XVI

I stared at the advancing policemen blankly. It has been over fifteen years since I had the boys in blue visit my house. That was back in 1997 after a young girl was killed in an inexplicable, and still unsolved murder, only a street away from where I had been living for many years, and where - in the aftermath of my own horrific divorce - my friend and partner in crime Graham Inglis spent much of his time. Being by far the weirdest and most non–conformist people in the little red brick estate, as well as the only single men, we were obviously going to be suspects. We were both quite happy to give DNA samples, having absolutely nothing to hide, but as we were questioned in some considerable detail about our activities that weekend, as said activities had involved Olympic levels of substance abuse, and a mildly debauched party, we were not particularly willing to share too many details with the rozzers.

But we were innocent. We knew that we were innocent, and eventually - despite my suspicions that the Birmingham Six, and the Guildford Four were just about to be joined by The Exwick Two - we were eliminated from the enquiry, and although it took me two years to get back the Gurkha kukri that I had hanging on my wall, we essentially left the affair without a stain on our characters.

But on this occasion what on earth could I have possibly done. I kept the implacable look of injured justice on my face as I struggled to stay calm, wracking my brains to try and think what the hell I could have done wrong! "Yes, Officer. can I help you?" I said in the grimly patrician manner that has saved my bollocks from the fire on many occasions, and which even now seems to alert the plods to the fact that - contrary to appearances - they were not dealing with some crusty traveller, but an old fashioned English Gentleman.

However, on this occasion, the boys in blue looked singularly unimpressed as they surveyed the piles of mildly esoteric bric-a-brac which lay heaped in piles across my tiny study. Their companion in the black overcoat, whom I was rapidly beginning to suspect was more than plain CID, if only because that acronym stands for Criminal Investigation Department, and I honestly couldn't think of anything even vaguely criminal for which I could have been pulled up.

He looked at me with steely grey eyes.  "I believe that you know a man called Daniel Miles," he said.

I slumped into my battered office chair. "What the fuck has he done NOW?" I asked.

I could see a flicker of humour pass for a fraction of an instant across his countenance. But it vanished almost immediately. "I don't think that there is any need for language like that, Sir", he replied, but I took a deep breath and said. "This is my house, and I will use any language I see fit here, officer. I will not be antagonistic and aggressive, but I am damned if I will temper my vocabulary to suit the sensibilities of an uninvited visitor. Now either arrest me, or sit down and we will discuss the matter like gentlemen..."

And much to my amazement, my high-handed attitude actually worked, and as he made no move to arrest me, I gestured to him to sit down. "I am afraid that I don't have enough chairs in here for your colleagues...", I started to say, but the ice was broken. He told the two uniformed policemen to go outside and sit in the car, and acquiesced like a lamb when I asked them to park up by the church rather than annoying my neighbours by blocking the lane outside.

They left. Graham was still hovering in the background, and I dispatched him for coffee and whisky. Much to my surprise the plainclothes policeman, who I suspected by now was almost certainly Special Branch, graciously accepted both. I didn't bother to ask him whether he was OK with me smoking, and lit one up anyway.

"You haven't answered my question," I said, sounding far more confident than I was feeling. "What the hell has that idiot Danny Miles done now?"

The policeman made himself comfortable and adjusted himself in his seat. "The trouble is, sir, that we don't know. We were hoping that you would be able to tell us."

I looked at him in silence. I would love to say that at this point I raised one eyebrow quizzically, but although my wife, my adopted nephew Max, and even my mother-in-law, can do this undoubtedly impressive facial contortion, I can do nothing of the sort. So I just scowled at him, and asked another question, although this time I was pretty sure that I knew the answer. "Why me?"

He had the good grace to look mildly embarrassed. "Well, sir, you have helped us with our enquiries on previous occasions..."

I snorted. "And I am sure that your records will have told you that I was found to be entirely blameless on each of those occasions," I barked angrily, because - unlike most citizens of this sceptre'd isle - I have attracted the attention of the security forces on at least three occasions over the past twenty years.

The first took place during the last year of the John Major administration, when the Conservative Government was reliant on the capricious and stormy political friendship of the Ulster Unionists to stay in power, and was getting more and more concerned that anti-government interests from Britain and Ireland would team up to try and bring the government to its knees.

Well it so happened that in the spring of 1995 I had a telephone call from a very drunk ex-Royal Marine sergeant who claimed to have been in charge of one of the detachments of Royal Marines, who, ten years earlier, had been hunting The Beast of Exmoor. He claimed that they had shot a big black cat, but as they had been on private land without permission they had buried the body and vowed to say nothing about it. However, because my informant was down on his luck he was prepared to take me to the body...for a consideration.

