on top of the outer wall of the estate. They watch as in the distance all the lights on the side of the mansion facing them suddenly go out.
“Go.” Breathes Ella, and both of them jump from the wall, dropping down into the darkness of the grounds.
End of Part One.
So here's the latest instalment, which continues the Rachel story-arc but doesn't actually conclude it. However, I can confirm that the next episode (when I manage to finish it) will definitely bring the McBain storyline to a close, and lead directly into the Season Finale.
Please be advised that this episode contains scenes of an adult nature. Feedback is most welcome, and will be gratefully received.
Episode #12: God’s Gift.
Previously on Hex: brief clips from Episode #11 – Thelma saying into her mobile “I can confirm is whose house this is”; Rachel declaring “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Rachel McBain.” Malachi commenting “You’re remarkably well preserved for someone who’s supposed to have died two and a half centuries ago” and Rachel replying “And you look very old, considering you’re still a few months short of your sixth birthday”; Malachi murmuring “You have the five remaining female descendents of your brother?”; Rachel sweeping her arm towards the cell doors and announcing “All present and correct.” Malachi pointing at Amber and declaring “She’s the only one I want/Part of my lifeforce resides in her.” Rachel saying “I know a place that I’m sure will meet your requirements”; Corvide sinking her teeth into Monika’s neck. Monika looking at Corvide and Jo and asking “What am I?” Corvide replying “A hybrid. Free of Malachi’s control.”; Thelma standing in the armoury, boxes of weapons open on either side, revealing their contents. Ella talking into her mobile, asking “Munitions?” and Thelma replying “Enough to start a small war.”
We’re in the armoury within Rachel’s mansion. Emerging from behind a row of crates, Thelma finds what she’s been looking for – a sturdy looking metal cupboard, tall and wide with twin doors, stood against the bare concrete wall. An electronic keypad lock sits at chest-height on one of the doors, slightly to one side of where both doors meet, and below a sign with red lettering that declares ‘AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY.’
“We’ll see about that.” Murmurs Thelma.
She pulls from her toolbelt what appears to be a smooth metal flask, then carefully unscrews the top to reveal a nozzle. Holding the canister at arms-length, the nozzle pointing at the keypad, she depresses a tiny lever behind the nozzle and a thick spray of liquid bursts out of the nozzle with a heavy hiss, splashing all over the keypad and the section of door surrounding it. As Thelma screws the lid back onto the canister, the liquid instantly freezes with an audible crackle. Placing the canister back in the toolbelt, the ghost pulls out a hammer, and without hesitation, swings it and strikes the keypad dead centre. Both it and some of the metal door around it breaks and shatters, as brittle as glass, leaving a jagged hole. Shoving the hammer back into the belt, Thelma grabs the side of the damaged door with both hands and yanks it open, an action that is accompanied by a short protesting screech of metal. Inside the cabinet, small grey metal boxes are neatly stacked on the top four shelves, with larger black metal foot lockers sitting three abreast on two shelves underneath.
“You are a dark horse, aren’t you.” A voice behind Thelma suddenly declares.
Shocked, the ghost spins round. A few feet away, Mary Warren is standing with her arms folded, gazing at Thelma with a slight smile. She’s wearing her bright blue leather biker’s jacket, matching skin-tight trousers and high-heeled boots, with black fingerless leather gloves.
“Detonators and timing mechanisms, unless I’m mistaken,” Mary murmurs, glancing at the contents of the cupboard, “and I’m not. Thelma the friendly terrorist ghost. Who’d have thunk it?”
“What are you doing here?” Blurts out Thelma, finally overcoming the shock of seeing Mary there and finding her voice.
Mary taps her nose, and winks.
“Strictly speaking, I’m not here at all.” She smiles, then in answer to the bewildered look on Thelma’s face, she unfolds her arms and fans out her hands with a showman’s flourish.
“Astral projection.” Mary announces. “The real me is stretched out on a sofa with a glass of slightly chilled cranberry juice. Catherine’s curled up asleep next to me, and I’m listening to a Curve compilation that I burnt myself. Halfway through ‘On The Wheel’ at the moment. Great stuff. So, how are things with you?”
