WONDERLAND

Mark Chadbourn

First published in England in 2003 by

Telos Publishing Ltd

61 Elgar Avenue, Tolworth, Surrey KT5 9JP, England

www.telos.co.uk

ISBN: 1-903889-14-6 (standard hardback)

Wonderland © 2003 Mark Chadbourn

Foreword © 2003 Graham Joyce

Icon © 2003 Nathan Skreslet

ISBN: 1-903889-15-4 (deluxe hardback)

Wonderland © 2003 Mark Chadbourn

Foreword © 2003 Graham Joyce

Icon © 2003 Nathan Skreslet

Frontispiece © 2003 Dominic Harman

The moral rights of the author have been asserted

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Foreword by Graham Joyce

The first literary debate I ever engaged in was a playground discussion

about a television programme that had set all the kids on fire. Five or six

children stood in a circle, bug-eyed as they reported what they’d seen on

Saturday afternoon. It was an episode of Doctor Who, the first to have

featured the Daleks. Black and white television which had a full

Technicolor effect on the mind. It was all so new and so stunningly

original, and it came with an eerie glow, some gas or ectoplasm that

released itself from the cathode-ray tube every time the Doctor Who

theme tune came on. Or maybe that was just the valves overheating.

Yes, valves: I pity the later generations of kids denied the numinous

pleasure of peering through the cardboard slats into the back of their TV

set to see tiny bulb filaments lighting or dimming slowly like rows of

eyes. Whatever it was, I could smell Doctor Who when it was on.

It was the smell of awe.

It was the beginning of the 1960s, and although science fiction wasn’t

invented in the 1960s, television-series science fiction pretty much was.

Here’s a premise to open up the synapses, kiddies: a man gets in a box

that is bigger on the inside than it is on the outside. As well as being one

of the incredible feats presented in Doctor Who, it’s also what television

is. Get used to it, because it will become commonplace, a compulsion

even. It worked like a drug.

Doctor Who was, along with the Beatles’ early music, an indication of

what kind of decade we might be in for. And at that time our time-

travelling Doctor was crossing the Atlantic as effortlessly as the Beatles.

If you’d pitched up in the psychedelic playground that was Haight-

Ashbury in the summer of 1967 you would have been equally at home

conversing about Doctor Who as you would have been talking about

John, Paul, George and Ringo. In Haight-Ashbury, a generation of

young people were feeding their heads. There was this other box of inner

space, larger on the inside than it seemed on the outside, and the door to

this alternative TARDIS was opened by a chemical key.

A Doctor Who story set against a backdrop of free love and drug-taking

is a potent cocktail. In the hands of a lesser writer it might not have

worked. But told by master story-teller Mark Chadbourn it is explosive.

While to some it may appear controversial to mix the two things, to me

it seems perfectly logical. The Doctor would have moved through

Haight-Ashbury quite enjoying the air of experiment and head-tripping,

floating slightly above the frantic hedonism of the times, perhaps

delighted that for once in his long, long life, his eccentric garb didn’t

seem at all out of place.

Wonderland brilliantly conjures up the mood and time of the place. I

don’t know if Mark Chadbourn was ever there, but he writes so well he

makes it seem as though he must have been. The story perfectly captures

the mood of the times: of the re-casting and re-making of rules; of the

prospect that anything might happen; and of the sense of disillusion and

danger lurking underneath the naive optimism and behind the clouds of

incense. After all, some pretty nasty people were growing their hair

long, too.

But with Chadbourn at the helm you know you are in a safe pair of

hands. His expertise in storytelling is immediately apparent in the way

he skilfully marshals an incredible amount of technical and geographical

information without the reader being distracted for a moment. It’s an

enviable skill, and perhaps one honed through his several years of

experience as a journalist before he became a successful novelist. Add

that to his deftness in building an ominous sense of dread, delivered in

precise increments, and the blend of fear and danger is perfectly pitched

for the Doctor Who aficionado.

The characterisation of the Doctor is superb. He moves through the

mystery and danger of Haight-Ashbury with the distracted air of a

professor puzzled by a mathematical formula. But all the time he is fully

aware of the menace, the very real threat to himself and his companions.

Sometimes the Doctor appears to hover above events, only touched at a

tangent, like Tom Bombadil in The Lord of The Rings. His superiority is

evident, but unlike Tolkien’s creation, the Doctor’s humanity restores

his vulnerability and he is every bit as involved in the mystery as its

intriguing narrator.

The key to Mark Chadbourn’s writing is his understanding of mystery.

He knows how the unknown grips us and he knows why. He takes a

craftsman’s pleasure in carefully assembling the elements, but more than

that he understands what lies behind all mysteries, the quest for solution,

and perhaps this is why the spirit of Doctor Who sits perfectly in Haight-

Ashbury’s social experiment – a quest in its own right.

Wonderland is Doctor Who on acid, and perhaps my only regret – and I

don’t think my revealing this in the introduction is a spoiler – is that the

Doctor doesn’t get to take the drug himself. But then again the Doctor

probably doesn’t need to. He’s a trip-and-a-half all on his own. He’s

already there.

Mark Chadbourn’s Wonderland will take you there also. A world of

love and drugs and danger and horror. So settle back, expand your mind,

and prepare to be entertained.

Graham Joyce

October 2002

Sometimes I dream of San Francisco. The pearly mist rol ing up from the

bay in a glistening wall, the streets as still and quiet as childhood. Those

days will be with me forever, haunting my waking hours, troubling my

sleep. Time doesn’t dull the memory. Time is meaningless. I lived it

then, and I live it now, always. And on every occasion I wake up

crying...

The first time I saw the Doctor, sunlight limned him like an angel come

down to earth. He strode out of the throng surging through Haight-

Ashbury, all the questors and no-hopers, the dreamers and the trippers

and the lost, and he walked into my life and changed everything. At the

time he didn’t look out of place at all. Only now can I see how unique he

was.

It was January 1967. The Summer of Love was just around the corner,

and across America battle-lines were already being drawn. Tension was

in the air, hard beneath the smoky aroma of grass that brought dreams of

hope and peace and love.

For a girl from the conservative suburbs of Dallas, San Francisco at

that time was like another dimension, filled with alien beings, where

every sight and sound and smell was beyond real. And Haight-Ashbury

was the capital city of this weird world, six blocks of pure strangeness

straddling the Golden Gate Park Panhandle. White Rabbits and Mad

Hatters, all down there, in Wonderland. I loved it.

Even with hindsight it’s hard to comprehend the madness that was

Haight-Ashbury. For that brief period it seemed like every oddball in

America was either living there or on their way. In 1965 it had just

15,000 residents. By the summer of 1967, that figure had surged to

100,000, all crammed on top of each other, all searching for something.

Barely a day went by without some protest rally or a local band playing

a free concert in the Panhandle. And those local bands – Jefferson

Airplane, the Grateful Dead, Janis Joplin, Santana, the Quicksilver

Messenger Service... Music never moved me again like it did at that

time, in that place.

There, innocence was important. The true enemy was cynicism, the one

thing that held us back and kept all the repressive forces in power.

Everyone did all they could to fight that, and for a while it looked like

we were going to win.

The Diggers championed a socialist utopia, handing out free meals to

hundreds in Golden Gate Park; and when they weren’t doing that they

were urging local businesses to distribute their profits to the community.

Timothy Leary pushed us all to expand our minds with LSD. Ken Kesey

challenged authority at every turn with his Merry Pranksters. We had

our own cafes, boutiques, newspaper, dancehalls, medical clinic, our

own world, run by us, for us.

Back home I was Jess – Jessica to my parents – Willamy, twenty-two

years of age with nothing to mark the passing of years apart from a

dream of something better. There I was Summer, a new name to mark

my reinvention as a poet who could capture those transcendental

energies as they transformed the world into a more wonderful place.

It sounds so pretentious now: a poet. But that was how we were back

then, when we still had belief, before it was all grubbed out of us by the

mean spirits and black hearts, the businessmen and the politicians and

the generals.

On the road, Denny and I heard of what was happening in San

Francisco with the hippies – though that name didn’t really catch on

until a month or so later. Like everyone else in America, we were slowly

waking up to the fact that a new age was dawning, but unlike most of

our parents’ generation, we didn’t feel threatened. Finally there were

people like us, people who had dreams of that better world. There was

no doubt in our minds: San Francisco was the place to be, with all that

power rising up, ready to rush out across the country, across the world.

We wanted to be a part of that; we had to be involved – it was a calling.

Denny didn’t need any convincing, though at first glance he wasn’t

really like all the others who were being drawn to the West Coast. He

was a jock, dropped out of college, bummed around for a while until I

hooked up with him, but I knew from the moment we met that his heart

was in the right place. Denny Glass, boy wonder, the only hippie to have

a crew cut.

I’d been searching for a while, on the road since my folks split up.

None of us ever got over what we saw that November afternoon in

Dealey Plaza. But with Denny, everything felt right. When I gently

suggested San Francisco, he came alive.

Denny, a dream, with blue eyes and brown hair. ‘Two hearts,’ he used

to whisper. ‘Together, forever.’

And I wake up crying ...

‘Excuse me. I’m looking for this guy.’ I thrust Denny’s picture under

another nose. It must have been the hundredth that morning and the snap

was starting to look dog-eared and stained, but I tried to keep a smile on

my face.

‘Oh, I’m sorry my dear, but I don’t think we can help you.’ This man

returned my smile in a distracted way. I could see a gentleness behind

his eyes, but he had barely glanced at the picture. He sounded English,

and he was a real eccentric in his tall, stove-pipe hat, voluminous black

frock coat, white shirt and tiny, spotted bow-tie. Anywhere else he

would have looked more than a little weird, but in the Haight he fitted in

perfectly.

‘His name’s Denny Glass,’ I persisted. ‘He’s my boyfriend. He came

down here a few weeks ago to find us a place to crash. He was supposed

to wire me once he found somewhere, but...’ The words trailed away; I

didn’t want to think about all the possibilities hanging in that emptiness.

‘Here, let me have a look.’ This guy was a Brit too, kind of good

looking and about my age, but his hair and his clothes were L7-square.

He seemed friendly enough, though. ‘No, sorry. But then, we’ve only

just arrived here, haven’t we, Doctor?’

I looked back to the man, but he didn’t answer, and appeared to have

lost interest in the conversation altogether. My irritation must have

shown in my expression.

‘Oh, don’t mind the Doctor. He’s a sweetie really. He just gets a bit ...

distracted sometimes.’ The girl who was with them was hip, with a

minidress and long blonde hair. She was pretty. Another Brit; tourists, I

guessed.

The Doctor looked faintly embarrassed, while Ben gave a derisive

snort. ‘Yeah, that’s right, a real sweetie.’ He handed the picture back to

me. ‘Sorry, love. I hope you find your boyfriend.’

