We Are Toten Herzen by C Harrison
RavensWish - concert cancelled fighting everywhere heart broken nothing left to live for
JarniHeijnkes - sounds bad. can see the pictures on the news. place looks like a battleground #totenherzenriot
Antonlagarde - WTF how did it come down to this?
Carlwallace15 - travelled from Nottingham. Still choking from all the smoke. never seen anything like it! #totenherzenriot bitsy.fr/cw15/2667
Dekuip2010 - they still got their shit, proud of our Rotterdam girl #susanbekker @totenherzen never die
RavensWish - theres nothing to be proud of
Dekuip2010 - fuck u @totenherzen rule the world, people get reminder of that 2nite
RavensWish - how old r u? You probably werent born when they were around. #FAKE
Dekuip2010 - old enough to know the truth @totenherzen take shit of no1 #susanbekker for queen of nederland
37 (November)
Raven turned off her phone for the first time since buying it a year ago. In the confusion of the riot she and several others had been bundled out of the building and no amount of pleading saw her bundled anywhere near her 'host' for the evening. Treated like any other hanger on, she was left powerless as the coach pulled away from the Ahoy. Any hope of turning her life around drove away with it. The point of her journey was gone and she was left to wander aimlessly, trying to find a patch of clean air in the sulphurous hate of the Rotterdam night. Around her was the blue light blinking and siren wailing evidence of a large police presence, and armoured men and women rounding up any groups who looked like they might have some fight still in them.
She could see the footbridge over the road and the route back to the city centre. There might still be trains back to the central station, but how safe would they be after everything, at this time of night. A deep, heavy unbearable sense of sadness and loneliness pulled her to the ground and she wept uncontrollably.
Then a hand on her shoulder made her jump. "I'm sorry," said a tall man leaning over her. "I saw you earlier, backstage. I wondered if you were all right." He didn't look like a regular Toten Herzen fan, but then what would that look like: flare in hand, troubled expression, blue hair, runny mascara.
"Yeah, I was. And I'm not all right. I'm fucking horrible."
The man knelt down beside her. According to her pass she was called Raven! "It's probably not safe for you to be here on your own now."
What was he saying? What was he up to? Where was this heading? One question after another swept the innocuous concern aside and replaced it with every terror imaginable. "No, I'm okay," she said springing to her feet. "You know what I'm gonna do?" The man shook his head. "I'm going over to their hotel and I'm gonna tell em what a bunch of fuckers they all are."
"You know where they're staying?"
"As a matter of fact I do, yeah. And she probably forgot she told me." Raven set off with a new plan. The guy was left alone to watch her go, mumbling and muttering. "You're not leaving me here like this, you fucking witch. You got me over here, you're gonna sort me out. Yeah, that's what you're gonna do. Sort me out." She turned her phone back on and as she walked through what was left of the event, suspicious police officers, a stray fire engine, several ambulances and shell shocked fans watching nothing particularly interesting, she found the hotel's website. The Rotterdam Crown Hotel. "Five stars, you rich bastards." It was on the other side of the city according the map. "You better still be there when I get there."
-
By the time Raven arrived at reception she was limping heavily. The time was coming up to four o'clock in the morning and only anger and adrenaline were keeping her awake. The night manager, alone in his spacious empty world, wondered who, or what, was wandering into his hotel at this time. Raven was a left over from the evening's 'events' at the Ahoy. Fodder for hotel security, the trouble was crossing their threshold now.
"I want to speak to Susan Bekker, please."
"Is she expecting you?" said the night manager positioning himself firmly against the reception desk away from the telephone.
"Yeah she is. She invited me backstage at the Ahoy and then left me there when they all came back here and I want an explanation why she would do that." She started filling up. "After everything we talked about why did she fucking leave me there?"
The night manager must have been softened by loneliness. "Who shall I say is asking for her?"
Raven wiped her eyes dry. "Tell her . . . Barbara!"
He made the call. Raven waited. "Hello, sorry to trouble you at this time. There is a young lady in reception called Barbara asking to see Susan." He covered the mouthpiece and turned. "Are you also called Raven?" Raven nodded. "Yes." He looked at her again. "Blue hair, yes. Okay, thank you." He put the receiver down. "Someone will come down to see you in a moment. You can take a seat here if you like."
"Thank you." She turned down an offer of tea even though she had a raging thirst. Before she had time to wince at the pain in her feet, the lift door opened and Susan was standing there beckoning Raven to join her. Forgetting the pain, she limped over and as soon as the doors closed grabbed Susan and poured her heart out.
"You bitch, you left me there in all that. . . ."
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It was chaotic, we were pushed around and on the coach and then a fight broke out and everything was, I don't know, all over the place."
Raven saw for the first time heavy bruising all over Susan's throat and shoulders. She had four red lines running down the left side of her face. "What happened?"
"I looked worse a few hours ago. Everything's healing. Dee and I had a bit of a disagreement, but we're all cool now." Susan led Raven out of the elevator and along a rich golden atrium flanked by vivid orange doors. "I'm gonna make it up to you." She put a cold arm around Raven's shoulders and led her into a room. Now at last Raven felt safe.
Susan's room was quiet. Modern. A million miles from vampiric. None of the gothic flourishes she was expecting, but she should have known that from the start. Susan Bekker, in her own words, was no whining teenager. She wasn't the stuff of fiction or films. She was real, and real vampires stayed in real hotel rooms and lived in real houses, slept in real beds . . . Susan's hadn't been slept in, but a suitcase was open with clothes spilling out of it. That looked familiar, that looked almost homely. A tablet was lying on a coffee table. Susan picked it up and looked at her digital reflection. "These marks should be gone in an hour."
"Is that a mirror?" asked Raven.
"Yeah, clever isn't it. It's the webcam, then I flip the image and voilà."
Raven processed part of the explanation, but her feet were hurting so much she only wanted to get her boots off and sit in a bowl of hot water. Susan opened the mini fridge and took out a bottle of cola. "You can gulp this down first and then you can have something stronger if you want."
"What are you going to do?"
Susan sat next to her on the edge of the bed. "I'm not sure. I'm still not sure you're ready to change, so the deal is you spend some time with us until your mind's made up. We've still got a lot to do, you can be part of the team. We'll work out what you can do; personal assistant, I don't know. I can't think of anything right now. We'll see how it goes. I'm making no promises, but if you still want to change and I think you can handle it, then we'll see what happens."
"When you say change. . . ." She couldn't bring herself to say the word. The V word. Sitting so close to Susan she could smell the coldness of her skin, see the veins in her eyes and delicate bulge over her canine teeth, the chill was radiant, cooling the air between them. In the tranquillity of the room, so distant now from the night's chaos, the promise of change was not the casual desire it had once been; it wasn't the adventure she was expecting. It was a long, one way journey, an agreement that could never be cancelled.
"It's what you still want isn't it?"
"Yeah. Yeah it is."
"Okay. Look, you must be exhausted. I don't need the bed tonight so get comfortable here. Take a shower. Take as long as you want. There's a sl
ight chance the concert might be on again tomorrow night, but don't hold your breath. I'm not giving up on this though." Raven didn't remember undressing, or taking a shower, but at five thirty in the morning she woke up in the bed. There was conversation in the corridor that sounded like Susan, Rob Wallet and another woman, possibly Dee Vincent or Elaine Daley. The conversation moved away and Raven was too exhausted to care.
-
Wallet was at the entrance to the hotel when a tall bloke pushed past him. The quality of guest must diminish as sunrise approaches. He watched him pace towards the night manager, head down, square shouldered. Fucking hell . . . it was Patrick Wells! He must have followed Raven across the city. Wallet was about to play hero and grab him from behind, he had the strength these days to take down the big ones, but then an inner voice told him to hang back, wait to see how Wells was going to play this.
"Hello, I'm sorry to trouble you, but I believe my daughter is here. She's running after this rock band and her name is Raven." Wells hadn't recognised Wallet. He turned to look back just as Wallet was about to go up to Susan.
"Can you describe her, sir?" said the night manager.
"Five feet five, dressed in black, black leather jacket, black jeans, black lace up boots, blue hair. She told me she was coming here to meet the band. Has she been here?"
"Yes. A young woman of that description arrived earlier. May I ask who's calling?"
He paused. "John Waters," he said firmly.
The night manager glanced over to Wallet just as he vanished. God knows what he must have seen at that moment!
Wallet appeared in Susan's room, making her jump. Raven was asleep in the bed. There was no time to ask. "Two things: Patrick Wells is downstairs."
"You're fucking joking."
"I never joke, Susan, you should know that by now."
"And?"
"And I think the night manager might have seen me vanishing when I came up here."
She sighed. "Go back to your room, I'll deal with it. Just like I deal with everything else you mess up."
Wallet's phone was ringing in his room. It was the night manager.
"Hello again, Rob."
"Hi. How are you?"
"Fine thank you, never been so busy. There is a Mr Waters in reception to collect his daughter. Raven Waters?"
"Right. I think Susan Bekker might be going down to meet him."
"Okay, I'll tell him. Thanks Rob."
"No problem. Must be quite a weird night. Bet you see all sorts of things on this rota." Wallet laughed.
"I've seen everything, Rob. Or I thought I had." He put the phone down.
"Bollocks."
Susan was outside, marching down the corridor with Terence Pearl. Wallet had to join them. This was as much his cock up as anyone's. In fact, it was exclusively his cock up. One of his better examples. Susan didn't object to him joining her and Pearl in the lift. "Why we going down in the lift?" Wallet asked.
Susan glared at him. "Why do you think?"
The lift doors opened and they saw Wells sitting in a deep chair studying the night manager who turned away as the three oddballs from the second floor stepped out into reception. Wells gathered himself and nervously stood up. "Is there somewhere quiet we can sit?" Wallet asked the night manager who looked confused. Everywhere was quiet at this time in the morning.