Thelma blinks and looks at Mary again. Something isn’t quite right. The Anointed One looks perfectly solid, but the colour of her clothes, skin, and her distinctive green & red hair seems to be slightly faded, like a photograph that’s been delicately washed out. Glancing down, Thelma sees that although Mary at first glance appears to standing firmly on the bare, dusty concrete floor, her booted feet are actually placed on thin air. She’s standing at least an inch off the ground. Cautiously pulling a small screwdriver from her toolbelt, the ghost hesitantly tosses it at the leatherclad immortal. The screwdriver passes through Mary where her stomach should be, meeting no resistance whatsoever, and exits out of the small of her back, landing with a metallic ‘chink’ on the concrete floor a few feet behind her.
“Ta-daa.” Trills Mary.
“Alright,” Murmurs Thelma, nodding, accepting Mary’s presence, “but you haven’t answered my question.”
Grinning, the Anointed One tilts her head and gazes at Thelma for a moment before responding;
“Remind me.” She remarks.
“What. Are you. Doing here.” Thelma declares with more patience than she feels.
“Oh that.” Mary opines, then shrugs. “Just checking in. Seeing how you’re doing. Thought we could have a girly chat.”
“How did you know I was here?” Thelma asks.
“I didn’t,” Counters Mary “but you’re not exactly difficult to find. In fact, it’s ridiculously easy if you’re spent a century with nothing to do but fine-tune your psychic abilities. Ghosts send out an incredibly strong signal. You’re like CNN and the BBC World Service combined. So, shall we share the latest goss? C’mon, spill.”
Slightly un-nerved by the notion that Mary can locate her with ease, Thelma forces herself to concentrate on the task at hand, and glances at her watch. Time’s a wasting. Half-turning away from the Anointed One, she starts opening the boxes of detonators and examining the contents.
“What would you and I possibly have to talk about?” Thelma mutters, not even glancing at the immortal.
“Nothing and everything. You choose. Anything you want.” Mary bats back unperturbed, folding her arms again, then adding: “Ella and I are closer than blood, and I’ve gotten to know Leon quite well during my brief time with him. But you…”
The immortal tilts her head slightly and regards the ghost for a moment.
“I barely know you at all.” The Anointed One muses. “You’re part of the family, Thelma. I just thought it would benefit us both to become better acquainted.”
“Well, I prefer not to socialise with people who kidnap, torture, and try to blow up my friends, so you thought wrong.” Declares Thelma, still concentrating on what she’s doing.
“Can’t believe you’re still holding that against me.” Mary smiles, pretending to look mildly abashed. “I think I see the problem here. You, Ella – you’re thinking too small scale. Malachi? The End of Days? You’re still occupying yourselves with a story that’s already finished. Everybody else is a couple of chapters into the next volume. You should really think about joining us.”
“I don’t time for your ramblings, Mary.” Thelma states firmly, pointedly not looking at her. “I’m busy.”
The ghost grants the Anointed One a glance.
“Just go. Leave me alone.” Thelma says flatly, then returns her attention to the contents of the cabinet.
“Fair enough.” Mary smiles. “But not so much of the ‘rambling.’ One of the advantages of non-linear thinking is that you realise how ridiculously structured and predictable everybody else’s behaviour is. It’s the ultimate outsider’s perspective. If you sit back and study other peoples’ actions for long enough, then everything can be worked out, provided you think it through. For example, your lover – Maya? – didn’t go to Hell, did she? Want to know why?”
“What?” Thelma murmurs, startled, turning to look at Mary.
But the immortal has gone. Thelma is alone in the armoury.
Cut to elsewhere in the grounds of Rachel’s estate. A convoy of three sleek, black, 4x4 off-road vehicles and a flatbed truck move at speed across the open and mostly flat terrain, the headlights of the lead vehicle cutting through the darkness. The truck is at the rear, and on it’s flatbed section are long metal poles, large rolls of cabling, and other objects which have been firmly secured, and are partly covered by a tarpaulin. The lead vehicle slows, pulls over to the side, and comes to a halt. The three vehicles following do likewise, parking alongside each other. Small but powerful searchlights – two of the roof of each vehicle, fixed facing forward – blaze into life, adding considerably to the light being cast by the headlights, and there’s the sound of the doors opening and being slammed closed as those within the vehicles - Rachel McBain, Kessel, Malachi, Alex, Shannon, and a half-dozen of Rachel’s men - emerge. A dishevelled Amber Chase is also there, gagged, her hands tied behind her back, and sandwiched between two of Rachel’s heavies, who both have a firm grasp on one of her arms. The assorted group pause, and we see that beyond them, partly lit by the glare from the lights, is a circle of standing stones, approximately forty feet in diameter. There are eight stones in total, ranging in height from four to six feet. They have all been worn smooth by time and the elements, and at least half of them are leaning at angles of almost forty degrees. Standing a couple of paces in front of Malachi, Rachel turns to face him, so that the circle is behind her, and extends her arms like a circus ringmaster welcoming the audience;
“The perfect place, don’t you agree?” She declares with a smile, intending it as a statement, not a question.