I was sceptical, especially when, in an attempt to establish his bona fides, he told me (in confidence) that he had been part of a detachment of Marines acting as bodyguards to the then Princess of Wales as she visited her "Fancy Man" in rural Devon. This was months before the relationship between Princess Diana and James Hewitt became public knowledge. I had discussed the claims about the Beast of Exmoor in writing and on local radio, and because I had vaguely known Hewitt when we were both schoolboys (he was an egregious little shit even then) the increasingly paranoid Conservative administration decided that I was obviously trying to destabilise the royal family, and - according to several sources, especially On the trail of the saucer spies, UFOs and Government Surveillance by my friend Nick Redfern - my phone line was tapped for several months.

A couple of years later, the taps were renewed when circumstantial evidence suggested that I was an IRA sympathiser (I wasn't but had friends who were) and even appeared in a drunken photograph taken at a gig by an Irish republican rock band, in An Poblacht. But again, the taps were removed eventually.

Most recently, in 2012, I shot a video for the title track of Merrell Fankhauser's Area 51 Suite. I'm rather proud of this. Not only is it the first pop video that I have directed which didn't feature either me, my band, or some mate of mine screaming avant garde nonsense, but I almost got arrested by Special Branch whilst making it. Although Area 51 is in Nevada, it was filmed in North Cornwall outside GCHQ, because of their impressive satellite dishes.

Worryingly for the state of the nation's security, the base security forces noticed the fat hippy with an expensive camera but failed to notice to relatively small teenagers (one dressed in an alien mask) and a large, bumbling dog with impressive jowls. The police were very nice to me when we spoke on the telephone, and I am pretty sure that I have avoided being sent to some secret interrogation facility on Diego Garcia, as they seemed to believe everything I said (which was good, considering that it was the pure and unadulterated truth).

So, I have attracted the nation of Britain's guardians of law and order on at least three occasions, and as I have written and spoken widely about my negative view of both the British and American governments (check out my book Island of Paradise for the really damning stuff) I am not at all surprised that I have a file on me, and that it remains open. But Danny? He is just an irritating small town conman, and - if I may steal Tim Good's phrase - of no defence significance whatsoever.

I said as much to the man from Special Branch, who was sitting back comfortably sipping my whisky. He looked at me quizzically for a few moments before saying. "But in your writings, Mr Downes, you have intimated that Mr Miles is quite capable of running a cult. Indeed, I believe he did so at one time, and you were a member." He picked up his attache case and got out a copy of my 2004 biography, in which I described some rather disturbing events during the autumn of 1981, when I was busy opening the doors of perception by the use of psilocybin, and Danny was playing mind games with the more gullible members of the North Devon alternative community.

He turned to the relevant chapter and read out loud:

I can't remember whose idea it was, but at the end of October someone suggested that we should follow in the footsteps of Carlos Castaneda and indulge in a group psychedelic experience out of doors. The idea was to somehow contact the spirit of the sacred mushroom on the psychic plane, although it has to be admitted that most of those present (including me) thought of it more as a groovy and rather daring Halloween party. I was really looking forward to it until I discovered that in his wisdom Danny had decided to hold this experiment on Abbotsham Cliffs. In many ways this made a lot of sense. If there actually was a sacred mushroom spirit, it stood to reason that he would reside amongst the more tangible proofs of his existence, and as already stated, at the time at least, the best magic mushrooms in the area grew at Abbotsham Cliffs.

   

I was a little uneasy. Although ten years had passed and I had tried to put the matter out of my mind I had never entirely forgotten the events of June 1972. But, I rationalised wildly displaying a capacity for self-delusion that was remarkable even by my standards. That had been in the woodlands several miles along the cliffs. And it had been in summer. And we had been looking for the werewolf. This time we were engaged on a mystical quest for the spirit of the sacred mushroom. It was obvious that nothing nasty could possibly happen.

   

On Halloween night, seven or eight of us camped out on the flat land just behind Abbotsham Cliffs. There were three girls and four or five guys, all dressed in the punk styles that were then de rigeur. Cheerfully, we parked our cars in the lay-by, and in the late afternoon sunshine t was a cheerful party that walked the half-mile or so along the footpath to the cliffs. Although it was the end of October it was surprisingly warm, and the two elderly sheep grazing on the scrubland by the cliffs gave the place a delightfully bucolic air.

   

We built a large bonfire and as the final rays of the setting sun disappeared into the Bristol Channel, Danny, in his self appointed role of showman and shaman, came around and dispensed what he described as his “funky communion.” It was a potent mixture of gin, mushroom tea, peyote and LSD and was the precursor to one of the most horrific nights of my life. It was a night that I shall certainly never forget, and which I seriously suspect will be permanently etched on the psyches of everyone involved.

   

The evening started pleasantly enough, because although the chemical mixture that we had ingested was incredibly powerful, the mixture of the pleasantly sylvan surroundings, and what we hadn't yet learned to call “chill out” music issuing from what we hadn't yet learned to call a “ghetto blaster” kept everyone in a mellow and happy state of mind.