"The restaurant, please feel free. It isn't open, but you can talk there. Would you like a taxi or will you find your own way there?"
"We'll walk." Wallet blushed. Susan and Pearl headed towards the restaurant with Wells several paces behind them.
"Right, this is it. The moment of truth," said Susan, "What's the game?"
"Game?" Wells was growing in confidence: the confidence of a man who was finally facing his target, the confidence of a man who was going all the way. "What game? I'm not playing a game. Where's the rest of you?"
"They'll be here in a minute," said Susan. "Who are you?"
"Look at me. Look at me and you'll soon figure out who I am."
"You look like Pete, but I know it can't be him."
"Pete, oh it's Pete. Pete! The same Pete who you murdered in 1973, the same Pete you hid from his relatives, the same Pete who you mocked on your album cover in 1974, the same Pete whose family you destroyed."
"It isn't like that, Patrick," said Pearl.
"Patrick," said Susan. "So which side of the family are you from?"
"Peter was my uncle. His sister is my mother and she has been bereft for forty years because of you."
"We didn't kill Pete. We don't know what happened to him, but we didn't kill him."
"I don't believe you."
"It's pretty obvious you don't believe us."
"You're lying now like you've lied for the past forty years."
"Patrick," Susan took one step forward, "we saw him alive and he was drunk, Micky Redwall took him home and we never saw him again. We don't know what happened. We've tried to find out, but after all this time it's next to impossible."
Wells would have to wait. Without the band here he'd only get half the job done. There might be time to pacify him and salvage some miserable conclusion to this whole desperate episode. No one would emerge from this with any valour, but there was a chance if Wells didn't try anything stupid that some kind of closure, no matter how minuscule, might be possible. But he was already hyped up from confrontation and lack of sleep. He wasn't acting like a man ready to back down.
"I'm not prepared to listen to any more of this. You've had forty years to apologise, forty years to offer an explanation, forty years," he was raising his voice now, "to show some kind of regret, offer some mark of respect. Offer to meet his parents, offer to put yourselves at their mercy, but you've never done that and why? Because you don't care."
"We didn't care," said Susan. "Back then we didn't care, we didn't care about anything, but now we do and we are trying to find out what happened, and we will meet Pete's family, but Patrick I'm not lying anymore."
"Yes, you are."
The night manager appeared. "Is everything okay?" Wallet reassured him, but he probably wasn't the best person to put the night manager at ease. Not after, well. . . .
"I'm not lying Patrick," said Susan, "Terence, can you explain to him?"
Pearl offered to speak, but Wells shut him up. "I'm not listening to him. He's a bloody idiot."
"What?"
"I'm sorry Terence," Wells continued, "but I told you to call it a day. You got me this far. I'm grateful, but I'm not going to listen to someone who is here, in a hotel, with this lot. How much are they paying you?"
"They're not paying me, I listened to them. I listened to Rob, he was convincing and you should listen to him to."
"Wells turned to Wallet. "Who the hell are you anyway? This has nothing to do with you."
"Susan asked me to find out what happened to Peter. I've spent months trying to get to the bottom of this and Terence here has been helping me."
"Months!" Wells turned to Pearl. "You were supposed to be helping me. You were helping me!"
"And I did. You're here now, Patrick. If you let them, they can help you."
Wells was drying up, running out of options, running out of time. "Where are the others?" he demanded. He didn't want help, didn't want a resolution; a hug and a handshake and we'll get back to you. He wasn't being brushed off like one of their fans.
"They're not here," said Susan.
Wells put his hand in his inside pocket and took out a pistol. "Where are the others?" he said slowly taking the safety catch off.
Wallet could see Wells knew his way around a gun, but beyond that the world still had a few mysteries. Who, or rather what, was standing in front of him? Susan glanced at the gun. "Go ahead, get yourself into trouble for all this. Create another tragedy for your family."
"Susan," Wallet warned.
"No, you want to shoot me, if that makes you feel better, if that's your solution, shoot me."
And he did. The gun f
ired startling everyone and a small red bullet hole appeared in Susan's forehead. There was a deathly pause and months of assurance, months of certainty and confirmation in the supernatural hung on the say so of a single bullet. Wallet knew there was no such thing as a racing certainty, but even though. . . . Everything he'd witnessed, everything he'd experienced, everything he'd learned was about to be tested by that one solitary gun shot. He and Pearl waited for Susan to drop.
But she didn't. Wells looked at his gun and at Susan. He tried again and missed! He was shaking violently now, but she gave him enough time to take a third shot, which hit her in the shoulder. And still she didn't move. Susan simply stood and smiled as one bullet hole after another appeared, effortlessly, ineffectively, until Wells had almost emptied the gun's magazine. Gasping for breath, he readied himself one last time hoping this would be the killer shot and that her refusal to drop was some kind of stiffened euphoric pause, one final beatific smile before death, but before he could fire Pearl launched himself forward.
The two men went over a table backwards as Pearl sank his teeth into Wells' exposed neck. The night manager had already come running and, frozen with shock at the sight of Susan taking one bullet after another with no effect, he now had one man on his back being bitten by a second. Wallet and Susan pulled Pearl away as he tried to apologise to his victim. "You're wrong, Patrick, you are wrong." He pulled himself free and ran towards a staffroom door.
"What the fuck has he just done?" said Wallet as he checked Wells' pulse. It was weak and he was losing too much blood. "He's gonna be dead any minute," he said to Susan whose bullet wounds were already congealing and fading.
"Where's Pearl gone?" She ran to the door of the staffroom, but it was locked. "Terence," she banged on it.
Wallet rushed to reception, but the night manager had beaten him to it, propelled by a state of high alarm. The police had been called and he was now demanding an ambulance. "A man with a single throat wound," he waited for Wallet's description, but he was shaking his head. "It may be fatal."
Back in the restaurant Wells' fate was beyond doubt. He lay across the table with his eyes bulging open. The blood, still eager to take advantage of its premature release, was spreading out over the floor. "Pearl still locked away?"
Susan nodded. "I don't want to kick the door in. He's had enough shocks already." The night manager came back, almost stepping in the blood. "You need to cover this up," Susan said, "and make sure no one comes down and sees it." The night manager paused. "Please." Off he went.
Wallet thought about ripping down a curtain, but he could see the intensity of the darkness was giving way to morning. They only had one or two hours to sort this out and get back to their rooms. Susan knew what he was thinking.
"This is a mess," she said.
Wallet disagreed. "Typical day in the life of Toten Herzen, Susan. One riot, one manager mauled, a stray fan, a murder victim and a vampire locked in a staffroom. It's like a Whitehall farce."
"Trust you not to take it seriously."
"I don't take anything seriously anymore," said Wallet. "Life's too fucking short for that."
-
The first police officers to arrive did Wallet and Susan a favour by ordering them back up to their rooms until the drama was over, but the drama was only just beginning. Wallet wasn't aware of the niceties of Dutch policing, but Susan, standing in the atrium corridor listening to the increasing chaos down below knew the situation was turning critical. Turning red. Wallet listened carefully as she explained the Regional Constabulary had been replaced by the National Constabulary and that even they, with all their gung ho responsibilities, had now been turfed out by the Royal Military Police.
"Military Police?"
"They're not treating this like a normal killing. Not if that lot have turned up."
"What's so special about them?" Wallet hadn't seen this kind of concern on Susan's face. So often she was the calm in the storm. She was usually the calm and the storm, but her senses now were at the razor's edge. This didn't feel right.
"International crime, terrorism, riot, national security shit. Not localised murders. Not timid killers like Terence Pearl."
-
By seven thirty and with sunlight pouring into the hotel, Terence Pearl was still locked in a staff room refusing to emerge. The officer given the task of enticing him out didn't want anymore victims and was hoping for a negotiated end to the crisis. The night manager was gone, taken away as a witness with an account he wasn't sure he believed himself.
The sound of a lock turning alerted the waiting officer. A message went to the armed unit sitting around outside the hotel entrance. Pearl crawled out of the staff room. "Mr Pearl," the officer checked to see if Pearl was armed. He wasn't, but he was distressed, shaking and looking for help.
"Vengeance is a gift from the Lord Jesus Christ. We are his followers, we are duty bound to uphold his ministry and strike forth the demons that crawl upon the earth and prey upon God's children."
"Okay, Mr Pearl." The officer was calm, kept his hands in front of him and did nothing as Pearl slowly crawled towards him. No one moved, the other officers entering the reception area slowed to a halt. An expectant chill enveloped everyone standing there as Pearl inched past an enormous puddle of blood covering an area ringed by police security tape. He squinted as the light level in reception increased. "I want you to come with us, Mr Pearl," said the officer carefully. "Please stand up and put your hands where I can see them."
Pearl followed the instruction and rose awkwardly, hands hanging by his side, head bowed. His body was a walking dead weight, moving on autopilot, but still capable of a sudden and violent reaction.
"Vengeance is a gift from the Lord Jesus Christ. We are his followers, we are duty bound to uphold his ministry and strike forth the demons that crawl upon the earth and prey upon God's children."
"You just told us that, Mr Pearl," said the officer patiently.
Without pause for breath Terence Pearl was led away from the bar and through the reception area of the Rotterdam Crown Hotel. Two more officers gently held on to both arms as Pearl offered little resistance.
Once outside, the commanding officer became aware of his audience. Every hotel window had a face, or two faces, all transfixed by the fleet of police vehicles and the small army of armed officers filling the grounds of the hotel all the way to the entrance where a second fleet of vehicles contained the eyes and ears of the world's media. All he wanted, all he needed, was to get Pearl into a van and get him away.