Malachi walks past her, into the circle, followed by Alex and Shannon. He stands in the centre and slowly turns round, gazing at the stones surrounding him.
“Who erected these stones?” He asks.
“No-one knows for sure.” Purrs Rachel, entering the circle and walking up to him and his entourage. “But they were placed here at least five thousand years ago. Long before Christ. Even before Man knew Yahweh.”
Making a point of walking past Alex and Shannon, Rachel stands in front of Malachi and looks him in the eye.
“It’s believed that at one stage, this place was used for human sacrifice.” She continues, meeting his gaze. “Can’t you sense it? All that death? All the blood that has seeped into the soil here? The strength, the sheer power, of that pure, unwavering belief?”
Lowering her chin slightly, she looks at him knowingly;
“During hot summer nights, I’ve had the most amazing alfresco sex here.” She murmurs. “This very spot.”
Malachi breaks into a smile that matches hers. Reaching out, he strokes the underside of her chin.
“The perfect place.” He confirms with a nod.
Rachel indicates over to the flatbed, which is illuminated by one of her employees holding a powerful flashlight, as two of his colleagues pull away the tarpaulin, revealing a small portable generator.
“My men will set up lights for you.” Rachel reports.
Malachi acknowledges this with a nod, then gestures for the two heavies holding Amber to bring her forward. The
men wait for a second and glance towards Rachel, who nods her approval, before manhandling the frightened girl into the circle. If Malachi notices or is displeased by the men’s subtle insistence on only taking orders from their employer and not him, he gives no sign. With Amber placed in front of him, Malachi reaches across and gently brushes some loose hairs away from the girl’s face while gazing at her tear-stained features.
“Human sacrifice.” He ponders softly. “I’m all for reviving old traditions.”
Opening titles.
On-screen caption: 1613.
A wind-swept hillside under a dark, storm-laden sky. A cloaked and hooded figure on horseback approaches a small, weather-battered stone cottage that has a roof of jagged slate. Reaching the structure, the rider dismounts and pats the horse’s neck, whereupon the animal wanders off to graze. The figure opens the cottage’s wooden door and steps inside. The interior of the cramped structure is dim and murky, the only illumination coming from a slowly dying fire in a small fireplace set in the wall on the left. The rider reaches up and pulls back the hood, revealing a strikingly beautiful young woman, seemingly in her early twenties, with long blonde hair and a crescent shaped birthmark encircling her left eye. She pauses to lift a couple of small, roughly-cut logs off a pile next to the fireplace, and places them carefully on those embers that are still burning. Then she turns and surveys her surroundings through the gloom. The interior of the cottage consists of a single room. In the centre is a simple wooden bed in which a bearded man in his late forties/early fifties lies, covered in rough, thick blankets pulled up to his chin. His eyes are closed, his features shrunken and his skin extremely pale, with a greyish tint. A girl with auburn hair is also lying under the blankets next to the man, her face pressed against the side of his head. The only other part of her that is visible is her bare left shoulder and arm, the latter placed protectively over the coarse sheets that cover his chest. The man in the bed is clearly dead, but the rider goes through the motions of touching the side of his neck and trying to detect a pulse. Her search merely confirms what her eyes have already told her. Straightening, the woman addresses the man’s companion;
“Your man is dead.” She declares emotionlessly. “Two days gone. But you already knew that.”
The girl makes a quiet noise that is half-whimper, half-sob. She slowly lifts her head – the first movement we’ve seen from her – and looks at the cloaked woman. It’s Ella. Tracks of dried tears mark both cheeks of her distraught face.
“No.” Ella chokes hopelessly.
“Do you know who I am?” The woman asks firmly, ignoring Ella’s self-denial.
The tone in her voice partly snaps Ella out of her grief. The Anointed One gazes at the cloaked woman for several seconds, trying to focus her thoughts through a fog of despair, before nodding;
“Yes.” She murmurs distractedly, “My father told me about you. You’re Madeline Thawn.”
The blonde woman nods formally;
“That is the name by which he knew me.” She confirms. “I am the Anointed One who taught your father. And what he learnt from me, he passed onto you.”