I shrugged; situation normal. As the three strangers moved off into the

flow, I held out Denny’s photo for the next passer-by, a boy in a Big

Brother and the Holding Company T-shirt. He was clutching something

bundled in a torn, oil-stained denim jacket. There wasn’t anything

particularly out of the ordinary about him – early twenties, long hair,

trimmed beard, glassy eyes like he was tripping – but I had the strangest

feeling. He walked right past me and stopped.

The Doctor and his two companions were about twenty feet away. I

don’t know if there was some psychic connection, but the Doctor

stopped too. When he turned, he had this dark, concerned expression.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

The boy’s glassy eyes were fixed hard on the Doctor. He spasmed, and

then his left arm shook like he was sick. There was something in the air

that gave me gooseflesh. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it

again, before slowly unwrapping the bundle. For some reason I couldn’t

explain, I really didn’t want to see what he was carrying. I should have

walked away; it probably would have been better for me on every front

if I had. But I couldn’t; I just stood there and watched as he peeled that

jacket off in a creepy, slow-stoned way.

It felt so dreamy and hypnotic it was like I was high myself. I couldn’t

hear any sound from the crowd, the street vendors hawking their comix

and the Oracle, the kid playing guitar in the gutter; everything was dead,

like we were in a bubble. The jacket arm came away. Silver flashed in

the sun. The other arm fell away. What was I seeing? More silver, a

metallic headpiece, black holes, like eyes, piercing a grey cloth-like

face.

The Doctor’s face was grim. His companions looked horrified. All

three of them like statues, uneasy.

The jacket hit the sidewalk. Slowly the boy held up his burden: a head,

hideous, silver, cold. It was like some robot from the Twilight Zone, but

this one made me scared.

‘A Cyberman.’ The Doctor’s voice burst the bubble of silence and the

world rushed in.

The Doctor and his friends moved forward slowly, but I couldn’t take

my eyes off that mechanical thing. The boy raised it until it was

shoulder-height and then it just burst apart. It wasn’t like it exploded –

no shards of metal, no sound – but like it broke up, became light, or oil,

or something, and disappeared on the breeze.

The Doctor was transfixed, but his companions rushed forward, and I

ran up to the boy too, not believing what I saw yet knowing I had seen it.

‘What did you do?’ I shouted at him.

He stared at me with heavy eyes, looked right through me, and then he

blinked once lazily and it was as if he was waking from a dream. I saw

awareness, then incomprehension, and then fear.

He looked slowly around our faces and then said, ‘I’ve seen the Devil.

He’s come for us all.’

An instant later he was rushing wildly away along Haight, leaving the

rest of us staring at each other like we’d all gone crazy.

The Doctor scurried into the Panhandle so fast that the other two had

trouble keeping up with him. I don’t know why I followed – maybe I

was bored after spending all that day getting nowhere – but I like to

think that I sensed something special, poetic; one of those moments

when life spins off its axis, taking you to another future.

They were heading towards something I hadn’t seen before, even

though I’d been through that part of the park five or more times getting

soup and rice from the Diggers. In the middle of a thick cluster of trees

just off one of the paths was a blue box, about the size and shape of a

phone booth, with tiny windows and a sign at the top saying Police Box.

The Doctor was about to open a door in the side when the young guy

noticed me watching. He nudged the girl and said, ‘Hang on, we’ve got

company.’

The Doctor stopped and looked at me, his eyes almost frightening now,

lost in shadow beneath his thick brows.

‘Sorry, love,’ the young guy called to me. ‘You can’t come in here.’

‘What’s in there?’ I said. And then: ‘What happened ... what was that?’

I was starting to panic. After all my fears about Denny, being in such a

strange, strange place with no real home and hardly any food, I felt like

crying.

The Doctor must have seen this in my face because he said quietly, to

his friends, ‘Look, why don’t you two go with this young lady and help

her look for her friend. I’ll just do a bit of poking about into this other

business by myself for a while, and we can all meet up back here again

later this evening.’

The younger guy immediately looked anxious and suspicious. ‘Hey,

hang on a mo. You wouldn’t just be trying to get shot of us for a while,

would you? I mean, the Cybermen –’

‘–Are not a problem to be approached in a headlong rush. I need time

to think about this.’ Without further ado, the Doctor slipped through the

door into the tiny box, pausing briefly to cast me a strange glance. I

couldn’t read it at all. There was a hint of a smile, but I couldn’t tell if it

was supportive or mocking. In the brief time I’d known him, he’d made

me feel strange, like he wasn’t one of us at all.

The couple introduced themselves as Ben and Polly. Ben offered to buy

me a coffee with a few dollars he said he’d found buried away in the

depths of the Doctor’s police box. They both shared a secret joke about

this, but I was too freaked out to try to make any sense of it.

The truth is, what I’d seen that afternoon paled into insignificance

beside my feelings for Denny. I’d tried not to think about it too much –

good, old, optimistic Summer – but deep down I had this sick feeling

that something bad had happened. There was no reason why Denny

wouldn’t have wired me to come and join him. All he had to do was find

a place for us – it didn’t have to be anywhere special. But since he

arrived in San Francisco I hadn’t heard a word from him.

The setting sun made the place even stranger. As the shadows crept

across the road and the buildings took on a reddish tinge, the night

people came out, distorted into twisted insects in the half-light.

‘He said he’d seen the Devil.’ I was haunted by the look of fear on the

boy’s face as his senses came back to him.

‘Something scared him.’ Polly stared into the growing dark, then

caught herself and made an effort to raise my spirits with a bright smile.

I liked her. She reminded me of how I used to be before all the troubles

and the tears.

‘That thing he was carrying – that robot head. You’d seen it before.’

Ben and Polly exchanged a glance. ‘Look, don’t try to keep things from

me, just because you think I can’t deal with it. After all I’ve seen, I can

deal with anything.’

Ben wasn’t convinced, but Polly trusted me enough to spill. She was

faltering to start with, not sure if she was going to blow my mind,

always checking my face for reactions. She talked about other worlds,

other times. How could I not believe her? It sounded so crazy and wild,

but wonderful too, just what we all believed there in the Haight – there’s

more than what we see around us. But it was scary as well. The

Cybermen sounded so cold and emotionless, so utterly ruthless. If they

were in San Francisco, what did that mean for all of us?

We reached the I-Thou coffee shop just as darkness fell. Light blazed

through the windows on to the sidewalk, and as the door jangled open

and shut the aroma of fresh grounds and patchouli drifted out into the

night. Clouds of steam burst at regular intervals behind the counter as if

from a fabulous Victorian machine.

You could always count on seeing life at the I-Thou. Some beat poet

dreaming he was Allen Ginsberg gave an impromptu reading in one

corner: black turtleneck, black jeans, black sunglasses, black attitude. A

chick swayed to music no one else could hear, smiling dreamily, and

every now and then she’d break into wild gyrations, all hips and lashing

hair.

All the tables were full. Beards, long hair, tie-dye, camouflage, denim,

beads, bangles, smoke, voices filled with passion, hope, politics,

freedom. It was a blast, the Haight in essence, everything that I valued.

The Magic Mouse hailed me quietly from the other side of the cafe, his

face as doleful as ever, the familiar pile of unsold polemical magazines

on the table in front of him. Idaho George sat with a bowl of rice, the

fork moving back and forth from his mouth so slowly he must have been

on geological time.

‘I can’t do this, man,’ he muttered as I passed. ‘I’ve been eating this for

three days now and it never gets any less.’

Once we’d found a free table and Ben had got the coffee, I began to

feel safe and relaxed among my own.

‘Where are you living?’ Polly asked, concerned.

‘A squat, over on Oak. You can see the Panhandle from my window.

It’s easy to find a piece of floor to put your head. Round here, everybody

helps everybody else.’ I sipped the coffee, enjoying the warmth on my

hands. The night had brought a chill to the air. ‘That’s why I got so

worried about Denny. It’s like he just disappeared.’

Polly asked for Denny’s picture again and examined it closely. ‘He

looks lovely.’

‘He is. We’re soul-mates.’

‘I don’t know how to put this,’ Ben began hesitantly, ‘but you know

how blokes are –’

My smile silenced him; it said more than words. ‘Let me tell you about

Denny. When my folks split up, I hit the road. The way I saw it, if you

want to be a poet you have to get experience ... of people ... all the world

has to offer. Besides, there wasn’t anything for me back at home. Things

hadn’t been right for a while. It felt like my parents were dying a little

every day.’ I tried to sound detached, grown-up, but the memories were

still raw. When you’ve had a happy childhood, idyllic even, and then

everything falls apart, it’s like nearly getting hit by a bus. You stand in

the middle of the road, thinking what happened? , and spend the rest of

your life looking over your shoulder.

‘I met Denny in a small town near Amarillo. A bunch of the local

rednecks came out of a bar one night and set on this long-haired kid

trying to bum small change outside. He hadn’t done anything wrong;

they just picked on him because he was different. And you could tell

from the way the rednecks were acting, they wouldn’t stop until he was

all messed up. I was on the other side of the road, on my way to the bus

station. I dropped my bag, ran over, and started trying to pull those

drunks off. One turned and hit me in the face hard – I had a black eye for

days. I thought they’d stop when they saw I was a girl. Only they didn’t

see a girl ... just another hippie.

‘All I remember was feeling like someone had set off a bomb in my

head. My nose and lip were bleeding ... And then Denny was there. He’s

a big guy, a football player. He took two of them straight out, and then

managed to get me and the other guy away before the rednecks could

come back at us.’ I took the picture back from Polly and traced around

the outline of his smiling face, trying to remember what it was like to

touch his skin. ‘Those guys were savages. Denny could have been killed.

He knew that, but he didn’t think twice about it.’

The beat poet finished his background drone and somebody I couldn’t

see started playing the bongos. It sounded like a heartbeat, growing

faster.

‘Denny and I got out of that place on the same bus. We talked right

through the night ... about music, and books and politics and life. And

about President Kennedy, and what his death meant to both of us ... what

it meant to the country. But you’re English ... you wouldn’t know about

that. What I’m trying to say is, Denny and I, we’re the same. Two

hearts ... forever. I know him inside out, and he knows me.’ I couldn’t

stop my eyes filling with tears. ‘It would have been easy for him to find

somewhere for us here. And he would have contacted me the moment he

did. And I haven’t heard a thing.’

The bongo player became more frenetic. Ben looked into the depths of

his coffee. ‘Sorry, you know, for suggesting ...’ His voice trailed away.

‘That’s okay. I don’t blame you for doubting. I’m going to find him.’