-
"What's happening now," said Susan staying a safe distance from the sunlit glass. She had decided to keep the television turned off following the unremitting coverage of the concert and the obligatory blame game and who did what and why. Everyone was an expert in crowd control; everyone was an expert in concert management; everyone was an expert on Toten Herzen. Raven was peeking through a tiny gap in the curtains.
"It looks like they're getting ready for something. They've brought him out and they're opening the back door of that police van."
"Wonder what'll happen to him. You can't call him a criminal for what he's done." Susan played with the security tabard from the Ahoy. "Oh fuck, what a mess."
"Can't you help him?" said Raven. "Pay for his lawyers or something?"
"Maybe. We'll have to do something. We can't abandon another one. Or we could bury him next to Peter Miles. We could build our own graveyard just for our victims. Peter Miles, Patrick Wells. Fucking hell, it would go on forever."
Raven looked back at Susan. "It's not that bad, is it? Oh hang on, there’s something happening."
-
The officers had formed a protective bunch around their suspect, carefully guiding him through the revolving doors of the hotel, but Pearl was agitating as he walked towards the police van. He started squirming in the keen morning sunlight that hit his face like the slap of a hand. He started crying out, pleading for the officers to get him out of the sun. The
y reassured him, but continued to walk at the same pace. Pearl struggled to breathe as his initial screams distorted and lowered to a tormented grumble. His clothes began to steam. One of the officers twisted uncomfortably as a sudden intense heat reflected onto him. He was forced to let go of Pearl's arm, which had become as hot as the hob of a cooker; his colleague on the other side backed away when a small flame suddenly crawled up the sleeve of his jacket.
Panic had seized the commanding officer as Pearl writhed in unapproachable pain. The walkie talkies were overcome with static interference. Car alarms awoke in a deafening chorus of noise and mobile phone signals disappeared everywhere. In the middle of a growing panic and cacophony Pearl was now beyond help, such was the oven-like heat radiating off him; no one could get near. Officers scattered as the volcanic atmosphere pulsed towards them, singeing faces, beards, eyebrows. The commanding officer made a desperate attempt to grab Pearl and pull him towards the van, but the heat was eating into its victim and Pearl was doubling at the knees, buckling under the immensity of an invisible inferno consuming him. Few wanted to look, but no one could take their eyes off the spectacle of this unassuming man disappearing in front of them, blackening, carbonising; flakes of ash separating and drifting around his body that was becoming a formless lump, disintegrating, steaming multicoloured vapours and flashing sparks of intense light. His body popped and bubbled before finally collapsing into a dry desiccated pile of cinders that left a spreading black smear and a thin veil of dark mist.
-
Raven jumped back from the window with her hands over her eyes. "Fuck."
"Speak to me," said Susan. "I can smell burning, human flesh burning. What's just happened?"
Raven couldn't answer. "That nearly burned my fucking eyeballs out." She turned away from the window and let her astonished expression tell the rest of the story. She ran to the bathroom and was violently sick.
What had Wallet done? What plan had he followed to win Pearl's co-operation? Turning a man to get him to talk, turning a man for a brief period of inside knowledge and then leaving him to his fate without warning anyone. Why didn't he say, why didn't he involve the others so that they knew, so that they could deal with the risks? Another victim, another death to explain, another name in the Toten Herzen book of remembrance. The graveyard was growing again.
The hotel was bustling with activity as guests emerged from their rooms. The noise was hysterical; hotel staff could be heard running around trying to deal with an emergency that wasn't in any training manual. Outside police vehicles were moving, but where could they go other than back to base? They no longer had a suspect to escort, no killer to apprehend, the laws of a higher nature had dealt with the case; judge and jury, a sentence of death with no appeal.
Susan looked in on Raven who was slumped next to the toilet, spitting and gasping for air. "I need to go and talk to the others. I'll be back as soon as I can okay?" Raven nodded. "Do not leave this room." She nodded again.
Out on the atrium landing there were suspicious glances, the noise dropped to a whisper, people hid away, slipped back into their room, staff turned to their emergency rotas and printed instructions. Inside Wallet's room the band sat silently. They had the aroma of tragedy in their nostrils and the sounds of disbelief ringing in their ears.
Susan squatted in front of Wallet. "Do you know what you've done?"
"I started having suspicions this morning."
"What does that mean? I haven't been able to look, but I think we're all aware of what just happened. Why did you turn him? Why didn't you tell us?" Her voice was rising to an alarming pitch. "You just killed an innocent man?"
"Me? What do you mean I just killed him?" Wallet could see the same accusation on the faces of Dee, Elaine and Rene.
"You turned Terence Pearl and you didn't say anything."
Wallet paused to make sure he heard her right. "I turned him?" He looked at Dee and then back at Susan. "I always thought one of you did it."
"One of us?" The confusion passed to Susan.
"It wasn't me," said Dee.
Elaine and Rene assured Susan it was neither of them.
"Susan, you can call me anything you like, call me an idiot, a bullshitter, incompetent, useless, but I didn't turn Terence Pearl."
An explanation wasn't in this room, or this hotel, or Rotterdam, or Holland, or anywhere Susan could think of. Her mind raced back in time to 1973 and every point of interest between then and now, but nothing, no clues, no insight, no tell tale sign or coincidental name, no familiar face, or suspicious happenings. Just a blur, a void, an opaque wall. She met Pearl in Ipswich, scared the life out of him, questioned him, reassured him that they didn't kill Peter Miles. Then he was left with Wallet and Wallet did the rest. Charmed him, plagued him, followed him, tempted him, finally won his trust and then . . . turned him? No, he didn't turn him, didn't touch him, never laid a finger on the man and Susan believed him. Wells didn't know: about Pearl, about her, about any one of them, otherwise he would have showed up with something more effective than an automatic pistol. How could he not know? How could Patrick Wells be so consumed with a fury and yet be so ignorant of who was tormenting him?
"He was so slow in coming forward and telling me what I wanted to know," said Wallet, "I wasn't sure until the concert he was on our side. I still wasn't a hundred per cent certain until this morning which way he was gonna go. So what do we do now?"
"I need to go back to Raven, she's not feeling so good."
"Did she see what happened?" Rene asked.
"Yeah. Everything. The whole disgusting business."
Wallet plugged his eyes with his fists.
"Well," said Elaine, slouching back into her chair, "that was quite a comeback. And we haven't played a note yet."
Dee turned to Wallet. "You still think all this is liberating?"
Daily Mail
Calls For Toten Herzen To Be Banned
Conservative MP demands the band's second concert planned for the UK be halted
The Conservative MP for Bromsgrove and Kidderminster, Dianne Varly, 51, has urged the government to ban the rock band Toten Herzen from going ahead with their second comeback concert, planned for the East Midlands Arena in six days time.
The concert which has already sold out could see a repeat of the rioting following the band's opening show at the Ahoy Arena in Rotterdam last night. Fighting broke out amongst the seventeen thousand concert goers even before the band had taken to the stage. Riot police eventually restored order after at least ninety fans had been taken to hospital suffering a range of injuries from serious burns to cuts and bruises.
Traffic on the S103, a major road through Rotterdam, was later held up by further fighting which broke out on a coach carrying band members back to their hotel. Band Manager, Tom Scavinio, was later treated in hospital for serious injuries sustained in the scuffle.
Mrs Varly, who managed to hold onto her seat after this year's boundary changes to local constituencies, believes the band don't do enough to discourage their fans from this kind of trouble. "Their reputation has followed them all the way from the 1970s and we're seeing it again. No doubt the fans at the British leg of the tour will want to outdo their Dutch counterparts and we can't allow that to happen."
A spokesman for the East Midlands Arena, which has a capacity of eighteen thousand, told the Mail that extra security precautions had been arranged following the events at the Ahoy, and the concert was still planned to go ahead as scheduled. Doubts about further dates in Germany, Austria and Hungary before finishing in Geneva, Switzerland, later this month, have been raised.
The Times
Twelve Hours of Mayhem
Internet blogger Terence Pearl victim of 'spontaneous human combustion' outside Rotterdam hotel
The signs were not good as soon as fans began to arrive at the Ahoy Arena in Rotterdam for Toten Herzen's comeback concert. Eye witnesses reported a fractious atmosphere as groups from all over Holland and as far afield as T
urkey and Iceland gathered around campfires outside the seventeen thousand capacity concert hall.
Inside, one hour before the band were due to go on stage, a fan from Belgium was hit by a flare thrown from a section of the crowd and momentarily set alight. The resulting confrontation left eighty six injured, two of them seriously. Police, some in riot gear, took thirty minutes to restore order, but by then the arena had emptied and the show's organisers had no option but to cancel the concert.
A British fan, Brian Hewson, who had travelled from Brighton described the atmosphere as the most aggressive he had ever encountered at a rock concert. "I think the band's reputation had everyone on pins. They were like coiled springs waiting to go. There was none of the good natured banter I've come across at other concerts." Hewson, who had travelled with his girlfriend and paid a total of seventy pounds for two tickets, was still hoping the concert would be rescheduled. "We still want to see them. We're just old enough to remember them the first time round, but we were too young back then to be allowed to go to any of the gigs."
But not everyone was blaming the band. A spokesman for the Ahoy Arena, Adrian Lokeren, told The Times the band were concerned about potential trouble and were hoping to break away from the problems that had plagued them in the 1970s. "We had a lot of meetings with the band's management, label and tour organisers and time and time again they were concerned about preventing trouble. On the night security confiscated a lot of stuff, but obviously some people still managed to smuggle flares into the hall." Lokeren denied that in spite of the concerns security levels were inadequate. "There has never been trouble on this scale before at Ahoy. You can never count it out, but we're satisfied that we were prepared."