Madeline glances at the corpse that Ella still protectively has her arm across.
“Your lover?” The older woman remarks.
Ella looks at the body beside her. Her eyes glisten, and her mouth slowly forms into a saddened smile.
“My husband.” She whispers. “We played together as children. Grew up side-by-side. He stood by me, stayed with me, even after I was Anointed. He was my first… and I was his. First and only.”
Madeline is walking around the bed, seemingly not paying much attention to Ella’s sorrowful reminiscing, instead glancing at the cottage’s few contents. She spies a simple wooden cross nailed to the wall.
“He was a Christian?” Madeline queries.
Shaken out of her memories, Ella looks across at the elder Anointed One and nods;
“Yes.” She says simply.
“Then I suppose it falls to us to follow the traditions of his faith.” Madeline declares.
Ella gazes at her, still too numb and confused to comprehend what the older woman is saying. Madeline bends down slightly so she can look Ella in the eye.
“We must dig a hole in the ground, child.” The blonde woman says patiently, as though talking to an infant. “And put him in it.”
We cut to a close-up of Ella in the present, gazing thoughtfully from behind glass, her expression unreadable. The camera pulls back to reveal she’s in the back seat of the Corsa, looking out though the rear side window. Leon is sitting next to her, one arm round her shoulders, his face resting amongst her hair. The camera cuts to inside the car.
“We might not make it out this time.” Ella suddenly announces.
Her voice is sad but calm. She is simply stating a fact. Leon moves his head back slightly and looks at her, his face as expressionless as hers, as – still looking out into the night - she continues;
“The odds are stacked high against us. Rachel effectively has a small, well trained army at her deposal. And they know the layout of the buildings and the grounds. Even with Thelma guiding us…” Her voice tails off.
Leon pauses for several seconds, clearly thinking carefully about what he’s about to say. Then he speaks;
“Even if tonight is it,” he intones, as Ella turns her head to look at him, “even if it goes all Butch and Sundance on us,” - his remark makes Ella smile, just as he’d hoped – “even when the bullets start flying, there is absolutely no place I’d rather be tonight than here, with you. By your side.”
The lovers regard each other.
“I’m sorry Leon.” Ella murmurs. “I want you to know that.”
He smiles and shrugs.
“Don’t be. I knew what I was signing up for. I could have walked away at any time during the last six years. Some things are bigger than any of us. And they’re worth fighting for.” He declares.
“Worth dying for?” Ella asks, taking hold of his hand and giving it a squeeze. “You’re so young, Leon. You’re got decades ahead of you. This is my fight, my war. And I dragged you into it.”
He shushes her with a quick, gentle kiss. Pulling back, her gazes into her eyes;
“Have you listened to a word I’ve said?” He gently chides her, grinning. “Have many times have we had this conversation? Are all immortals this stubborn? It’s my life to live, and mine to give, if necessary. Now, shut up and kiss me.”
Ella smiles and the two of them kiss, first softly, then with slowly increasing urgency. Ella’s hand snakes down to Leon’s groin, finds the bulge, and starts rubbing it firmly and deliberately through the denim of his jeans. Surprised, he breaks off the kiss and sees her grinning wickedly at him.
“Do we have time?” He cautions.
“We’ll make time.” She declares mischievously.
Cut to Thelma, making her way through a wide, well lit corridor within Rachel’s mansion. In addition to the jangling toolbelt, she’s now also weighted down by a bulky satchel that she acquired in the armoury. Two of Rachel’s guards approaches, coming in the opposite direction. Thelma grants them a beaming smile;
“Don’t mind me,” she cheerful exclaims, “I’m just looking for a cake to jump out of.”
Unable to see or hear her, the guards simply pass by. Spotting an air vent at shoulder-height in the wall, Thelma places the satchel on the floor, studies the screws holding the vent cover in place, produces a battery-powered screwdriver from her toolbelt, then selects and fits the relevantly sized head. Reaching up, she swiftly unscrews each screw in turn, the screwdriver whirring away. Having placed the screws in a pocket on the belt, she carefully lifts the cover away from the vent and leans it against the wall at her feet. Reaching into the satchel, she produces a block of plastic explosive about two-thirds the size of a house-brick, with a detonator and radio-receiver both wired in and firmly attached by having black electrician’s tape wrapped round them and the explosive several times. Thelma flicks a metal spoke switch on the detonator, causing a tiny red light to come on. It’s armed. The ghost places the device inside the vent, and gives it a reassuring pat.