The bongo player’s wild drumming ended suddenly. The whole room

fell silent for the briefest instant, until some woman screamed and then

everyone rushed towards the windows, talking at once. Ben was the first

to get through the crowd, but Polly and I were close behind. The woman

who screamed was pointing through the window into the night: all we

could see was mist.

‘The Magic Mouse.’ Her voice was like broken glass.

Ben was at her side. ‘What happened?’

She turned to look at the table where I’d seen the Mouse before. ‘He

was sitting there ... just looking around. And then he started to fade

away.

Somebody laughed. The woman shook her head furiously. ‘It’s true! I

could see right through his face ... see that picture on the wall there!’ She

was shaking. Ben helped her to a seat in an old-fashioned, gentlemanly

way. The woman covered her face and spoke through her hands. ‘I

thought it was a flashback. But it was real. It wasn’t like he was glass ...

more like he was made of light. I think I saw colours ... beautiful colours

...’ She drifted for a few seconds, then jumped up and looked back

outside fearfully. ‘He freaked out. The Mouse – freaking out! It never

happens! And he ran outside, over there, and ...’ She snapped her

fingers. ‘Poof! Gone ... vanished. Just like that.’

Everywhere went quiet again. What she had said sounded ludicrous,

but no one was laughing now.

‘Blue Moonbeams.’ It was a guy next to me in a camouflage jacket

with a peace symbol drawn on the back.

‘What?’ I said.

He looked at me anxiously, then decided I was okay. ‘Blue

Moonbeams. It’s a batch of bad acid that’s all over the place. The tab’s

got a blue crescent moon on it.’

‘She doesn’t look like she’s tripping.’

‘Not her.’ He grew uncomfortable. ‘I’ve not seen it, but everybody’s

talking about it. Jack Stimson from the Oracle was down here

researching a story about it. A lot of kids dropped Blue Moonbeams and

disappeared. So they say.’

‘Disappeared like she said? Like, for real?’

It was a question too far in the paranoid Haight. The guy pushed his

way through the crowd like I was a cop.

‘Blimey, this is a weird place.’ Ben hadn’t heard my conversation.

‘Oh, Ben, you’re such a square. It’s just very colourful.’ Polly wasn’t

fazed by what had happened; I don’t know if she even believed it. She

turned to me and said, ‘Shall we start asking around about Denny?’

She was surprised when I shook my head, but an uneasy feeling was

growing on me. ‘I want to go to the Oracle.’

The optimism of those bright times has faded, along with my youth.

Now I’m older and lonelier, and locked away in this big, old house

perched on the edge of nowhere, the world looks colder and harsher. The

events of that bleak January made me a different person – scared,

introspective, cynical and, most of all, sad. I lost so much so quickly,

snatched away from me at a time when we were all on the cusp of a

bright future. Even after so many years have trundled by, it still doesn’t

seem fair.

Death and darkness and terror, the antithesis of what Haight-Ashbury

had to offer.

From my window, the New England countryside rolls away into the

lowering night. There are a few lights dotted here and there, amid the sea

of darkness. The worst thing about being a poet ( failed) is that you know

a metaphor when you see one. I’ve put as many miles as I can between

San Francisco and me without actually leaving the country, and it still

doesn’t feel like it’s far enough. Maybe I should go to England, like I

always planned. Maybe I should just keep running.

Here in the house there’s no escape. There are ghosts everywhere,

dreams I had, people I knew; one in particular.

Sometimes I think back and wonder if it all would have turned out

differently if I hadn’t been there in Dealey Plaza on that warm afternoon

in November. I can still remember the smell of hotdogs and asphalt,

petrol fumes rising above the crowds lining the road. A girl, excited,

playful, running with her father; he was clutching on to his hat to

prevent it blowing away. And the colours: red dresses, blue sky, green,

green grass. It’s funny how the colours of your childhood always seem

so much more vivid than anything you ever experience later in life.

I remember standing next to my mother, smelling her perfume; my dad

shielding his eyes against the glare, saying, ‘Here he comes!’ In that one

moment, everything crystallised: the happiness of my childhood, the

comfort of being part of a loving family, of being in the right place, of

seeing a future that reached to the horizon.

I think, perhaps, that was the last happy time. Though I couldn’t see it

while I was walking it, from then on, it was a long, declining road to the

place I am now.

I was murdered at the same time as the President, though that’s

probably that stupid poetic side of me. Certainly, something bigger than

the man died that day. I remember Jackie scrambling to the back of the

car to recover a piece of blood and brain-stained skull. Sickening, but

somehow so very sad, capturing in one image the sheer futility of that

moment.

Poor Jackie.

Poor me.

The Oracle office was at the exact corner of Haight and Ashbury, the

symbolic heart of that place. And beneath it was the symbolic head –

The Psychedelic Shop that had opened the previous year. Everyone just

called it The Head Shop. Ron and Jay Thelin, the owners, were the high

priests of the new religion of LSD. To them, acid provided a profound,

mystical experience and they wanted a place that would offer anything

required by other seekers of mind expansion. The Head Shop had

information, certainly, but also whatever you needed to smoke your drug

of choice, and bells, and posters, and comix and books, and anything

else necessary for the journey to someplace else. The Thelins also

funded the Oracle, two visionaries with their hearts in the right place.

I was surprised to see the Doctor inside, curiously examining various

bongs and pipes as if they were alien artefacts. He was wearing a long

black cloak against the cold and as he moved around the displays it

billowed behind him in a manner that clearly transfixed a girl tripping

near the door.

Ben almost knocked her over when he rushed in anxiously. ‘Doctor!

Did you find anything?’

‘Do you know,’ the Doctor said, tapping an ornately carved bong, that

hallucinogenic drugs have been used by cultures as diverse as Neolithic

man, the ancient Egyptians, the Aztecs and the Sumerians to engender a

religious experience? Drugs as sacrament.’

Wow!’ the girl by the door said dreamily, staring at the Doctor in

admiration. ‘The High Priest of Trips!’

‘Doctor, why are you here?’ Polly asked.

‘Oh, just browsing,’ he said vaguely, replacing the bong. ‘And I wanted

to have a little chat with the owners.’

‘Doctor, the Cybermen,’ Ben pressed.

‘Oh, I don’t think they’d have much use for a place like this,’ the

Doctor said.

Ben could barely contain his exasperation. ‘I meant,’ he said through

gritted teeth, ‘have you got anywhere yet with your “poking around”?’

‘Well, not really. But remember, Ben: things aren’t always what they

seem.

Ben would clearly have pressed him further, but Polly interjected:

‘There’s something very strange going on here, Doctor. We were just in

a cafe where somebody disappeared right in front of everybody.’

‘Really?’ The Doctor gave a faintly absent-minded smile. ‘Did you see

it?’

‘Well, no, but –’

The Doctor waved a finger to silence her, and then used it to indicate

his eyes. ‘There’s nothing like the evidence of one’s own eyes, Polly.’

‘Oh, right,’ Ben exclaimed, drily. ‘So you’re saying that everything’s

hunky-dory here, are you?’ He glanced worriedly out into the mist

drifting up against the windows.

I could see the Doctor choosing his words carefully. ‘I wouldn’t say

that, exactly. But we shouldn’t take things at face value. I think that

Cyberman head was a sort of message. A warning, perhaps. Intended for

me.’

Polly was clearly very unnerved by this idea. ‘So that means that

someone knows who you are. And that you’re here.’

Her words made me uneasy. Who was he? Why was he here?

The girl hugged her arms around her as she followed Ben’s gaze out

into the night. ‘There is something out there. Can’t you feel it? It’s in the

air... that feeling of threat...’

‘Come now.’ The Doctor fixed his smile on me, but those eyes still

made me unsettled. ‘Let’s not upset our young friend. I’m sorry, my

dear, I didn’t catch your name.’

‘Summer,’ I replied.

He took my hand with surprising gentleness. ‘What a lovely name. I’m

very pleased to meet you. Now, how is your search going?’

I told him that I wanted to visit the Oracle to find more information

about the Blue Moonbeams LSD. It was probably irrelevant. Denny had

never tried LSD, and I didn’t think he ever would, but I had to

investigate everything.

‘Are you coming, Doctor?’ Polly asked.

‘Oh, I don’t think you need me there. Besides, I want to have a closer

look at those.’ He pointed to some psychedelic posters on one wall.

Before any of us could say anything further, he had flicked his cloak

around him and walked away, as if we were already forgotten. ‘Is he

always so helpful?’ I asked, with unaccustomed sarcasm. I was probably

being pathetic, but I was a little hurt that he’d wanted to browse in a

shop, rather than help me look for Denny.

‘Oh, he’s got his reasons, I’m sure,’ Ben said uncomfortably.

‘It’s not that he doesn’t care.’ Polly put an arm around my shoulders

and gave me a squeeze.

‘I’m sure he’s very busy,’ I replied.

The Oracle office was up some side stairs. It was a mess: paper

everywhere, radical posters peeling off the walls, typewriters that looked

fifty years old perched on rickety desks. The atmosphere was smoky but

electric with the kind of optimism that hung all over the Haight.

Even at that time of the evening there was still activity. One journalist

hammered out his story with two fingers, while three more were

engaged in intense phone conversations. Two others kicked back

listening to music on headphones.

They were clearly used to people wandering in off the sidewalk

because no one batted an eyelid when we entered. A heavily bearded

man with a massive gut broke off from the ear-splitting pounding of the

Stones’ ‘19th Nervous Breakdown’ to point us in the direction of Jack

Stimson.

The journalist was a tall, painfully thin man, barely filling his double-

breasted suit. His pale skin looked even greyer in contrast with the

brilliance of his red and green flowered shirt. He affected elegance by

smoking with a long cigarette holder.

He hung up the phone as we approached and gave an expansive

gesture. ‘Greetings, cat and chicklets. Step into my office.’ He opened

an imaginary door.

‘You’re Jack Stimson?’ I ventured.

‘The one and only. Currently awash in the preparations for the biggest

story of the year. Make that the decade. Heck, maybe even the biggest

story ever!’ He looked around at the blank faces before prompting, ‘The

Human Be-In, cool kids.’

‘What’s that?’ Ben said, confused and feeling increasingly out of his

depth.

‘Where’ve you been, man?’ Stimson genuinely looked as if he believed

Ben had wandered in from another planet. ‘The Gathering of the Tribes.

A hip pow-wow to usher in the Age of Aquarius. The seasons are

turning, man. History’s going our way. And it all starts here.’

‘You know, mate, I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,’ Ben

said, ruffled.

‘It’s a festival, Ben.’ I picked up one of the flyers from Stimson’s desk

to show him. ‘All these bands are playing in Golden Gate Park later this

month ... Jefferson Airplane, the Grateful Dead, Quicksilver Messenger

Service. Timothy Leary’s going to be speaking, and Allen Ginsberg and

some of the other Beats.’