As if the events at the arena weren't bad enough, traffic on one of Rotterdam's busiest roads, the S103, was held up for fifteen minutes when a coach taking the band back to their hotel was forced to stop after fighting broke out amongst band members. Unconfirmed reports said that one or more passengers fell through the open door of the coach onto the carriageway, but this was denied by the band's publicist. The coach did make an unscheduled detour to Rotterdam's Erasmus medical centre to allow the band's manager, Tom Scavinio, to receive treatment for serious lacerations to the face. He left the hospital several hours later without making a statement to the waiting press.
However, the most harrowing episode of an already event filled night was the death of Terence Pearl, the internet blogger and writer who had been following the band for several months, and the murder of Patrick Wells, a forty year old relative of Peter Miles, the musician associated with the band in their early days, who went missing in 1973. Wells was attacked by Pearl in the restaurant of the Rotterdam Crown Hotel where the band were staying. Officers called in from the specialist Royal Military Police arrested Pearl, but he died as he was being led away as a result of what one eyewitness described as spontaneous human combustion.
Callum Morgenstein, a businessman from Tampa, Florida, who was in the hotel at the time of the incident said he still cannot believe what happened. "The police were escorting this guy away then suddenly let go of him. There were no flames, but the heat must have been intense because you could see the police trying to shield themselves from it. I could feel it through the window and I was two storeys up. The guy just blackened and broke up and within a minute there was nothing left of him." Guests of the hotel appear to have posted harrowing smartphone videos onto Youtube, some of which show Pearl appearing to disintegrate in front of shocked police officers.
The Crown Hotel later confirmed that Pearl had been arrested for the murder of Patrick Wells, but refused to give any further details. It is understood the band are no longer staying there and their whereabouts is unknown.
Daily Mirror
Did Your Advent Calendar Go Up In Smoke?
Whilst we predicted, successfully, that Toten Herzen's reunion tour wouldn't pass off without incident even we were taken by surprise by the events at the band's hotel in Rotterdam following the riot-torn no show at the Ahoy Arena the previous evening. So, if you can provide evidence, preferably video, of your Toten Herzen Black Advent Calendar spontaneously combusting, we will offer you a month's free subscription to the Daily Mirror.
Upload your video to Youtube and we'll get back to anyone who we believe has witnessed yet another appalling Toten Herzen hoax.
Guardian Comment - Andrew Rice
Was Terence Pearl Right all along?
Forget the riot. Forget the coach fight and the injuries to Tom Scavinio. Forget the murder of Patrick Wells, a relative of proto-band member Peter Miles. Terrible as they are, the real story is not to be found there. Forget the predictable told-you-so press reaction and knee jerk responses from publicity starved MPs. There is absolutely no story there.
Consider, instead, some of the writings of the internet blogger Terence Pearl, whose immolation outside the Rotterdam Crown Hotel, was described by one eye witness account as spontaneous human combustion. Whilst many of his ideas were fanciful Pearl was probably the last person on earth to take them seriously. Described by residents of Westerfield, the small village outside Ipswich where Pearl lived, as a vain attention seeking man, Pearl was adept at doing what many internet bloggers crave: provoking thought and reaction.
His wild ideas became part of a culture of conspiracy theory that has plagued Toten Herzen since their formation in 1973. The band's image, concocted and exploited by their scrap dealing manager Micky Redwall, was centred around the band's rumoured reputation for vampiric behaviour and exacerbated by The Dead Heart Weeps, a novel written in 1977 by Gothic author Jonathan Knight. For many this way of life was all part of the big rock and roll cliche that extreme behaviour sells records and concert tickets, along with newspapers and magazines.
But in the cold light of day let us spend a moment to reassure ourselves that this 'veneer of decay,' as Clarke Delorean of Rolling Stone magazine attributed to Toten Herzen way back in 1977, has no substance in reality.
Apart from the stupidity, why would four apparently healthy young people sleep in a tomb in Highgate Cemetery? Did their manager Micky Redwall really die after being savaged by his own guard dogs? How would the band's alleged killer Lenny Harper die at the hands of a sword wielding murderer in southern Germany earlier this year? And the ever present question of the disappearance of Peter Miles is an all too real tragedy. The stories so far all have one common link: the victims are potential players in a series of publicity stunts, none of whom are here to own up.
However, none of that explains the fates of Sony and Terence Pearl, neither of whom can remotely be considered willing participants in Toten Herzen's grand plan. Much has been said of the tragedies that occurred in Boston, New York and Washington, but little attention has been given to a medical report commissioned by Sony for insurance purposes prior to the band signing a deal. (A deal which ultimately never materialised.) A copy of the report seen by this newspaper, and I should add the Guardian is not a willing accomplice either, contained evidence of unusual physical properties relating to eyesight, hearing, cardio-vascular abnormalities and cholesterol levels never seen before by the laboratory conducting the medical checks. A later genetic report, commissioned in secret by the band's manager, Tom Scavinio, suggested that the four members of the band had higher than average levels of telemerase, an enzyme that controls the stability of chromosome 'caps,' or telemeres, which are necessary for continuous cell reproduction.
We can entertain ourselves with the notion that the reports would produce these results if the tests were carried out on a vampire, but we live in a rational world and such things don't exist. But in the confused conspiratorial world of Terence Pearl such things do exist and his fate followed the traditional myth of a vampire being exposed to sunlight. The villagers of Westerfield are no more accomplices of Toten Herzen than are the police officers and unsuspecting hotel guests in Rotterdam who witnessed Pearl's bizarre death. Dutch police have confirmed that the event was not a hoax and
that a criminal investigation is still ongoing.
If Pearl's death has taught us anything it is that we can never be one hundred percent certain that science has found all the answers. Folklore has often muddied the waters around scientific explanations for natural phenomena, so maybe we should put aside our readings of Bram Stoker, Sheridan le Fanu, Byron and Montague Summers, forget our memories of Hammer Horror's portrayals of Dracula, the teenage adventures of Buffy and Twilight and the myriad interpretations of the vampire legend and ask, one more time, just to be absolutely clear: who are Toten Herzen?
WE ARE TOTEN HERZEN
AND FINALLY...
Thank you for reading We Are Toten Herzen. That's not just a platitude, it's a genuine thank you for investing the time and a bit of cash. I probably don't have to tell you it's not easy being an author in the 21st century and having my novel picked from the millions that are out there is gratifying.
Thank you.
Can I ask you for one more tiny favour (or two)? Leaving a quick review on a site of your choice would go a long way towards spreading the word, either for this book or for me. If you can find a few more minutes to leave an honest review I would be doubly grateful.
And if you enjoyed my storytelling and can't get enough of it (I'll pause here until you stop laughing) there are several options for you.
The TotenUniverse can be explored here at:
TotenUniverse.com
This is my ambition to create a new mythology around the rock band Toten Herzen and the Malandanti network of covens. You'll find more articles, features, interviews and short stories to fill the gaps between the novels and expand on the issues and episodes contained in the stories.
Don't forget, by signing up to the newsletter you'll get your free ebook The Excitement of Solitude...
FREE DOWNLOAD
To date there are three other novels in the TotenUniverse available and if you haven't already found them they're described in the following pages:
TOTEN HERZEN MALANDANTI
After the disastrous events in the previous novel 'We Are Toten Herzen,' the band are forced to count the costs and the repercussions of their comeback tour. The focus turns to the safety of the recording studio and their first album in forty years. Things can't get any worse.
But this is Toten Herzen, the dead rock band: murdered in 1977, discovered alive in 2013. Guitarist Susan Bekker wants to sing, antagonising lead singer Dee Vincent whose catastrophic interview in Hullaballoo magazine leads to a multi-million dollar lawsuit. Rob Wallet, the band's publicist, flirts with insanity when he isn't flirting with Lena, the seductive former terrorist and leader of a network of covens known as the Malandanti.
The story sets down amongst the isolated mountains of the English Lake District, with excursions to post-communist St. Petersburg and Bamberg in Germany, scene of the 17th century witch trials. Along the way the band are assaulted by an ever growing list of mysteries. Why has a Russian voice coach arrived uninvited at three in the morning? Why are the Malandanti searching for a book owned by Dee Vincent? What is Susan Bekker's Big Lie? And is the valley pictured in a 14th century painting the source and home of the first European vampires?
Blue hair, black magic, talking sheep, murderous bushes, necromancy, alchemy and leather-clad litigation. All captured on film by a deafening Dutch director in Toten Herzen Malandanti. Book two in the authorised account of the band's astonishing and some would say unbelievable comeback.
WHO AMONG US...
Disowned by her family and deranged by anger, Jennifer Enzo views the world as a demonic garden, a film script and a list of names to be assassinated. But when she finds her own name on the list she is forced out of her insular world to counter a sinister threat to her life.
Professor Virginia Bruck’s world is divided between her research in artificial intelligence and posing for her husband, the eccentric German artist Earnst Bruck. Suspected of being the source of a destructive rumour she decides to do what her semi-aristocratic family have never done throughout centuries of rumour, and fight back.
Frieda Schoenhofer, a self-made millionaire, is determined to explain the death of a local witch. Police are equally determined to explain a baffling double murder and Frieda becomes their first suspect after the body of a man is found hung above the north door of Bamberg Cathedral.
All three women share a common association: the Malandanti, a four hundred year old network of covens on the brink of collapse following rumours of a plot to kill the leading members. As the conflict intensifies and the familiar world disappears, they will be forced to reassess their own ambitions, confront the nature of guilt and innocence, and question how their beliefs explain the supernatural forces they each control.
THE ONE RULE OF MAGIC
Frieda Schoenhofer is dead, murdered in Rotterdam. For her grief-stricken parents the true story of their daughter's life is about to begin.
Her father, slowly demolishing the world around him, tries to eradicate painful memories by throwing out his lifelong collection of film memorabilia. Her mother is convinced Frieda has been reincarnated as a new born foal.