“I’ve raised you well, youngster.” She murmurs ruefully. “Do me proud.”
Then she puts the vent cover back in place, and starts replacing the first of the screws.
Cut to the circle of standing stones within the grounds. To illuminate the interior of the circle, Rachel’s men have set up an outer parameter of arc lights on simple metal stands, the cables all leading back to the generator on the trailer. Still gagged, Amber Chase stands between two tall metal poles impaled into the ground, her arms and legs outstretched, her wrists and ankles tied to the poles with strong, taut wire. Her eyes are wide and frightened, and she is still making muffled wailing sounds through the gag, to which no-one is paying attention. Standing ten feet directly in front of Amber, Malachi and Alex are going through the print outs of the ritual that Alex obtained from Jo’s computer. Malachi’s forehead is furrowed, and he looks puzzled. Rachel approaches.
“Problem?” The lady of the manor enquires.
“Nothing that concerns you.” Bristles Alex.
“This page is taken directly from a scan.” Explains Malachi, ignoring his wife’s knee-jerk reaction and studying the relevant page intently. “It’s written in an arcane language that I don’t recognise.”
“May I?” Rachel offers, extending a hand. “When war broke out across Europe in ’39, I decamped to my little hideaway in Chile, and took most of my library with me. Kept myself amused for eight years by familiarising myself with over a dozen dead languages.”
Malachi half-shrugs and hands the page to her. Rachel looks at it for a moment, then makes a show of slowly turning it the other way round.
“That’s better.” She breezes. “Yes, I can translate this.”
Malachi shakes his head;
“That part of the ritual has to be performed in the original language.” He says.
“Then I’ll tell you how to pronounce each word, and you’ll have to recite it parrot-fashion.” Rachel replies.
“You’re a useful woman to have around.” Malachi remarks, raising an eyebrow.
Rachel smiles and deliberately catches Alex’s eye as she replies;
“I aim to please. You’ll soon discover I have many skills.” She purrs.
Cut to the cramped interior of the Corsa. Knees bent and jutting upwards, his jeans and boxers crumpled around his ankles, Leon lays on the backseat with an increasingly noisy Ella straddling him, the two of them ignoring the discomfort and restrictions imposed by the confined space. Ella’s cries rapidly become more shrill and higher pitched as she approaches her peak, until she screams out that she loves him, then grabs the head-rest of the driver’s seat with one hand to steady herself as the intensity of her climax overwhelms her. Underneath, his face flushed and eyes clenched shut, Leon’s contorted expression and anguished wailing matches hers. After several seconds, Ella’s yelps die down to a subdued whimper, and her breathing slowly begins to return to normal. She blinks, then gazes at Leon as though she had momentarily forgotten he was there, before leaning down and gently kissing him on the lips. Reaching up, he runs his hand through the fringe that hangs over her forehead.
“I love you too.” He murmurs.
Almost silently, the lovers awkwardly detangle from each other. Limbs are squeezed pass each other’s bodies, clothes clumsily readjusted, zips and buttons refastened. A ring tone suddenly blares into life. Ella reaches over to her long leather coat, which is lying in a heap on the driver’s seat, and searches through the pockets, eventually pulling out her mobile. The display reads that it’s a call from Thelma.
“Yes?” Ella speaks into the phone.
“I’ve established the cells are under the west wing.” We hear Thelma’s voice say. “Initial diversion in two minutes. Contact me when you need the secondary diversion.”
“Understood.” Confirms Ella, ending the call then looking at Leon: “Two minutes.” She tells him.
Cut to Thelma, inside a maintenance cupboard within the mansion, stood in front of a large junction box, having already prised the cover off. On the floor by her feet is the satchel she was carrying earlier, which is now clearly empty. Tracing a finger across the mass of multi-coloured cables before her, the ghost finds the particular group of bunched-together cables she’s looking for, and pulls a hefty pair of pliers out of the toolbelt. Opening the jaws of the pliers and placing them around the grouping, she pauses and checks her watch, then nods to herself.
“Thank you and goodnight.” She mutters, grasping the pliers with both hands, closing them and slicing through the cables.
Cut to Ella and Leon, crouched on top of the outer wall of the estate. They watch as in the distance all the lights on the side of the mansion facing them suddenly go out.
“Go.” Breathes Ella, and both of them jump from the wall, dropping down into the darkness of the grounds.
End of Part One.