‘It’s going to bring the mellow and the activists together,’ Stimson said

evangelically. ‘It’ll ignite a fire of love that’ll spread out across America

... across the whole world. A Summer of Love. They’ll have to listen to

us after this, man. No more war in Vietnam. No more suits and ties

running the show. No more greedheads. They might have the power, but

we’ve got the numbers.’

‘Oh, I get it. A pop concert,’ Ben said dismissively.

Stimson shook his head wearily.

‘I wanted to talk about the Blue Moonbeams,’ I said.

Stimson started at this, his exuberant mood fading quickly. ‘What do

you know about that?’

I told him what had happened in the I-Thou. ‘My boyfriend’s missing. I

don’t know if it’s connected –’

‘You better hope it’s not,’ he said sharply, before rifling among the

mess of paper on his desk for a coffee-stained notebook. ‘I first heard

about it from one of the Diggers in the Fall. Word had been getting out

about some bad acid ... only this took you so far-out you never came

back again – literally, dig? This was crazy stuff. Kids would drop a tab.

Not long after they’d fade away, like, vanish, gone, man. This is a

strange cosmos, kids. We’ve got supermen from the stars coming here in

times past to be our gods and Atlantis calling out and witches casting

spells up on Divisadero, but this, you.’ know, man ... here in the

Haight?’ He shook his head again.

‘Crazy,’ I said.

‘Right. Crazy. Except I heard it again at the Love Pageant Rally. Just

before everyone in the crowd dropped acid together, this guy flipped,

started running around screaming not to drop the Blue Moonbeams.

Then they were talking about it at the Fillmore, and the Avalon

Ballroom ... all over. Kids vanishing.’

‘Do you think it could possibly be true?’ Polly asked.

Stimson flicked over a few pages of his notebook. ‘Here’s the facts,

ma’am. Kids have been going missing. I’ve got names and addresses,

hard facts. All over the Haight. But you know what it’s like here. There

are chickenhawks down at the bus station picking up the pretty little

things rolling in wide-eyed from the sticks. People come and go and

come. Running away from something, running towards something. And

the Haight’s attracted some real bad dudes recently, man. It’s always the

same when something gets a buzz. All the creeps come out of the

woodwork trying to get their share.’

‘You’re saying it’s not real?’ Ben pressed.

‘I’m saying the smart money is on a big batch of contaminated acid

dumped on the Haight for quick, hard cash, and the bad guys are already

a long way away. And it’s so bad, kids are burning out. Or killing

themselves. It’s not hard to disappear here.’ He chewed on his cigarette

holder for a moment, before adding, ‘But I’m not ruling anything out.’

I tried to keep my fears hard in me, but I could see from Polly’s

expression I hadn’t done a very good job. I took out Denny’s picture and

slid it across the desk. ‘This is my boyfriend, Denny Glass. He’s

missing. I don’t think he would have taken acid. He’s ...’ I struggled for

the words.

‘A straight edge?’ Stimson said, examining the photo. ‘I can’t publish

it. If I did, I’d have kids queuing round the block trying to find their

missing beau.’ He saw my face fall, and added, ‘But I’ll tell you what I

will do. I’m out on the street all the time – it’s my second home, man.

I’ll ask around. Denny Glass will be found. You have my word, sister.’

At the time that sounded like a good thing.

After I’d given Stimson the address of my crashpad, we went back

outside and found the Doctor standing under a street lamp watching the

mist drift in strange patterns. It was surprisingly quiet out, with few of

the Haight’s usual freaks milling around. The Doctor was distracted, and

at first his expression was troubled, but when he saw us approaching he

manufactured a supercilious smile.

‘How was your little chat?’ he asked.

‘I’m not getting any closer to Denny,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what to do

next.’

‘Oh, I shouldn’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’m sure he’ll turn up.’

Looking back, I’m sure he intended his words to be reassuring, but at

the time I found them patronising and heartless. They knocked the blues

off me, and I snapped back, ‘I’m going to carry on looking, and I’m

going to find him. I know it. It’s only a matter of time.’

The Doctor obviously didn’t believe me. ‘Yes, yes, my dear,’ he said,

in a comforting tone. ‘I’m sure you will.’ That irritated me even more.

‘Who the hell are you, anyway?’ I said.

The Doctor looked flustered and uncomfortable, but said nothing.

‘He’s a ... traveller,’ Polly interjected quickly.

‘You can say that again,’ Ben added.

I looked around them all and thought they were probably crazier than

anybody else in the Haight.

We were interrupted by the sound of someone approaching through the

mist. I felt instantly on edge, threatened. Maybe it was a premonition; it

certainly wasn’t imagination because I could see it on everyone’s face.

Polly clutched her belly queasily. ‘What is that, Doctor?’

Whatever he was feeling, it had put him on guard. ‘I’m not sure,

Polly ... Something to which you humans obviously have an inherent

reaction!

I noted that he said you and not we, but I was too disturbed by

whatever was approaching to give it any further thought. The footsteps

were deadened and distorted beneath the thickening mist; the anxiety

buzz rose like white noise at the back of my head. Unconsciously, Ben

formed fists.

The mist churned unnaturally as if something were pushing it away and

a dark shape appeared within it. Whatever we expected, it wasn’t a

bearded freak in Jesus sandals, a stained vest and half-mast bell bottoms.

Then we saw that something was wrong with him. He had an awkward

way of walking, as though he’d once had a serious injury, and his eyes

were wide and glassy. Tripping, I thought, but there was something

weird about his expression that couldn’t be explained by acid.

As he got closer, the cast of his face became frightening; it was almost

like he was wearing a mask. Ben stepped in front of Polly. The Doctor

didn’t move, silently analysing the stranger.

The freak stopped a few feet away, his head held to one side as he

looked at us with a creepy blank curiosity. Ben was itching to move, but

the Doctor held him back with one hand on his chest.

After a moment, the stranger raised one hand and said, ‘Behold, the

chrysalis. Walk not through lower city heart. Pain. There are shadows. In

colour waits the dream.’ It made no sense, and the freak’s expression

grew strained, as if he realised this. He half turned, and gestured behind

him.

Someone else lay hidden in the mist. It was larger, oddly shaped,

certainly not a man; I had no idea what it was, but my heart began to

pound as it came forward.

At the same time, the freak moved backwards, head still to one side,

unblinking eyes fixed firmly on us, until the mist folded round him again

like a theatre curtain, and he was gone.

‘Doctor, what is it?’ Polly’s voice was like dry leaves. I was scared.

Whatever was coming looked like some monster as the mist revealed,

then hid, a sick peep show. I caught glimpses of something vaguely

human, but then something that looked like giant wings, something else

that looked like antenna.

The Doctor was rigid, his attention fixed. ‘Oh my giddy aunt!’ he

exclaimed.

Finally, the creature brought itself into the arc of the street lamp, and

my breath caught in my throat. ‘Wow,’ I muttered. ‘A butterfly-man.’

And it was: a man turning into a butterfly, or a butterfly becoming a

man, or some hybrid of the two. It was like some wild trip, a glorious

dream that could easily turn bad.

Polly gripped the Doctor’s sleeve. ‘What is it?’ she asked again.

Eerie silence hung over the scene, the mundane sounds of the city

swallowed by the mist. The butterfly-man appeared to be floating,

weightless. It paused in front of us, its multi-faceted eyes like lamps. It

made a gesture, heavy with meaning but impossible to understand,

reaching from its waist up above its head. The delicate, vividly coloured

wings fluttered almost imperceptibly.

‘It’s trying to communicate with us,’ Polly said.

The words had barely left her lips when the butterfly-man started to go

back into the mist just like the freak had done, in an unnerving

backwards motion while it kept its gaze fixed on us.

‘Shall I go after it, Doctor?’ Ben didn’t sound like he relished the

prospect.

‘No. Stay here.’ The Doctor watched until the thing had gone, taking

that unnerving feeling with it. The distant sounds of the city crept back

in.

‘You know what that was?’ I said.

‘I do indeed.’ The Doctor’s expression was graven. ‘A Menoptra. One

of a race that exists on a planet far, far away from here.’

He appeared deathly serious. ‘What did it want? Is it dangerous?’

The Doctor folded his hands together in deep thought, and for a second

I thought that he wasn’t going to answer. ‘It is a bit of a mystery, isn’t

it?’ he said eventually, his tone surprisingly light. ‘The Menoptra

shouldn’t be here, any more than the Cybermen should . And you saw

the way it moved its arm?’ I nodded. ‘It’s almost as if there’s

something ... ritualistic about this business.’

‘We should get out of here, Doctor,’ Ben said morosely. ‘This whole

place is crazy. It’s turning my head around.’

The Doctor, suddenly intensely serious, disagreed. ‘No, Ben. We

cannot leave. There’s something out there. An intelligence. And it has

noticed us.’

You can never escape the past. It remains trapped in that time machine

of our heads, endlessly replaying, hinting at other dimensions of what

might have been and what never was. Jackie scrambling over the back of

the car, reaching out in one moment of insane clarity. Denny hauling me

away from the rednecks, both of us terrified but laughing, fear and hope

in equal measure. Most potent of all, that year of 1967, when everything

changed, forever. A time of beauty and decadence, haunting and so very

sad.

The past has its own terrible gravity. You go through your life blithely

looking ahead until one day you wake up and realise what has gone

before has attained some critical mass. Suddenly there is no escape; it

keeps dragging you back to a particular time, warping your life with a

secret pull, twisting your psyche until nothing inside you or ahead of you

is unaffected by what has gone before. We become ruined, dead

satellites of a monstrous force.

When I look back on the Haight with these eyes of a different person,

the Doctor looms large. He presented a face we could all understand, but

behind it I could sense a universe of meaning and information that

stretched off to infinity. Like space, he was alien, timeless. There were

no human parameters by which I could judge him. Could he be trusted?

Did he feel love or hate or anger? At times I felt he had an agenda so far

removed from our own that it was impossible to comprehend.

The Doctor wanted to get back to his police box to think over what he’d

seen. For me, all the craziness that I’d been drawn into that day was a

distraction. Denny was the only thing that mattered. I went back to the

house where I’d crashed for the past few days, my head spinning,

wondering if there was any circumstance in which Denny would touch

Blue Moonbeams, continually searching for any other answer that made

sense.

Everyone was there: Jen with her glassy eyes and slow smile, Hal with

his rants and Country Joe and the Fish bootlegs, Mickey and Jill and Joe

humping away continually in various permutations. They already felt

like a kind of family. I’d only known them days, but I don’t think I’ve

ever since found friends that mattered to me as much as those people.

My bedroll was on bare floorboards with my few possessions scattered

around and a stubby candle for a night-light, but it still comforted me.