   

Danny started to read aloud from The Tibetan Book of the Dead and then began to recite Aleister Crowley's Hymn to Pan. None of us realised at the time, but Danny was (knowingly or unknowingly) manipulating the situation like a master. Although everyone was hallucinating heavily by this time, the three girls in particular seemed heavily affected and, encouraged by Danny, started to behave in a most uncharacteristic manner.

Despite their Mohicans and studiously torn clothes they were actually very reserved young ladies on the whole; but coaxed by Danny they started to become very affectionate and sensual. They danced rhythmically to the music and kissed and stroked each other, the guys in the group (including me) and particularly Danny.

   

One plump girl called “Sarah” [not her real name because I see her around Exeter sometimes, and she is now an eminently respectable, professional lady] who boasted the particularly unpleasant punk soubriquet of “Scab” even started to undress and dance semi-naked in the firelight.

   

It would be easy for me to pretend that some sort of totally far out hippy orgy then ensued, but it didn't. Most of the people who were there were too drunk, too stoned, and far too tripped out to perform sexually. I know I was, but again under coaxing from Danny, “Scab” and one of the guys coupled - I won't say `made love` because there was no love, emotion or tenderness - just animal rutting in the firelight as Danny chanted lines from Crowley and the rest of us looked on giggling inanely and waving our hands about to the rhythmic beat of the music.

   

Eventually everyone passed out, and that was when the fear came.

   

I have spent more of my life than I like to admit in alternate states of consciousness. Once upon a time I believed it was because I was exploring a genuinely alternative route to spiritual self-empowerment. 

Nowadays I believe that all that is rubbish. If there is such a thing as an interventionist God, and for me personally the jury is still out on that one, I am sure that he or she would not wish the objects of his/her creation to perform acts of supplication by poisoning themselves. Although the concept of trying to second guess a deity is a pretty dodgy one, the theories of trying to reach nirvana through substance abuse is a pretty dodgy one. I haven't taken psychedelics since that terrible night in 1981. These days when I go to a different place it is usually with alcohol, or prescribed tranquillisers and occasionally with the fruit of the poppy. And these days, when I take drugs it isn't to reach some magickal and non-existent nirvana - it is purely and simply to blot out the fear.

   

I am convinced that the fear first came to me on All Hallow's Eve 1981.

The policeman looked at me in silence for a few moments before continuing...

"We have received information that Mr Miles is involved with another cult of young people in North Devon, and this time the casualties are likely to be far more than just three elderly sheep. What do you know about it?"

I replied fairly honestly. I agreed with the policeman that the events taking place in the dank forests on the Cornwall/Devon border were both sinister and worrying. But as far as I could see the police were barking completely up the wring tree.

"Have you heard a song called 'Black Flags Rising'?" he asked, taking me completely aback.

I nodded that I had.

"We believe that this is a reference to the black flags flown by Islamist insurgents in the Middle East..." And he looked terribly shocked when I burst out laughing.

"Danny a radical Muslim? Nonsense..." I spluttered, and tried to explain that the black flags in the song were a reference either to Saruman's banners in Lord of the Rings, the Anarchist black flag, or to this line from a famous Irish rebel song...

"The black flag they hoisted, the cruel deed was over,

Gone was a man who loved Ireland so well,

There was many a sad heart in Dublin that morning,

When they murdered James Connolly, the Irish Rebel"

But this was all obviously too much for my unwelcome visitor, who obviously had no idea what on earth I was talking about.

"So you are saying that they are Irish Muslim anarchists, then sir?"

And I had to spend the next ten minutes trying to explain to the bloody man that I meant nothing of the sort, and that I was a seriously disabled music journalist and zoologist who spent his time breeding tropical fish and raising money for animal welfare projects, and that I was not the new Lord Haw Haw apologist for a band of fundamentalist Irish Muslims, and that I knew next to nothing about what Danny was doing and cared less.

Of course, I wasn't being entirely truthful. I knew more than I was admitting, but the more I thought about it the more I worried about the safety of poor Panne.  Truthfully I didn't care what happened to Danny, Mr Loxodonta, Lynnette or any of the others, and suspected that the world would quite possibly be a better place without them.

But I was not prepared to be the agent of their destruction if it also meant the destruction of a sweet little goatgod from the woods who had done nothing more to me than ask for my help and eat my wife's chocolate.

So I obfuscated, bluffed and carried out all the tricks of verbal prestidigitation that I knew how to do.

I knew that the policeman knew that I was hiding something, and I knew that he knew that I knew he did. But, thankfully,  even in our crumbling democracy, I knew that I was safe from being arrested on suspicion of treason, just yet, and so I continued to lie, and the policeman continued to probe until we both got tired of the charade and he went home, and I went upstairs to join Corinna and the dogs in bed.

However, unusually for me, I lay awake for hours with a million and one things going round my head. But by the time I finally went to sleep, just as the pale fingers of dawn were tracing filigree patterns across the early morning sky, I knew exactly what to do next.

I would have to do exactly what I had been told back in Norwich. I would have to go and see Britannia.