But Frieda isn't dead. She is travelling Europe hoping to rescue her father's discarded collection. A journey of redemption that takes her to Nice, Prague, Turin and Vienna, where she meets a crooked dealer in antique silverware, joins a funeral party full of mourners who can't stop laughing, falls in love with a beautiful marionette, and discovers a plan to destroy the legacy of Mozart.
The One Rule of Magic explores Frieda's attempts to make amends for the crimes of her old life, come to terms with what she has become, and prepare her parents for the bizarre truth surrounding their daughter's disappearance.
-
Thanks for your support and I hope you can continue on this bizarre literary journey with me.
C Harrison
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Share this book with friends
JarniHeijnkes - sounds bad. can see the pictures on the news. place looks like a battleground #totenherzenriot
Antonlagarde - WTF how did it come down to this?
Carlwallace15 - travelled from Nottingham. Still choking from all the smoke. never seen anything like it! #totenherzenriot bitsy.fr/cw15/2667
Dekuip2010 - they still got their shit, proud of our Rotterdam girl #susanbekker @totenherzen never die
RavensWish - theres nothing to be proud of
Dekuip2010 - fuck u @totenherzen rule the world, people get reminder of that 2nite
RavensWish - how old r u? You probably werent born when they were around. #FAKE
Dekuip2010 - old enough to know the truth @totenherzen take shit of no1 #susanbekker for queen of nederland
37 (November)
Raven turned off her phone for the first time since buying it a year ago. In the confusion of the riot she and several others had been bundled out of the building and no amount of pleading saw her bundled anywhere near her 'host' for the evening. Treated like any other hanger on, she was left powerless as the coach pulled away from the Ahoy. Any hope of turning her life around drove away with it. The point of her journey was gone and she was left to wander aimlessly, trying to find a patch of clean air in the sulphurous hate of the Rotterdam night. Around her was the blue light blinking and siren wailing evidence of a large police presence, and armoured men and women rounding up any groups who looked like they might have some fight still in them.
She could see the footbridge over the road and the route back to the city centre. There might still be trains back to the central station, but how safe would they be after everything, at this time of night. A deep, heavy unbearable sense of sadness and loneliness pulled her to the ground and she wept uncontrollably.
Then a hand on her shoulder made her jump. "I'm sorry," said a tall man leaning over her. "I saw you earlier, backstage. I wondered if you were all right." He didn't look like a regular Toten Herzen fan, but then what would that look like: flare in hand, troubled expression, blue hair, runny mascara.
"Yeah, I was. And I'm not all right. I'm fucking horrible."
The man knelt down beside her. According to her pass she was called Raven! "It's probably not safe for you to be here on your own now."
What was he saying? What was he up to? Where was this heading? One question after another swept the innocuous concern aside and replaced it with every terror imaginable. "No, I'm okay," she said springing to her feet. "You know what I'm gonna do?" The man shook his head. "I'm going over to their hotel and I'm gonna tell em what a bunch of fuckers they all are."
"You know where they're staying?"
"As a matter of fact I do, yeah. And she probably forgot she told me." Raven set off with a new plan. The guy was left alone to watch her go, mumbling and muttering. "You're not leaving me here like this, you fucking witch. You got me over here, you're gonna sort me out. Yeah, that's what you're gonna do. Sort me out." She turned her phone back on and as she walked through what was left of the event, suspicious police officers, a stray fire engine, several ambulances and shell shocked fans watching nothing particularly interesting, she found the hotel's website. The Rotterdam Crown Hotel. "Five stars, you rich bastards." It was on the other side of the city according the map. "You better still be there when I get there."
-
By the time Raven arrived at reception she was limping heavily. The time was coming up to four o'clock in the morning and only anger and adrenaline were keeping her awake. The night manager, alone in his spacious empty world, wondered who, or what, was wandering into his hotel at this time. Raven was a left over from the evening's 'events' at the Ahoy. Fodder for hotel security, the trouble was crossing their threshold now.
"I want to speak to Susan Bekker, please."
"Is she expecting you?" said the night manager positioning himself firmly against the reception desk away from the telephone.
"Yeah she is. She invited me backstage at the Ahoy and then left me there when they all came back here and I want an explanation why she would do that." She started filling up. "After everything we talked about why did she fucking leave me there?"
The night manager must have been softened by loneliness. "Who shall I say is asking for her?"
Raven wiped her eyes dry. "Tell her . . . Barbara!"
He made the call. Raven waited. "Hello, sorry to trouble you at this time. There is a young lady in reception called Barbara asking to see Susan." He covered the mouthpiece and turned. "Are you also called Raven?" Raven nodded. "Yes." He looked at her again. "Blue hair, yes. Okay, thank you." He put the receiver down. "Someone will come down to see you in a moment. You can take a seat here if you like."
"Thank you." She turned down an offer of tea even though she had a raging thirst. Before she had time to wince at the pain in her feet, the lift door opened and Susan was standing there beckoning Raven to join her. Forgetting the pain, she limped over and as soon as the doors closed grabbed Susan and poured her heart out.
"You bitch, you left me there in all that. . . ."
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It was chaotic, we were pushed around and on the coach and then a fight broke out and everything was, I don't know, all over the place."
Raven saw for the first time heavy bruising all over Susan's throat and shoulders. She had four red lines running down the left side of her face. "What happened?"
"I looked worse a few hours ago. Everything's healing. Dee and I had a bit of a disagreement, but we're all cool now." Susan led Raven out of the elevator and along a rich golden atrium flanked by vivid orange doors. "I'm gonna make it up to you." She put a cold arm around Raven's shoulders and led her into a room. Now at last Raven felt safe.
Susan's room was quiet. Modern. A million miles from vampiric. None of the gothic flourishes she was expecting, but she should have known that from the start. Susan Bekker, in her own words, was no whining teenager. She wasn't the stuff of fiction or films. She was real, and real vampires stayed in real hotel rooms and lived in real houses, slept in real beds . . . Susan's hadn't been slept in, but a suitcase was open with clothes spilling out of it. That looked familiar, that looked almost homely. A tablet was lying on a coffee table. Susan picked it up and looked at her digital reflection. "These marks should be gone in an hour."
"Is that a mirror?" asked Raven.
"Yeah, clever isn't it. It's the webcam, then I flip the image and voilà."
Raven processed part of the explanation, but her feet were hurting so much she only wanted to get her boots off and sit in a bowl of hot water. Susan opened the mini fridge and took out a bottle of cola. "You can gulp this down first and then you can have something stronger if you want."
"What are you going to do?"
Susan sat next to her on the edge of the bed. "I'm not sure. I'm still not sure you're ready to change, so the deal is you spend some time with us until your mind's made up. We've still got a lot to do, you can be part of the team. We'll work out what you can do; personal assistant, I don't know. I can't think of anything right now. We'll see how it goes. I'm making no promises, but if you still want to change and I think you can handle it, then we'll see what happens."
"When you say change. . . ." She couldn't bring herself to say the word. The V word. Sitting so close to Susan she could smell the coldness of her skin, see the veins in her eyes and delicate bulge over her canine teeth, the chill was radiant, cooling the air between them. In the tranquillity of the room, so distant now from the night's chaos, the promise of change was not the casual desire it had once been; it wasn't the adventure she was expecting. It was a long, one way journey, an agreement that could never be cancelled.
"It's what you still want isn't it?"
"Yeah. Yeah it is."
"Okay. Look, you must be exhausted. I don't need the bed tonight so get comfortable here. Take a shower. Take as long as you want. There's a sl
-
Wallet was at the entrance to the hotel when a tall bloke pushed past him. The quality of guest must diminish as sunrise approaches. He watched him pace towards the night manager, head down, square shouldered. Fucking hell . . . it was Patrick Wells! He must have followed Raven across the city. Wallet was about to play hero and grab him from behind, he had the strength these days to take down the big ones, but then an inner voice told him to hang back, wait to see how Wells was going to play this.
"Hello, I'm sorry to trouble you, but I believe my daughter is here. She's running after this rock band and her name is Raven." Wells hadn't recognised Wallet. He turned to look back just as Wallet was about to go up to Susan.
"Can you describe her, sir?" said the night manager.
"Five feet five, dressed in black, black leather jacket, black jeans, black lace up boots, blue hair. She told me she was coming here to meet the band. Has she been here?"
"Yes. A young woman of that description arrived earlier. May I ask who's calling?"
He paused. "John Waters," he said firmly.
The night manager glanced over to Wallet just as he vanished. God knows what he must have seen at that moment!
Wallet appeared in Susan's room, making her jump. Raven was asleep in the bed. There was no time to ask. "Two things: Patrick Wells is downstairs."
"You're fucking joking."
"I never joke, Susan, you should know that by now."
"And?"
"And I think the night manager might have seen me vanishing when I came up here."
She sighed. "Go back to your room, I'll deal with it. Just like I deal with everything else you mess up."
Wallet's phone was ringing in his room. It was the night manager.
"Hello again, Rob."
"Hi. How are you?"
"Fine thank you, never been so busy. There is a Mr Waters in reception to collect his daughter. Raven Waters?"
"Right. I think Susan Bekker might be going down to meet him."
"Okay, I'll tell him. Thanks Rob."
"No problem. Must be quite a weird night. Bet you see all sorts of things on this rota." Wallet laughed.
"I've seen everything, Rob. Or I thought I had." He put the phone down.
"Bollocks."
Susan was outside, marching down the corridor with Terence Pearl. Wallet had to join them. This was as much his cock up as anyone's. In fact, it was exclusively his cock up. One of his better examples. Susan didn't object to him joining her and Pearl in the lift. "Why we going down in the lift?" Wallet asked.