Exhausted, I went to sleep believing I’d wake to find Denny lying next

to me, that he’d finally find his way to me, two hearts drawing each

other together across space.

Instead, I dreamed of men becoming butterflies and human beings

having their souls drained away until they became robots.

Stimson called at the house around eleven the next day. He looked like

some split-personality cat, the top half an English gent in dinner jacket

and bow tie, the bottom half the hippest of the hip in purple loons and

sandals. The cigarette holder was clenched jauntily between his teeth as

he greeted me.

‘Chicklet! I have news!’

I’d been sitting on the steps at the front of the house, desperately trying

to think of a new approach. I always thought that if you wish hard

enough, things happen. The vibes go out and the universe answers; you

just had to be open to the endless possibilities of this place that nurtures

us. And on that day it seemed I was right.

‘About Denny?’

‘The man himself. Last night I asked around a few contacts, put a few

whispers out on the street, and this morning listened for them coming

back. And someone indeed saw your beau. Well, the actual description

was some clyde with a jock haircut.’ He smiled sympathetically. ‘But,

you know... if it’s him...’

My stomach did a little flip. It wasn’t until my first thought was He’s

alive! that I realised how much I’d secretly thought Denny was dead.

‘Where, Jack?’ I wanted to snatch that piece of paper from his hand and

race off there and then, ignoring the little voice that still wanted to know

why Denny hadn’t called me. I’d left notes on all the message boards

around the Haight. Everybody checked them. He could have found me.

If he was able.

‘Hey, steady, chicklet. This was some days ago. Don’t want to get your

hopes up too high.’

‘It’s the first I’ve heard of him in the Haight at all since he got here.’

‘Okay, but just stay cool.’ His face darkened.

‘What is it?’

He handed me the paper with its one line address. ‘He was going to see

the Goblin.’

I’d heard the name, but couldn’t say where. Stimson read my blank

expression.

‘The Goblin, baby!’ he stressed, before adding, ‘He’s a heavy, heavy

cat. Grooves on some very strange shit.’ He twirled his finger at the side

of his head. ‘If I was going to give you any advice, I’d say keep the heck

away from him. He’ll suck the life right out of you. There are people

who go into his place who – they say – never come out again.’

Those words coming from a seasoned professional like Stimson made

me even more scared, for Denny. ‘I have to go,’ I said bluntly.

‘Yeah, I thought you’d say that. Your beau is one lucky cat.’ He rested

one hand on my shoulder supportively. ‘Look, I’d offer to come with

you, but, like, I value my skin.’

‘Don’t worry, I wouldn’t ask you to,’ I said truthfully.

‘But I gotta say, don’t go alone. Get some support. Ten guys, maybe

twenty ... big ones.’ He mimed an ogre. ‘With, like, burning torches.’

We laughed, for a while.

Hal, Mickey and Joe were all sympathetic, but everyone knew the

Goblin’s reputation. They spent half an hour trying to talk me out of

going, but when they realised I wouldn’t back down, none of them

would accompany me. They eventually drifted off with that lazy

distraction that always hides guilt.

I was naive and optimistic and usually filled with the gung-ho attitude

that was getting us in such a mess in the Far East, but all the talk about

the Goblin was starting to get to me. I wasn’t stupid; never had been.

Naturally I headed for that far-out police box. Something told me that

the Doctor, Ben and Polly had adventurous spirits. I could imagine them

forging through the deepest Amazonian jungles or climbing some misty

mountain in Tibet. For all their English stiffness, they were as non-

conformist and daring as anyone in the Haight, and I could only admire

that. They were one of us, not one of them.

When I arrived, they were standing in the shade of the trees, deep in

conversation. Something in their body language and the heaviness of

their whispers made me cautious. I paused just out of sight, waiting for

the right time to break into their circle.

‘I don’t bloody well understand,’ Ben was saying. ‘We’ve got

Cybermen, and then we’ve got those butterfly things –’

‘Menoptra,’ the Doctor said. He was distractedly fiddling with some

small mechanical object in the palm of his right hand.

‘Whatever ... it doesn’t matter. Is this the start of some sort of alien

invasion, or what?’ Ben waved his hand towards the sky with irritation.

‘And which lot do we have to be more worried about: the Cybermen or

the Menoptra?’

‘The Cybermen, of course, silly,’ Polly said. ‘You’d only need a really

big net to stop those other creatures.’

‘I think that, perhaps, you are both missing the point,’ mused the

Doctor. ‘We were not attacked by a rampaging horde of Cybermen. We

were presented with the head of a single Cyberman. A trophy, if you

will.’

Ben blanched. ‘Bloody hell. Something that can rip the head off a

Cyberman.’

Polly rolled her eyes. ‘It wasn’t a real head. It disappeared.’

‘Consider.’ The Doctor raised a finger. ‘The Menoptra. He was

presented to us too, wasn’t he?’

‘Do you mean that they weren’t really there, then, in any physical

sense?’ asked Polly.

Ben massaged his temple wearily. ‘This is giving me a headache.

Again.’

Polly, though, was warming to her theme now. ‘You said before that

they were a message of some kind.’

‘Exactly!’ The Doctor beamed, clapping his hands together in delight at

Polly’s observation. ‘But Ben was right, to a degree. Whatever is here

has encountered the Cybermen and survived. It also knows that I have

met the Cybermen. And the Menoptra.’

‘But how could it possibly know that?’ Again, Polly was clearly

unnerved by this idea.

‘I’m not sure, yet,’ the Doctor said. ‘I sense that someone is playing a

kind of game with me. And whoever it is, I’m very much afraid that

their abilities may be as far beyond mine as mine are beyond –’

‘Ours?’ Ben flinched and looked away from the Doctor’s suddenly

intense, penetrating gaze. It sounded like a petulant comment caused by

the stress of the situation, but it made me shiver. Who exactly was the

Doctor?

I seized on the uncomfortable lull in the conversation to step forward.

Polly and Ben both smiled warmly when they saw me; the Doctor’s

expression was unreadable.

‘Hi,’ I ventured.

‘Any news?’ Polly gave me a hug as if we were old friends.

‘Yeah ... maybe.’ I passed the note with the Goblin’s address

uncomfortably from hand to hand. ‘That reporter from the Oracle said

someone had seen Denny.’

‘That’s wonderful,’ Polly said.

I nodded. ‘It’s cool.’

Ben obviously saw right through me. ‘But?’

‘They think he might have been with some heavy guy ... a dangerous

guy.’ I looked into their faces hopefully. ‘Stimson said I shouldn’t go

alone.’

They both looked to the Doctor, but he was lost in thought. ‘Does this

man have something to do with those Blue Moonbeams?’ he eventually

asked.

‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

He pondered for a moment, then said, ‘I’m sorry, my dear, but I’m

afraid I have my own, rather pressing business to attend to.’

‘Doctor? ‘Polly prompted. ‘Summer needs help.’

But he had already wandered off, lost to that strange mechanical device

in his hand. His voice floated back to me as he entered the police box:

‘See you again soon, my dear.’

It was a weird time to be alive. The Age of Aquarius was coming up

fast. Suddenly all the certainties my parents had clung to in the 1950s

were crumbling. The occult was grooving in the mainstream. You could

watch Johnny Carson on one of those TVs in the window of Ellison’s on

Page and then go next door to get a Tarot reading or listen to Alan Watts

lecture on Maya across the bay in Sausalito. There were more witches in

the Haight than America had ever admitted to since the Salem trials. It

was a time when anything was possible, when every single frontier had

crumbled, and that was a very frightening situation to be in. Who could

you believe any more? Before, there were pipe-smoking scientists and

the bomb and Telstar lighting up the night. In their place we got magic,

aliens and, eventually, ley lines. The day after I arrived in the city some

guy was on a soapbox in the Panhandle warning everyone that demons

really existed, and that they were walking among us, secretly tormenting

us. At the time it was nothing, another San Francisco nut, but as I trailed

reluctantly through the streets towards the Goblin’s hang-out, I started to

wonder: is that what the Doctor was? There was something about him

that was different, otherworldly; most people wouldn’t have seen it, but

my intuition was stronger than most. Some astrologer on Waller said I

had a psychic talent, but I think he was only trying to light my fire. And

whatever it was about the Doctor, it unnerved me; I think it even scared

me a little. Would it really have hurt him so much to come with me to

see the Goblin? He made me feel like I was nothing. It seemed to me

then that he was interested in no one but himself.

All my thoughts drifted away when I finally stood outside the Goblin’s

place. The mind is a powerful thing – we can scare ourselves silly with a

few crazy thoughts – but I swear I was sensing something about that

place beyond what my eyes were telling me. It was a regular

brownstone, but obviously a freak hang-out. Psychedelic graffiti,

flowers, peace signs and slogans illuminated the front, while music came

out of every open window, twenty different songs at least, all in

competition. There were places like it all over the Haight, but this one

had a feeling of threat that made me queasy. I looked up at the black

windows from which flimsy drapes billowed in the January breeze, but I

couldn’t see anyone.

The door was open. I stepped into a hallway that had that familiar San

Francisco aroma of damp, misty mornings, but beneath it the faint taint

of urine. ‘Hello,’ l called out quietly, then regretted the unnerving

whispering effect the echoes made as they rustled along the yellowing

wallpaper. I ventured along the darkened hall, the bass notes of the

music coming through the walls like the sound of mysterious heavy

machinery at work.

Behind the rumbling, small animal noises came from an open door

down the hall to my left. I crept up cautiously and peered inside. The

room was bare apart from a dirty mattress on the floorboards. On it, a

couple were making love, slick with sweat, tripping. The girl was

beautiful, with long blonde hair washing around her head as she stared at

the ceiling with glassy eyes; she could have been sunbathing on the

beach, she was so away from the moment. But the guy was unpleasant in

every sense. His expression wasn’t just unloving, it was fierce, as though

he hated her, and his long hair and beard were matted with mud like a

hobo. It struck me with faint distaste that if not for the drugs the girl

would probably never have looked at him twice. Making love wasn’t the

right description after all.

I carried on by to the stairs, and then up them into the heart of the

building. Most of the open rooms were like that first one: people tripping

or whacked out, screwing yet completely disconnected. The noises that

came from behind the locked doors were even more disturbing.

My mouth was dry and there was a thundering inside me matching the

vibrations coming through the walls. On the third floor I found another

open door. This room was filled with decaying Victorian furniture,

books rotting on the shelves, heavy mildewed drapes drawn across the

window, water-stained photographs and paintings on the wall. In a high-

backed leather chair, a young girl watched me with staring eyes. She

couldn’t have been more than sixteen; the thought that she might have

endured the house’s debased regime put me on edge. Her brown hair

was cropped in the latest style, but her face looked like it had been

smeared with ash from the fire.

‘Don’t hurt me.’ Her voice was fragile, filled with terror.

‘I’m not going to hurt you’ I cautiously stepped into the room and

checked the shadowy corners. She was alone. As I drew closer, I could

see from her pupils that she was tripping. A bad trip. Her breathing was

shallow, her body rigid.

‘Are you one of them?’ Her eyes grew wider still.

I dropped to my knees, trying to make myself unthreatening, and

crawled towards her slowly, smiling. I’d had experience of bad trips

before. ‘I’m here to help you, sweetie. You just take it easy.’

She jerked suddenly, snapping her head from side to side as if she’d

glimpsed something in the shadows. ‘What’s there?’ She was on the

edge of hysteria.

‘Just me, sweetie. Here to look after you.’

‘No –’

‘Just me.’ I took her hand; it was as cold as ice, as hard as stone, but

gradually it relaxed.

‘We have sunshine in our eyes,’ she said dreamily. ‘Rainbows sprout

like trees ... like fountains. In heaven, all the angels know ... we can

walk through walls ... we can do anything.’ It was only the briefest

moment of calm. Slowly her gaze focused on my face and that look of

terror returned. ‘They were born behind the wind. They were there

before the sun. Colours ... so many colours ... And now they’re here.’

‘Listen to me’ I stroked the back of her hand; she was so scared I was

afraid she’d hurt herself. I’d once seen one guy drive a shard of glass

right through his hand in the middle of a trip because he thought he was

made of smoke. ‘It’s just you and me here. . . ‘

’No, we’re not alone. We’re never alone’ She snatched her hand free

and gripped the arm of the chair as she looked frantically around the

room. ‘There!’ She pointed to one corner near a standard lamp with a

broken shade. Her eyes moved quickly to another corner as if she were

following something; a chill ran down my spine. ‘There!’

‘Look at me,’ I said gently. She was so adamant I could almost believe

she was seeing something, but acid does strange things if your head isn’t

in the right place.

But she was too far gone. She forced herself up the back of the chair,

trying to drive herself away, her face drained of blood. I could smell fear

on her, a horrible metallic taint. ‘No!’ she screamed.

‘Please, you’ll be okay.’

Suddenly her arm shot up into the air as if it had been yanked. A

scream erupted from her throat. I threw myself backwards in shock as

she was dragged from the chair by invisible hands. Rapidly, she went

across the floor, one arm outstretched into nothing, shrieking in terror.

She mouthed something, but it took an instant for her vocal chords to

work: ‘Colours ... colours ... Colour-Beast –’ The words were choked

off.

The sight of her disappearing eerily into the shadows at the far end was

too much for me. The last things I saw were her white eyes and white

teeth glowing in the dark, before they finally faded.

I should have felt guilty for abandoning her. I didn’t; I panicked. But as

I scrambled towards the door ready to throw myself down the stairs and

out of that nightmarish place, something grabbed at my arm. Only there

was nothing there. I screamed, skidded out on to the landing. I got free,

but the way I’d landed meant I’d have to go past the door to get

downstairs. The only way was up. I didn’t stop to think. I ran.

All the doors I passed were locked. I hammered on them, but no one

answered. On the top floor, the final door was made of steel and daubed

with a red circle sprouting twin horns. I hit it hard, yelling to be let in.

Behind me, I couldn’t see anything in the half-light. The drapes on the

stairs were all drawn, with only slivers of sun eking through the gaps

between them. But as I watched, one of the drapes drew back, then fell

shut again. As if something had brushed by it.

My heart rose into my mouth. Before I could cry out, the door at my

back swung open and I fell through. It slammed shut instantly and a bolt

was drawn. I was looking up into the grinning face of a squat, heavily

muscled man. He had long, wiry black hair starting to grey, and a thick

beard. One tooth was missing so that his grin was faintly menacing,

while in the middle of his forehead was a home-made tattoo, an A in a

ragged circle; dried blood and dirt crusted the edges. Like the others I’d

seen, he didn’t appear to have washed recently. He reached out a hand

and pulled me roughly to my feet.

‘There’s something out there!’ I said, but he only laughed.

‘Nobody can get in here, baby.’ He turned and headed into the main

room, clearly expecting me to follow. His voice floated back: ‘And once

you’re in, you don’t get out. Unless I say so.’

‘You’re the Goblin?’ The minute I said the name, whatever was outside

faded into the background.

‘The question is, who are you?’

‘My name’s Summer. I’m looking for – ‘

’Summer, Summer, Summer.’ He laughed, not in a pleasant way.

‘Little freaky-chick. You want to join our commune?’

‘No –’

‘You should. We have a lot of fun here.’ He sat on a sofa that looked

and smelled like it had come straight from the junk heap. I glanced back

at the door; I thought I could hear something moving outside.

‘What’s out there?’

He laughed again, obviously unconcerned. Had it been my imagination,

or had I misread the situation? Perhaps the girl had moved herself. But

as soon as I thought it, I couldn’t believe it was true. I tried to put it out

of my mind; there was too much risk closer to hand.

‘I’m looking for someone –’

‘Everyone’s looking for someone in the Haight. Or something.’

The room had a familiar fragrant smell that just about masked the

unpleasant odour of sweat. On the coffee table in front of him were

plastic bags full of grass, a large sticky block of hash and a set of brass

scales. He saw me looking and flicked open a large switchblade, which

he rammed into the hash. ‘Sit.’ He nodded to an armchair lolling on

three legs.

I could understand why people had been afraid to come. Everything

about him said that nothing was beyond him. I’d seen his type before,

drawn to the freedoms of our movement, but not accepting any of the

responsibilities. Most of them were Just petty thieves or users, but at

least they had some scruples. I could see the Goblin had none.

‘My boyfriend’s missing.’ I sat primly in the centre of the chair; I

didn’t like the way he was looking at me.

‘You want to trip?’ He held out a handful of pills. ‘It’s cool. They’re

Owsley.’

‘Are you selling the Blue Moonbeams?’ It was a stupid question to ask;

I should have known better than to discuss his business so openly.

But instead of getting angry, he only sneered. ‘They’ll never push me

off the streets. Dumping that shit like there’s no tomorrow. It’s poison. I

don’t know what that witch, Mathilda, has got to do with it, but she’s in

there. They’re offloading it cheap, but you’d have to be crazy to touch it.

Kids are dying – they’ll get the message sooner or later.’ His eyes

narrowed. ‘Why do you want to know about that?’

‘Because my boyfriend might be one of the kids who died.’ There, I’d

said it. I took Denny’s picture out of my pocket. ‘Someone said they saw

him coming here.’

This did anger him. ‘Who’s talking out of class?’ The vehemence in his

voice scared me.

‘I don’t know their name. I was just showing the picture around town,’

I lied.

The Goblin seethed for a moment and began to stuff a bag full of grass

from a box on the floor. He seemed unbalanced, his reactions

unguessable. Too many drugs, I thought. Too much violence.

‘Have you seen him?’ I pressed tentatively.

‘Yeah, he’s here.’

My heart leapt; I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘He is?’

‘Yeah. He needed a place to crash. He’s sleeping right now.’ He

nodded towards a closed door to what I guessed was the bedroom.

I didn’t wait, couldn’t wait. I was through the door before the Goblin

had stood up. The room was dark and it took my eyes a while to adjust,

but the smell of stale sweat was even more pungent. When I finally

made out the shapes of the mattress on the floor and a few other minimal

pieces of furniture, I could feel the Goblin’s hot breath on the back of

my neck.

‘Denny?’ I said tentatively.

The Goblin shoved me roughly so I sprawled on the mattress. ‘Hey!’ I

said, before realising the bed was empty. My hand closed around a

discarded piece of clothing. Something rattled near my arm. Manacles,

fixed to the wall above the bed. The mattress itself was bare and covered

with dried brown stains that I knew were blood.

I rolled over, ready to run. The Goblin was silhouetted in the doorway,

and even though I couldn’t see his face I could tell he was grinning.

He’d retrieved the switchblade from the hash.

‘I’m not interested.’ My heart was thumping, adrenaline driving round

my system.

‘Free love, baby. That’s what we’re about.’ He undid the button on his

trousers and slowly slid the zipper down.

‘No,’ I said firmly.

He smiled, like a shark. ‘Cool it. Open your mind. This is a true Haight

experience. This is what we’re about,’ he repeated. ‘Turn on. Don’t be a

square.’ His voice was laced with irony; we both knew I didn’t have a

choice.

Then a strange thing happened. For some reason I became aware of the

clothing in my hand and realised it was Denny’s shirt. Unmistakable,

down to the customised peace sign I’d scrawled on the back the night we

met. And it was covered in blood.

The Goblin read the question in my face. ‘Your Denny’s dead, baby.’

He made a gesture of something blowing away, then laughed. ‘Gone,

like dust.’

There was some note in his voice that told me this time he wasn’t lying.

A cold wave washed through me, driving out the fear. I felt sick.

The Goblin advanced, his trousers gaping, the switchblade held to one

side. ‘Do it,’ I said, lying back. ‘I don’t care any more.’

He chuckled, dropping his trousers to his thighs as he got himself into

position between my legs. In the same instant that he went to his knees, I

rammed my feet hard into his groin. His squeal of pain sounded like

some pathetic animal. I threw myself off the bed and scrambled to my

feet, my breath burning in my throat.

By the time I reached the locked door, I could hear his furious ranting

behind me; he sounded like a wild animal. I threw back the bolt and

wrenched the door open, not even thinking about the ghost-thing that

had been outside. But, even with his unzipped trousers hampering his

pursuit, the Goblin was too close. I didn’t stand a chance of reaching the

street.

Two people suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs. I cried out in

shock before I realised it was Ben and Polly. Ben sized up the situation

in an instant. He grabbed my wrist and dragged me past him where I fell

into Polly’s arms; she pulled me away from the door. Approaching

madly, cursing and spitting, the Goblin was taken unawares. I saw the

startled expression on his face as he attempted to stop his mad-dash, but

he couldn’t quite manage it.

Ben swung his arm back and hit him hard in the middle of his face as

he skidded over the threshold. He tumbled backwards, blood pumping

out of his split lip. The switchblade flipped out of his hand, but it was

still close enough to grab.

‘Come on, Ben!’ Polly yelled. She was already hauling me down the

stairs.

We’d gone down one flight when the Goblin appeared over the stair

rail above. His bloody face was filled with fury. ‘I’ll remember you,

chickie!’ he roared. ‘And you two! I’ll be coming for you! You better

get out of town, because I’m coming!’

I don’t remember anything else until we were out on the street.

For five days I was lost to despair. Even now, after so many years of

suffering that emotion, it still holds its power. Perhaps because it was the

first time. You never forget your first time.