Susan glared at him. "Why do you think?"
The lift doors opened and they saw Wells sitting in a deep chair studying the night manager who turned away as the three oddballs from the second floor stepped out into reception. Wells gathered himself and nervously stood up. "Is there somewhere quiet we can sit?" Wallet asked the night manager who looked confused. Everywhere was quiet at this time in the morning.
"The restaurant, please feel free. It isn't open, but you can talk there. Would you like a taxi or will you find your own way there?"
"We'll walk." Wallet blushed. Susan and Pearl headed towards the restaurant with Wells several paces behind them.
"Right, this is it. The moment of truth," said Susan, "What's the game?"
"Game?" Wells was growing in confidence: the confidence of a man who was finally facing his target, the confidence of a man who was going all the way. "What game? I'm not playing a game. Where's the rest of you?"
"They'll be here in a minute," said Susan. "Who are you?"
"Look at me. Look at me and you'll soon figure out who I am."
"You look like Pete, but I know it can't be him."
"Pete, oh it's Pete. Pete! The same Pete who you murdered in 1973, the same Pete you hid from his relatives, the same Pete who you mocked on your album cover in 1974, the same Pete whose family you destroyed."
"It isn't like that, Patrick," said Pearl.
"Patrick," said Susan. "So which side of the family are you from?"
"Peter was my uncle. His sister is my mother and she has been bereft for forty years because of you."
"We didn't kill Pete. We don't know what happened to him, but we didn't kill him."
"I don't believe you."
"It's pretty obvious you don't believe us."
"You're lying now like you've lied for the past forty years."
"Patrick," Susan took one step forward, "we saw him alive and he was drunk, Micky Redwall took him home and we never saw him again. We don't know what happened. We've tried to find out, but after all this time it's next to impossible."
Wells would have to wait. Without the band here he'd only get half the job done. There might be time to pacify him and salvage some miserable conclusion to this whole desperate episode. No one would emerge from this with any valour, but there was a chance if Wells didn't try anything stupid that some kind of closure, no matter how minuscule, might be possible. But he was already hyped up from confrontation and lack of sleep. He wasn't acting like a man ready to back down.
"I'm not prepared to listen to any more of this. You've had forty years to apologise, forty years to offer an explanation, forty years," he was raising his voice now, "to show some kind of regret, offer some mark of respect. Offer to meet his parents, offer to put yourselves at their mercy, but you've never done that and why? Because you don't care."
"We didn't care," said Susan. "Back then we didn't care, we didn't care about anything, but now we do and we are trying to find out what happened, and we will meet Pete's family, but Patrick I'm not lying anymore."
"Yes, you are."
The night manager appeared. "Is everything okay?" Wallet reassured him, but he probably wasn't the best person to put the night manager at ease. Not after, well. . . .
"I'm not lying Patrick," said Susan, "Terence, can you explain to him?"
Pearl offered to speak, but Wells shut him up. "I'm not listening to him. He's a bloody idiot."
"What?"
"I'm sorry Terence," Wells continued, "but I told you to call it a day. You got me this far. I'm grateful, but I'm not going to listen to someone who is here, in a hotel, with this lot. How much are they paying you?"
"They're not paying me, I listened to them. I listened to Rob, he was convincing and you should listen to him to."
"Wells turned to Wallet. "Who the hell are you anyway? This has nothing to do with you."
"Susan asked me to find out what happened to Peter. I've spent months trying to get to the bottom of this and Terence here has been helping me."
"Months!" Wells turned to Pearl. "You were supposed to be helping me. You were helping me!"
"And I did. You're here now, Patrick. If you let them, they can help you."
Wells was drying up, running out of options, running out of time. "Where are the others?" he demanded. He didn't want help, didn't want a resolution; a hug and a handshake and we'll get back to you. He wasn't being brushed off like one of their fans.
"They're not here," said Susan.
Wells put his hand in his inside pocket and took out a pistol. "Where are the others?" he said slowly taking the safety catch off.
Wallet could see Wells knew his way around a gun, but beyond that the world still had a few mysteries. Who, or rather what, was standing in front of him? Susan glanced at the gun. "Go ahead, get yourself into trouble for all this. Create another tragedy for your family."
"Susan," Wallet warned.
"No, you want to shoot me, if that makes you feel better, if that's your solution, shoot me."
And he did. The gun f
But she didn't. Wells looked at his gun and at Susan. He tried again and missed! He was shaking violently now, but she gave him enough time to take a third shot, which hit her in the shoulder. And still she didn't move. Susan simply stood and smiled as one bullet hole after another appeared, effortlessly, ineffectively, until Wells had almost emptied the gun's magazine. Gasping for breath, he readied himself one last time hoping this would be the killer shot and that her refusal to drop was some kind of stiffened euphoric pause, one final beatific smile before death, but before he could fire Pearl launched himself forward.
The two men went over a table backwards as Pearl sank his teeth into Wells' exposed neck. The night manager had already come running and, frozen with shock at the sight of Susan taking one bullet after another with no effect, he now had one man on his back being bitten by a second. Wallet and Susan pulled Pearl away as he tried to apologise to his victim. "You're wrong, Patrick, you are wrong." He pulled himself free and ran towards a staffroom door.
"What the fuck has he just done?" said Wallet as he checked Wells' pulse. It was weak and he was losing too much blood. "He's gonna be dead any minute," he said to Susan whose bullet wounds were already congealing and fading.
"Where's Pearl gone?" She ran to the door of the staffroom, but it was locked. "Terence," she banged on it.
Wallet rushed to reception, but the night manager had beaten him to it, propelled by a state of high alarm. The police had been called and he was now demanding an ambulance. "A man with a single throat wound," he waited for Wallet's description, but he was shaking his head. "It may be fatal."
Back in the restaurant Wells' fate was beyond doubt. He lay across the table with his eyes bulging open. The blood, still eager to take advantage of its premature release, was spreading out over the floor. "Pearl still locked away?"
Susan nodded. "I don't want to kick the door in. He's had enough shocks already." The night manager came back, almost stepping in the blood. "You need to cover this up," Susan said, "and make sure no one comes down and sees it." The night manager paused. "Please." Off he went.
Wallet thought about ripping down a curtain, but he could see the intensity of the darkness was giving way to morning. They only had one or two hours to sort this out and get back to their rooms. Susan knew what he was thinking.
"This is a mess," she said.
Wallet disagreed. "Typical day in the life of Toten Herzen, Susan. One riot, one manager mauled, a stray fan, a murder victim and a vampire locked in a staffroom. It's like a Whitehall farce."
"Trust you not to take it seriously."
"I don't take anything seriously anymore," said Wallet. "Life's too fucking short for that."
-
The first police officers to arrive did Wallet and Susan a favour by ordering them back up to their rooms until the drama was over, but the drama was only just beginning. Wallet wasn't aware of the niceties of Dutch policing, but Susan, standing in the atrium corridor listening to the increasing chaos down below knew the situation was turning critical. Turning red. Wallet listened carefully as she explained the Regional Constabulary had been replaced by the National Constabulary and that even they, with all their gung ho responsibilities, had now been turfed out by the Royal Military Police.
"Military Police?"
"They're not treating this like a normal killing. Not if that lot have turned up."
"What's so special about them?" Wallet hadn't seen this kind of concern on Susan's face. So often she was the calm in the storm. She was usually the calm and the storm, but her senses now were at the razor's edge. This didn't feel right.
"International crime, terrorism, riot, national security shit. Not localised murders. Not timid killers like Terence Pearl."
-
By seven thirty and with sunlight pouring into the hotel, Terence Pearl was still locked in a staff room refusing to emerge. The officer given the task of enticing him out didn't want anymore victims and was hoping for a negotiated end to the crisis. The night manager was gone, taken away as a witness with an account he wasn't sure he believed himself.
The sound of a lock turning alerted the waiting officer. A message went to the armed unit sitting around outside the hotel entrance. Pearl crawled out of the staff room. "Mr Pearl," the officer checked to see if Pearl was armed. He wasn't, but he was distressed, shaking and looking for help.
"Vengeance is a gift from the Lord Jesus Christ. We are his followers, we are duty bound to uphold his ministry and strike forth the demons that crawl upon the earth and prey upon God's children."
"Okay, Mr Pearl." The officer was calm, kept his hands in front of him and did nothing as Pearl slowly crawled towards him. No one moved, the other officers entering the reception area slowed to a halt. An expectant chill enveloped everyone standing there as Pearl inched past an enormous puddle of blood covering an area ringed by police security tape. He squinted as the light level in reception increased. "I want you to come with us, Mr Pearl," said the officer carefully. "Please stand up and put your hands where I can see them."
Pearl followed the instruction and rose awkwardly, hands hanging by his side, head bowed. His body was a walking dead weight, moving on autopilot, but still capable of a sudden and violent reaction.
"Vengeance is a gift from the Lord Jesus Christ. We are his followers, we are duty bound to uphold his ministry and strike forth the demons that crawl upon the earth and prey upon God's children."
"You just told us that, Mr Pearl," said the officer patiently.
Without pause for breath Terence Pearl was led away from the bar and through the reception area of the Rotterdam Crown Hotel. Two more officers gently held on to both arms as Pearl offered little resistance.
Once outside, the commanding officer became aware of his audience. Every hotel window had a face, or two faces, all transfixed by the fleet of police vehicles and the small army of armed officers filling the grounds of the hotel all the way to the entrance where a second fleet of vehicles contained the eyes and ears of the world's media. All he wanted, all he needed, was to get Pearl into a van and get him away.
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"What's happening now," said Susan staying a safe distance from the sunlit glass. She had decided to keep the television turned off following the unremitting coverage of the concert and the obligatory blame game and who did what and why. Everyone was an expert in crowd control; everyone was an expert in concert management; everyone was an expert on Toten Herzen. Raven was peeking through a tiny gap in the curtains.