This house is cold; winter’s not far away. And sometimes it feels like

I’ve been cold all my life, a chill that’s been made worse by the memory

of those sun-drenched days when I first arrived in San Francisco.

It’s still quiet out there in the New England countryside. No cars

driving up the long lane to my isolated hideaway. But he’ll be coming

soon. And then it’ll all be over, one long nightmare of running and

hiding, of hopelessness and misery, giving way to another. Will I die? I

think I probably will.

That encounter with the Goblin was a turning point for so many

reasons, but it could have been so much worse; then, anyway. If Ben and

Polly hadn’t been worried enough about me to seek me out, I’d probably

have been wherever the Goblin dumped all the other bodies.

He was representative of the shadow that moved alongside those bright

times, inextricably linked. For the first time in our society women had

some empowerment. And at the same time the Haight was filled with so

many getting raped and abused under the guise of free love. While we

preached equality, the weak still got crushed by the strong, the innocent

swamped by the old, ever-present corruption. Cynical? No, realistic. But

I got the impression the Goblin hadn’t killed Denny himself, though he

was undoubtedly involved in it. There was something in his tone when

he told me Denny was dead, and I don’t think he would have missed the

opportunity to brag about how he’d done it.

I spent days and nights in my bed, crushing Denny’s shirt to me. It still

smelled of him, as if he’d only just taken it off and gone out to make a

coffee. If I dreamed hard enough, I could almost believe that – until I

saw the blood. My grief even fractured the memory of what had

happened to the young girl in the Goblin’s house; what I had witnessed

was so inexplicable it had become like a dream, so much more unreal

than the harsh reality of life and death.

The worst thing was that Denny’s killing made no sense. All I could

see was a good man, an honest, plain individual who had never harmed

anyone, murdered. Not only was it such a painful injustice, I couldn’t

begin to comprehend why anyone would want to kill Denny.

It felt like the heart had been ripped out of my world, but towards the

end of the fifth day I knew I had to replace it with something before I

fell apart completely. And that was the beginning of the end.

I’d been in the I-Thou for an hour, sitting over a cold coffee making

plans, when Ben and Polly slipped into the booth opposite me.

‘How are you, Summer?’ Polly took my hand sympathetically.

‘Okay.’ I think they could both see the lie in my face.

‘We came round the house a few times,’ Ben said awkwardly, ‘but

your mates said, you know, you weren’t ... up to it.’

‘Thanks for being so concerned.’

‘We didn’t want to leave you ... after what happened.’ Ben’s eyes were

everywhere apart from on me. ‘But, you know ...’

‘You had other responsibilities. I understand. How is the Doctor?’

They looked at each other. ‘Giving us a bit of grief,’ Ben said.

‘He’s not himself,’ Polly continued. ‘He’s so wrapped up in this

business ... more than he normally is.’

‘He’s obsessed,’ Ben grunted. ‘Thinks it’s some kind of game.’

‘And you don’t?’ I asked.

Ben leaned across the table conspiratorially. ‘We do, but we reckon it’s

working on two different levels. Whoever’s behind this obviously knows

the Doctor – knows how he thinks and what’ll get him intrigued. And is

using all this stuff to pull him in.’

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘To lure him into a trap.’ Ben sat back in his seat, nodding adamantly.

‘You’ve told him what you think?’

‘Oh yeah. It’s like talking to a brick wall.’

‘Ben’s right, though,’ Polly said. ‘Whoever is doing all this knows the

Doctor well. Just yesterday, a boy delivered pieces of a computer ... an

electronic brain. And the same thing happened. The boy ran off like he’d

just woken up, and after a moment the computer parts just disappeared.’

‘But they weren’t parts of just any computer,’ Ben broke in. ‘The

Doctor recognised that they came from a sort of super-computer called

WOTAN, which we had a bit of trouble with a while back.’ Polly smiled

at a secret joke. ‘That was it – he was gone for good. Fiddling with his

little tinker toys, ignoring us whenever we spoke. We just left him to it.’

‘You’re trying to take my mind off Denny, aren’t you?’ I couldn’t help

but smile at their sheepish expressions that I’d caught them out. ‘You

don’t have to worry about me, really. I’ve got something important to

do. I was just sitting here, making sure I was up to it.’

‘From what I’ve seen, I’m sure you’re up to anything, Summer,’ Polly

said.

‘I don’t know.’ I chewed on a nail, stared into the oily reflection in my

coffee. ‘I’ve thought about myself a lot over the last few days ... about

who I am ... about why I am who I am. And the thing that keeps coming

back is seeing the President get shot. That changed everything in the

world, and it changed me inside, too.’

Clouds of steam hissed from the gleaming coffee machine at the

counter while someone hummed a Beatles song. There was a mellow

mood to the place that made me feel safe for the first time in a week.

‘There’s one real reason why I was drawn to the Haight,’ I began.

‘There’s a war going on. The two sides are lining up. Everyone here is

making a stand, for innocence. But the country – the world – is in the

hands of the other side, the ones who only have cynicism. There’s some

horrible corruption eating away at us, and I’ve got this terrible feeling

this is our last chance. If we don’t do something now, it’ll be like that

forever. I have to do something ... we all do. If we just sit back, we’re

lost.’

Polly and Ben looked at me with the kind of pity people have for

someone who is talking from the depths of grief. I didn’t care; in my

own mind, I was sure.

‘And the first step is finding out why Denny died. Was it just some

crazy, random thing? You’d think, right? But then I go back to that day

in Dallas, and that’s what they told us then. A lone gunman. A crazy

thing. No meaning at all. But the truth is, that was the first shot of the

secret war that the people in charge have tried to hide from us with all

their lies. You see, what we stand for is a threat to them. They can’t keep

power for power’s sake in the kind of world we want. They need the

shadows, and lies, and corruption.’

‘You’re saying the people in charge killed Denny?’ Ben said warily.

‘No, I’m not saying that. All I’m saying is that there’s a reason why

Denny died. There’s a reason why everyone dies. And I want to find out

what it is.’

‘You know,’ Ben began cautiously, ‘sometimes people just die.’

I shook my head. ‘Not this time.’

‘I can’t say as I really believe in conspiracies,’ Ben said.

‘You know what they say, Ben. Sometimes you’re paranoid and

sometimes they really are out to get you. I think there is a conspiracy

here ... something to do with whoever’s dumping Blue Moonbeams on

the Haight. And I think Denny died because he found out about that.

You didn’t go through what I did in the Goblin’s place. Something big is

going on, something wild and frightening. I don’t know what it is, but

I’m going to find out.’

‘Maybe you should take a little time off, to think it through,’ Polly said

awkwardly. ‘Look at it again when you’ve got over the shock.’ The

doubt was clear on both their faces. They were so convinced that I was

inventing this to deal with the shock and the pain, I began to waver a

little.

‘I think perhaps you should listen to Polly, my dear.’

I started; I had no idea that the Doctor had come up behind me. It was

like he’d just appeared out of the shadows; I almost expected to smell

brimstone.

I turned to face him, my anger giving me a clear focus. ‘So you think

that I should j sit back and do nothing? My parents used to say the same

thing: you can’t beat the system. Look at the President. You can’t beat

the system.’ All the upset I’d bottled up threatened to come out in tears,

but I wasn’t going to let him see me cry; I bit on my lip until the pain

made it go away.

It felt like his dark eyes were burrowing into my head. ‘Well, then,’ he

said, as if we’d been talking about a shopping trip. ‘Where do you go

from here?’

Night had fallen and there was a chill in the air. We stood in the

shadows of an alley a stone’s throw from Buena Vista Park opposite a

big house that harked back to the grand old days of San Francisco. It was

the arty quarter: the writers Ambrose Bierce and Jack London had lived

nearby, and the place shared by the Grateful Dead and their extended

family was a couple of blocks west.

Ben and Polly stood behind me. They weren’t sure about what we were

doing, but the Doctor, who had strangely decided to accompany us, was

rubbing his hands excitedly. ‘A party! How exciting!’

The house belonged to a witch. Mathilda’s reputation was known all

over San Francisco, attracting a following that included bands, actors,

writers, intellectuals, even straight celebrities. She was the heart of an

occult network of astrologers, magicians and gurus who provided for the

spiritual needs, and egos, of a crowd keen to get a piece of the Age of

Aquarius. The Goblin had mentioned her when we were talking about

the Blue Moonbeams.

The party-goers had been arriving for the past hour. I’d already seen

Janis Joplin and a few members of the Grateful Dead’s entourage and

the night was still young. The Oracle had said Ginsberg, Gary Snyder

and Kesey were going to be there as well. At other times, as a poet, I’d

have been wowed to meet any of them.

‘We’ll never get in,’ I said.

The Doctor flexed his fingers. ‘Let’s see, shall we?’

He scampered across the street and up to the front door, the rest of us

hurrying to keep up. The entrance was guarded by an unnaturally tall,

muscular man dressed in long black robes. He had a shaven head and he

was wearing sunglasses, despite the hour. His swarthy skin emphasised

the numerous gold bangles and necklaces that hung off him. He was

curious about the Doctor, who did a little jig before bouncing up the

steps.

‘What a fine evening this is,’ the Doctor said with a theatrical sweep of

his arm, ‘and how wonderful it is to be here.’

I could see the doorkeeper was intrigued by the Doctor’s accent. ‘Hey,

do you know the Beatles?’ he asked.

‘Ah, the Fab Four! Why, yes I do,’ the Doctor replied. ‘In fact, it was I

who suggested George visit the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi for his spiritual

guidance.’ The doorkeeper looked perplexed. ‘Oh, of course, that hasn’t

happened yet. But it will happen! Mark my words!’

He pulled a recorder out from inside his jacket and proceeded to play

‘Love Me Do’ jauntily while performing a crazy dance. By this time a

small crowd had gathered. They laughed and clapped at his antics as he

played up to them; the doorkeeper wouldn’t be able to turn him away

without getting some annoyed comments.

But the Doctor sealed his entrance by finishing his tune with a flourish

of his hands that made the recorder disappear. It was a simple bit of

stage magic, but in the Haight we were easily entertained. Everyone

cheered, and the doorkeeper stood to one side to let us in.

I was a little stunned myself. I hadn’t seen that side of the Doctor

before. It was almost like he was two people; more, in fact.

Inside the house it was like we’d stepped into another dimension, like

one of those crazy places Ditko drew in the Dr Strange comics everyone

loved. It was designed to stimulate every sense, a heightened atmosphere

that had my head spinning the moment we’d walked through the door.

Incense and joss sticks mingled with the aroma of grass. In rooms where

the music wasn’t playing, wind chimes and bells jangled, accompanied

by the insane rhythms of bongo players. Drapes hung everywhere,

velvet, silk, gauze, drifting in a faint breeze through the open windows.