"It looks like they're getting ready for something. They've brought him out and they're opening the back door of that police van."
"Wonder what'll happen to him. You can't call him a criminal for what he's done." Susan played with the security tabard from the Ahoy. "Oh fuck, what a mess."
"Can't you help him?" said Raven. "Pay for his lawyers or something?"
"Maybe. We'll have to do something. We can't abandon another one. Or we could bury him next to Peter Miles. We could build our own graveyard just for our victims. Peter Miles, Patrick Wells. Fucking hell, it would go on forever."
Raven looked back at Susan. "It's not that bad, is it? Oh hang on, there’s something happening."
-
The officers had formed a protective bunch around their suspect, carefully guiding him through the revolving doors of the hotel, but Pearl was agitating as he walked towards the police van. He started squirming in the keen morning sunlight that hit his face like the slap of a hand. He started crying out, pleading for the officers to get him out of the sun. The
Panic had seized the commanding officer as Pearl writhed in unapproachable pain. The walkie talkies were overcome with static interference. Car alarms awoke in a deafening chorus of noise and mobile phone signals disappeared everywhere. In the middle of a growing panic and cacophony Pearl was now beyond help, such was the oven-like heat radiating off him; no one could get near. Officers scattered as the volcanic atmosphere pulsed towards them, singeing faces, beards, eyebrows. The commanding officer made a desperate attempt to grab Pearl and pull him towards the van, but the heat was eating into its victim and Pearl was doubling at the knees, buckling under the immensity of an invisible inferno consuming him. Few wanted to look, but no one could take their eyes off the spectacle of this unassuming man disappearing in front of them, blackening, carbonising; flakes of ash separating and drifting around his body that was becoming a formless lump, disintegrating, steaming multicoloured vapours and flashing sparks of intense light. His body popped and bubbled before finally collapsing into a dry desiccated pile of cinders that left a spreading black smear and a thin veil of dark mist.
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Raven jumped back from the window with her hands over her eyes. "Fuck."
"Speak to me," said Susan. "I can smell burning, human flesh burning. What's just happened?"
Raven couldn't answer. "That nearly burned my fucking eyeballs out." She turned away from the window and let her astonished expression tell the rest of the story. She ran to the bathroom and was violently sick.
What had Wallet done? What plan had he followed to win Pearl's co-operation? Turning a man to get him to talk, turning a man for a brief period of inside knowledge and then leaving him to his fate without warning anyone. Why didn't he say, why didn't he involve the others so that they knew, so that they could deal with the risks? Another victim, another death to explain, another name in the Toten Herzen book of remembrance. The graveyard was growing again.
The hotel was bustling with activity as guests emerged from their rooms. The noise was hysterical; hotel staff could be heard running around trying to deal with an emergency that wasn't in any training manual. Outside police vehicles were moving, but where could they go other than back to base? They no longer had a suspect to escort, no killer to apprehend, the laws of a higher nature had dealt with the case; judge and jury, a sentence of death with no appeal.
Susan looked in on Raven who was slumped next to the toilet, spitting and gasping for air. "I need to go and talk to the others. I'll be back as soon as I can okay?" Raven nodded. "Do not leave this room." She nodded again.
Out on the atrium landing there were suspicious glances, the noise dropped to a whisper, people hid away, slipped back into their room, staff turned to their emergency rotas and printed instructions. Inside Wallet's room the band sat silently. They had the aroma of tragedy in their nostrils and the sounds of disbelief ringing in their ears.
Susan squatted in front of Wallet. "Do you know what you've done?"
"I started having suspicions this morning."
"What does that mean? I haven't been able to look, but I think we're all aware of what just happened. Why did you turn him? Why didn't you tell us?" Her voice was rising to an alarming pitch. "You just killed an innocent man?"
"Me? What do you mean I just killed him?" Wallet could see the same accusation on the faces of Dee, Elaine and Rene.
"You turned Terence Pearl and you didn't say anything."
Wallet paused to make sure he heard her right. "I turned him?" He looked at Dee and then back at Susan. "I always thought one of you did it."
"One of us?" The confusion passed to Susan.
"It wasn't me," said Dee.
Elaine and Rene assured Susan it was neither of them.
"Susan, you can call me anything you like, call me an idiot, a bullshitter, incompetent, useless, but I didn't turn Terence Pearl."
An explanation wasn't in this room, or this hotel, or Rotterdam, or Holland, or anywhere Susan could think of. Her mind raced back in time to 1973 and every point of interest between then and now, but nothing, no clues, no insight, no tell tale sign or coincidental name, no familiar face, or suspicious happenings. Just a blur, a void, an opaque wall. She met Pearl in Ipswich, scared the life out of him, questioned him, reassured him that they didn't kill Peter Miles. Then he was left with Wallet and Wallet did the rest. Charmed him, plagued him, followed him, tempted him, finally won his trust and then . . . turned him? No, he didn't turn him, didn't touch him, never laid a finger on the man and Susan believed him. Wells didn't know: about Pearl, about her, about any one of them, otherwise he would have showed up with something more effective than an automatic pistol. How could he not know? How could Patrick Wells be so consumed with a fury and yet be so ignorant of who was tormenting him?
"He was so slow in coming forward and telling me what I wanted to know," said Wallet, "I wasn't sure until the concert he was on our side. I still wasn't a hundred per cent certain until this morning which way he was gonna go. So what do we do now?"
"I need to go back to Raven, she's not feeling so good."
"Did she see what happened?" Rene asked.
"Yeah. Everything. The whole disgusting business."
Wallet plugged his eyes with his fists.
"Well," said Elaine, slouching back into her chair, "that was quite a comeback. And we haven't played a note yet."
Dee turned to Wallet. "You still think all this is liberating?"
Daily Mail
Calls For Toten Herzen To Be Banned
Conservative MP demands the band's second concert planned for the UK be halted
The Conservative MP for Bromsgrove and Kidderminster, Dianne Varly, 51, has urged the government to ban the rock band Toten Herzen from going ahead with their second comeback concert, planned for the East Midlands Arena in six days time.
The concert which has already sold out could see a repeat of the rioting following the band's opening show at the Ahoy Arena in Rotterdam last night. Fighting broke out amongst the seventeen thousand concert goers even before the band had taken to the stage. Riot police eventually restored order after at least ninety fans had been taken to hospital suffering a range of injuries from serious burns to cuts and bruises.
Traffic on the S103, a major road through Rotterdam, was later held up by further fighting which broke out on a coach carrying band members back to their hotel. Band Manager, Tom Scavinio, was later treated in hospital for serious injuries sustained in the scuffle.
Mrs Varly, who managed to hold onto her seat after this year's boundary changes to local constituencies, believes the band don't do enough to discourage their fans from this kind of trouble. "Their reputation has followed them all the way from the 1970s and we're seeing it again. No doubt the fans at the British leg of the tour will want to outdo their Dutch counterparts and we can't allow that to happen."
A spokesman for the East Midlands Arena, which has a capacity of eighteen thousand, told the Mail that extra security precautions had been arranged following the events at the Ahoy, and the concert was still planned to go ahead as scheduled. Doubts about further dates in Germany, Austria and Hungary before finishing in Geneva, Switzerland, later this month, have been raised.
The Times
Twelve Hours of Mayhem
Internet blogger Terence Pearl victim of 'spontaneous human combustion' outside Rotterdam hotel
The signs were not good as soon as fans began to arrive at the Ahoy Arena in Rotterdam for Toten Herzen's comeback concert. Eye witnesses reported a fractious atmosphere as groups from all over Holland and as far afield as T
Inside, one hour before the band were due to go on stage, a fan from Belgium was hit by a flare thrown from a section of the crowd and momentarily set alight. The resulting confrontation left eighty six injured, two of them seriously. Police, some in riot gear, took thirty minutes to restore order, but by then the arena had emptied and the show's organisers had no option but to cancel the concert.
A British fan, Brian Hewson, who had travelled from Brighton described the atmosphere as the most aggressive he had ever encountered at a rock concert. "I think the band's reputation had everyone on pins. They were like coiled springs waiting to go. There was none of the good natured banter I've come across at other concerts." Hewson, who had travelled with his girlfriend and paid a total of seventy pounds for two tickets, was still hoping the concert would be rescheduled. "We still want to see them. We're just old enough to remember them the first time round, but we were too young back then to be allowed to go to any of the gigs."
But not everyone was blaming the band. A spokesman for the Ahoy Arena, Adrian Lokeren, told The Times the band were concerned about potential trouble and were hoping to break away from the problems that had plagued them in the 1970s. "We had a lot of meetings with the band's management, label and tour organisers and time and time again they were concerned about preventing trouble. On the night security confiscated a lot of stuff, but obviously some people still managed to smuggle flares into the hall." Lokeren denied that in spite of the concerns security levels were inadequate. "There has never been trouble on this scale before at Ahoy. You can never count it out, but we're satisfied that we were prepared."
As if the events at the arena weren't bad enough, traffic on one of Rotterdam's busiest roads, the S103, was held up for fifteen minutes when a coach taking the band back to their hotel was forced to stop after fighting broke out amongst band members. Unconfirmed reports said that one or more passengers fell through the open door of the coach onto the carriageway, but this was denied by the band's publicist. The coach did make an unscheduled detour to Rotterdam's Erasmus medical centre to allow the band's manager, Tom Scavinio, to receive treatment for serious lacerations to the face. He left the hospital several hours later without making a statement to the waiting press.
However, the most harrowing episode of an already event filled night was the death of Terence Pearl, the internet blogger and writer who had been following the band for several months, and the murder of Patrick Wells, a forty year old relative of Peter Miles, the musician associated with the band in their early days, who went missing in 1973. Wells was attacked by Pearl in the restaurant of the Rotterdam Crown Hotel where the band were staying. Officers called in from the specialist Royal Military Police arrested Pearl, but he died as he was being led away as a result of what one eyewitness described as spontaneous human combustion.
Callum Morgenstein, a businessman from Tampa, Florida, who was in the hotel at the time of the incident said he still cannot believe what happened. "The police were escorting this guy away then suddenly let go of him. There were no flames, but the heat must have been intense because you could see the police trying to shield themselves from it. I could feel it through the window and I was two storeys up. The guy just blackened and broke up and within a minute there was nothing left of him." Guests of the hotel appear to have posted harrowing smartphone videos onto Youtube, some of which show Pearl appearing to disintegrate in front of shocked police officers.
The Crown Hotel later confirmed that Pearl had been arrested for the murder of Patrick Wells, but refused to give any further details. It is understood the band are no longer staying there and their whereabouts is unknown.
Daily Mirror
Did Your Advent Calendar Go Up In Smoke?
Whilst we predicted, successfully, that Toten Herzen's reunion tour wouldn't pass off without incident even we were taken by surprise by the events at the band's hotel in Rotterdam following the riot-torn no show at the Ahoy Arena the previous evening. So, if you can provide evidence, preferably video, of your Toten Herzen Black Advent Calendar spontaneously combusting, we will offer you a month's free subscription to the Daily Mirror.
Upload your video to Youtube and we'll get back to anyone who we believe has witnessed yet another appalling Toten Herzen hoax.
Guardian Comment - Andrew Rice
Was Terence Pearl Right all along?
Forget the riot. Forget the coach fight and the injuries to Tom Scavinio. Forget the murder of Patrick Wells, a relative of proto-band member Peter Miles. Terrible as they are, the real story is not to be found there. Forget the predictable told-you-so press reaction and knee jerk responses from publicity starved MPs. There is absolutely no story there.
Consider, instead, some of the writings of the internet blogger Terence Pearl, whose immolation outside the Rotterdam Crown Hotel, was described by one eye witness account as spontaneous human combustion. Whilst many of his ideas were fanciful Pearl was probably the last person on earth to take them seriously. Described by residents of Westerfield, the small village outside Ipswich where Pearl lived, as a vain attention seeking man, Pearl was adept at doing what many internet bloggers crave: provoking thought and reaction.
His wild ideas became part of a culture of conspiracy theory that has plagued Toten Herzen since their formation in 1973. The band's image, concocted and exploited by their scrap dealing manager Micky Redwall, was centred around the band's rumoured reputation for vampiric behaviour and exacerbated by The Dead Heart Weeps, a novel written in 1977 by Gothic author Jonathan Knight. For many this way of life was all part of the big rock and roll cliche that extreme behaviour sells records and concert tickets, along with newspapers and magazines.
But in the cold light of day let us spend a moment to reassure ourselves that this 'veneer of decay,' as Clarke Delorean of Rolling Stone magazine attributed to Toten Herzen way back in 1977, has no substance in reality.
Apart from the stupidity, why would four apparently healthy young people sleep in a tomb in Highgate Cemetery? Did their manager Micky Redwall really die after being savaged by his own guard dogs? How would the band's alleged killer Lenny Harper die at the hands of a sword wielding murderer in southern Germany earlier this year? And the ever present question of the disappearance of Peter Miles is an all too real tragedy. The stories so far all have one common link: the victims are potential players in a series of publicity stunts, none of whom are here to own up.
However, none of that explains the fates of Sony and Terence Pearl, neither of whom can remotely be considered willing participants in Toten Herzen's grand plan. Much has been said of the tragedies that occurred in Boston, New York and Washington, but little attention has been given to a medical report commissioned by Sony for insurance purposes prior to the band signing a deal. (A deal which ultimately never materialised.) A copy of the report seen by this newspaper, and I should add the Guardian is not a willing accomplice either, contained evidence of unusual physical properties relating to eyesight, hearing, cardio-vascular abnormalities and cholesterol levels never seen before by the laboratory conducting the medical checks. A later genetic report, commissioned in secret by the band's manager, Tom Scavinio, suggested that the four members of the band had higher than average levels of telemerase, an enzyme that controls the stability of chromosome 'caps,' or telemeres, which are necessary for continuous cell reproduction.
We can entertain ourselves with the notion that the reports would produce these results if the tests were carried out on a vampire, but we live in a rational world and such things don't exist. But in the confused conspiratorial world of Terence Pearl such things do exist and his fate followed the traditional myth of a vampire being exposed to sunlight. The villagers of Westerfield are no more accomplices of Toten Herzen than are the police officers and unsuspecting hotel guests in Rotterdam who witnessed Pearl's bizarre death. Dutch police have confirmed that the event was not a hoax and
If Pearl's death has taught us anything it is that we can never be one hundred percent certain that science has found all the answers. Folklore has often muddied the waters around scientific explanations for natural phenomena, so maybe we should put aside our readings of Bram Stoker, Sheridan le Fanu, Byron and Montague Summers, forget our memories of Hammer Horror's portrayals of Dracula, the teenage adventures of Buffy and Twilight and the myriad interpretations of the vampire legend and ask, one more time, just to be absolutely clear: who are Toten Herzen?
WE ARE TOTEN HERZEN
AND FINALLY...
Thank you for reading We Are Toten Herzen. That's not just a platitude, it's a genuine thank you for investing the time and a bit of cash. I probably don't have to tell you it's not easy being an author in the 21st century and having my novel picked from the millions that are out there is gratifying.
Thank you.
Can I ask you for one more tiny favour (or two)? Leaving a quick review on a site of your choice would go a long way towards spreading the word, either for this book or for me. If you can find a few more minutes to leave an honest review I would be doubly grateful.
And if you enjoyed my storytelling and can't get enough of it (I'll pause here until you stop laughing) there are several options for you.
The TotenUniverse can be explored here at:
TotenUniverse.com
This is my ambition to create a new mythology around the rock band Toten Herzen and the Malandanti network of covens. You'll find more articles, features, interviews and short stories to fill the gaps between the novels and expand on the issues and episodes contained in the stories.
Don't forget, by signing up to the newsletter you'll get your free ebook The Excitement of Solitude...
FREE DOWNLOAD
To date there are three other novels in the TotenUniverse available and if you haven't already found them they're described in the following pages:
TOTEN HERZEN MALANDANTI
After the disastrous events in the previous novel 'We Are Toten Herzen,' the band are forced to count the costs and the repercussions of their comeback tour. The focus turns to the safety of the recording studio and their first album in forty years. Things can't get any worse.
But this is Toten Herzen, the dead rock band: murdered in 1977, discovered alive in 2013. Guitarist Susan Bekker wants to sing, antagonising lead singer Dee Vincent whose catastrophic interview in Hullaballoo magazine leads to a multi-million dollar lawsuit. Rob Wallet, the band's publicist, flirts with insanity when he isn't flirting with Lena, the seductive former terrorist and leader of a network of covens known as the Malandanti.
The story sets down amongst the isolated mountains of the English Lake District, with excursions to post-communist St. Petersburg and Bamberg in Germany, scene of the 17th century witch trials. Along the way the band are assaulted by an ever growing list of mysteries. Why has a Russian voice coach arrived uninvited at three in the morning? Why are the Malandanti searching for a book owned by Dee Vincent? What is Susan Bekker's Big Lie? And is the valley pictured in a 14th century painting the source and home of the first European vampires?
Blue hair, black magic, talking sheep, murderous bushes, necromancy, alchemy and leather-clad litigation. All captured on film by a deafening Dutch director in Toten Herzen Malandanti. Book two in the authorised account of the band's astonishing and some would say unbelievable comeback.
WHO AMONG US...
Disowned by her family and deranged by anger, Jennifer Enzo views the world as a demonic garden, a film script and a list of names to be assassinated. But when she finds her own name on the list she is forced out of her insular world to counter a sinister threat to her life.
Professor Virginia Bruck’s world is divided between her research in artificial intelligence and posing for her husband, the eccentric German artist Earnst Bruck. Suspected of being the source of a destructive rumour she decides to do what her semi-aristocratic family have never done throughout centuries of rumour, and fight back.
Frieda Schoenhofer, a self-made millionaire, is determined to explain the death of a local witch. Police are equally determined to explain a baffling double murder and Frieda becomes their first suspect after the body of a man is found hung above the north door of Bamberg Cathedral.
All three women share a common association: the Malandanti, a four hundred year old network of covens on the brink of collapse following rumours of a plot to kill the leading members. As the conflict intensifies and the familiar world disappears, they will be forced to reassess their own ambitions, confront the nature of guilt and innocence, and question how their beliefs explain the supernatural forces they each control.
THE ONE RULE OF MAGIC
Frieda Schoenhofer is dead, murdered in Rotterdam. For her grief-stricken parents the true story of their daughter's life is about to begin.
Her father, slowly demolishing the world around him, tries to eradicate painful memories by throwing out his lifelong collection of film memorabilia. Her mother is convinced Frieda has been reincarnated as a new born foal.
But Frieda isn't dead. She is travelling Europe hoping to rescue her father's discarded collection. A journey of redemption that takes her to Nice, Prague, Turin and Vienna, where she meets a crooked dealer in antique silverware, joins a funeral party full of mourners who can't stop laughing, falls in love with a beautiful marionette, and discovers a plan to destroy the legacy of Mozart.
The One Rule of Magic explores Frieda's attempts to make amends for the crimes of her old life, come to terms with what she has become, and prepare her parents for the bizarre truth surrounding their daughter's disappearance.
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Thanks for your support and I hope you can continue on this bizarre literary journey with me.
C Harrison