Psychedelic lights splayed swirling colours across the walls and ceilings,

bubbles floated here and there, and everywhere people were dressed in

the most amazing clothes and make-up. Many of the party-goers wore

ornate masks, though some of them were grotesque, and left me feeling

faintly uneasy.

‘Shall we mingle?’ the Doctor said with a clap of his hands. But as he

turned away, I caught a brief glimpse of his face darkening, and I

realised what he was doing.

I caught his arm. ‘You’re not here for me at all, are you? This has

something to do with your own thing.’ He looked at me with those

intense eyes for a long moment, then smiled.

‘I’m here for all of us, Summer. Trust me.’

I watched his back as it vanished into the crowd.

Ben and Polly came with me as we drifted through the house,

mesmerised by the strange, beautiful people and the heady atmosphere

of that place. For an hour or more, we mingled as things grew wilder. In

one room a couple had sex while a crowd watched admiringly. In

another, people lolled on cushions smoking a hookah like in some

Middle Eastern drug den. Everywhere people were tripping, hugging

each other, whispering weird things as they passed. All the rules of

society in the straight world slipped away.

We found Mathilda holding court in a lavishly gothic room on the

second floor. She was in her early fifties, with dyed black hair and too

much make-up, and like the doorkeeper she was wearing black robes

and jewellery that were so theatrical it was pretty obvious, to me at least,

that she was playing a role.

‘Do you think she really is a witch?’ Polly whispered. ‘You know, a

real one who can cast spells?’

‘People say. The Society people swear by her. There’s this story that

she caused some minister who’d been harassing her to have a heart

attack:

Ben snorted. ‘Or maybe he just had a heart attack.’

A connection fizzed in my brain. Polly must have seen it reflected in

my face because she asked, ‘What is it?’

‘When I was at the Goblin’s place, I saw something.’ I tried to find the

words to describe what had been a terrifying experience. It had come

back to me so many times over the days since, but however much I tried,

I couldn’t explain it at all. ‘Or rather I didn’t see something. It was

like ... a ghost ... invisible, but ... solid. It attacked this poor girl.’

I expected disbelief, from Ben at the very least, but their faces were

deathly serious. ‘We should tell the Doctor,’ Polly said. ‘This sounds

like his kind of thing.’

‘What I’m saying, is that if Mathilda is a true witch, she could be

controlling whatever it was. I don’t know ... a demon?’ I suggested

tentatively. ‘Or a familiar? Do you think?’

‘I don’t know,’ Ben began. ‘I’ve seen some funny stuff, but ... You’re

sure?’ I nodded. He glanced at Polly. ‘There’s got to be some kind of

connection.’

We all turned to watch Mathilda. I thought how hard her eyes looked,

but all the fabulous people who circled her were entranced. Mathilda

made a symbolic gesture and doves flew from a concealed box at the

side of her throne. The crowd was wowed, ducking out of the way of the

wildly flapping birds, which eventually made their way through the open

window.

‘I won’t find out who killed Denny until I know why he was at the

Goblin’s –’

‘You’re sure it wasn’t the Goblin?’ Ben said.

‘Yeah, pretty much. He would have bragged about it if he’d done it.

That’s the kind of sick person he is.’ I shuddered at the thought of him

leaning over the stairs making his threats; I just prayed he’d have more

on his mind than to waste time pursuing me. ‘But somehow Denny’s

death is tied into the Blue Moonbeams, I’m sure.’

‘Why do you think that?’ Ben asked.

‘You know what I think? That he found out about all the kids dying

after dropping that acid and he decided to do something about it. He was

always ready to do the right thing. And that’s why I loved him.’ If I’d

have been honest I’d have said I always thought that had been the thing

that would get him into trouble.

Behind Mathilda we could just glimpse a doorway, entry through

which appeared to be restricted to people who gave a secret knock.

‘I wonder what’s in there?’ Ben said.

‘The stash, probably.’ As I looked around, I occasionally caught some

of the masked guests staring at me. It was probably harmless, but it

made me feel paranoid.

‘I reckon we should check it out,’ Ben continued. ‘It looks important.’

Mathilda was entertaining the crowd by spooking out some pretty

young thing I vaguely recognised from a couple of movies, so we edged

around the walls towards the door. But before we could try it, it

suddenly burst open with such force Polly jumped in shock.

A guy who looked a bit like Jim Morrison burst out and fell to his

knees. He was shaking his head and making a noise like some cat in

pain. Three masked men dressed like the doorkeeper hurried through the

door, their black robes flying.

I could only guess the guy had been dipping into the tabs and was

freaking out. But instead of helping him, the musclemen grabbed him

roughly. ‘Get him out of here!’ Mathilda barked furiously.

Mathilda’s crew hid the guy from the rest of the people in the room, but

his head was turned to us. I’d seen bad trips before, but this was nothing

like it. His face was twisted with pain. He tore at his clothes, then his

cheeks and hair; at first I thought his mind was telling him he was on

fire, but there was more to it than that. He ducked down, croaking,

making no sense, and when he raised his head again we were all

horrified to see he was changing.

His skin was melting away as he pawed at it, the red sinew clearly

visible along with the fine network of capillaries, veins and pumping

arteries. Polly clutched at her mouth; Ben choked back his disgust.

And the transformation didn’t stop there. The sinew unravelled, the

circulatory system grew lighter, faded away, until the bone beneath

shone through, gleaming different colours in the psychedelic light show.

Two words escaped from his throat, and I could have been mistaken, but

they sounded very much like, ‘Colour-Beast.’ It was as if he could see

right through me, through the walls, miles away.

The last thing I saw was his hideous skull gaping at me for help, the

huge eyes staring at me in dismay, and then Mathilda’s cronies bundled

him back through the door.

Mathilda had clearly turned the event into a joke, for the hangers-on

were giggling, but her gaze was fixed coldly on us. We couldn’t deny we

had seen something out of the ordinary; we were all pale with shock,

frozen in one spot.

After a second, Ben tugged at my arm. ‘Come on,’ he hissed. ‘We’d

better get out of here:

As we hurried away, I was convinced some of the masks broke away

from their conversations to follow.

We found the Doctor deep in conversation with Timothy Leary. For his

experiments with altered states and the way he preached the spiritual

side to the mainstream, Doctor Leary was a bigshot in the Haight – lots

of people still wore their Timothy Leary is God buttons. ‘Interesting,’

Leary was saying. ‘So it activates this God Centre in the mind.’

‘It’s just a matter of tuning in,’ the Doctor said.

Leary took out a notebook and scribbled in it. ‘I think I might use that,

if you don’t mind.’

Ben caught the Doctor’s eye. He made his excuses with Leary and

came over. ‘Quite a visionary,’ he mused.

Before Ben could explain what we’d seen, we were suddenly

surrounded by several of the masked party-goers. The Doctor grinned at

them and attempted to play the fool again, but I could see from his eyes

that he was alert to the situation. ‘If I’d known it was a masked ball I’d

have come suitably attired,’ he said. ‘As it is – ‘

One of the masked men took hold of the Doctor’s arm forcefully. ‘Do

you mind?’ the Doctor said indignantly. Ben stepped in and there was a

brief scuffle. A mask was knocked free and the party-goer abandoned

the fight to replace it quickly. I saw his face, though, and it was

surprisingly ordinary. In the Haight, where everyone was a freak, a crew

cut and clear, cold eyes stood out like some alien race.

‘I think they would like us to accompany them,’ the Doctor said

ironically. ‘Best not to cause a scene.’

Ben plainly wasn’t in agreement, but he restrained himself at the

Doctor’s word. The masked men led us back to the room where

Mathilda held court – the Doctor gave her a little wave and a smile – and

then we were taken through the mysterious door.

If the house had been weird and intense, what lay beyond the door was

even more powerful. The room and the ones beyond it were lit by

rotating red and green lights through a slowly changing filter that sent

disturbing patterns playing continually. I could feel it affecting me

subconsciously, putting my nerves on edge. The door had been

soundproofed, for Tomorrow Never Knows blared out loudly on a

permanent loop with Lennon repeating his lines from the Tibetan Book

of the Dead; it was hypnotic and the repetition gave it a whole new

frightening feel. His suggestion to turn off your mind and drift away, to

lay down your thoughts and surrender to the void sounded

uncomfortably like an order. All around, figures were slumped in

various stages of doped-out bliss. At first I thought they were dead, but

occasionally they’d twitch in time to the music or mutter some comment

that made no sense.

We were herded through to a private room, still garishly lit, where the

masked men stood in a line in front of the door. ‘Come on, Doctor, let

me have a go at them,’ Ben said above the music, but not so loudly that

the guards could hear him.

‘I don’t think so. They’re carrying guns beneath their robes – I felt one.

Let’s wait and see what unfolds, shall we?’

My heart was hammering. I couldn’t shake the feeling that we wouldn’t

get out of there alive. The Doctor, though, was unmoved; it wasn’t right

that there wasn’t even a glimmer of apprehension in that situation.

It is not dying, Lennon said insistently. It is not dying.

Mathilda swept in soon after. Without saying a word, she moved

slowly along our ranks looking deep into our eyes. Her gaze was uneasy;

I couldn’t tell if she was tripping too or if there was something else

wrong with her, but it had an unusual quality that suggested she wasn’t

quite there.

When she had finished, she took a step back and said, ‘Across the

heavens, we travel. Nothing here matters.’ She gestured around. ‘All

ephemeral. Death comes when we least expect it. A kiss on the cheek, a

cold touch on the back of the neck. All hearts reach out ... in colours ...

in colours ...’ Her eyes were unfocused; it was almost like she wasn’t

speaking to us, like she was reaching out to something around us that we

couldn’t see. I shivered, felt eyes on the back of my head from a corner

of the room where nothing stood. I told myself it was Mathilda spooking

my imagination.

She looked round at the masked figures then smiled at us and said,

‘They live in a place beyond our lives!

‘Very interesting,’ the Doctor said. ‘But if that’s all, we’ll take our

leave now.’

Mathilda shook her head slowly, smiling dreamily. ‘They’re all around

us, all the time,’ she said softly. ‘Even when you think you’re alone.’

A whisper rustled past my ear. My hair was stirred by the motion of the

unseen. I glanced at Polly and Ben; they could feel it too. Suddenly I

couldn’t shake the sight of that poor girl being dragged into the shadows

by invisible hands in the Goblin’s house.

‘There’s something here,’ I said, moving closer to Ben.

Mathilda’s beatific state faded and she examined us again before

making a dismissive gesture. ‘Nobodies. Give it to them.’

Two of the guards grabbed me roughly and dug their fingers sharply

into my jaw so they could force open my mouth. I struggled, but they

were too strong. The others were also being restrained; only the Doctor

didn’t fight back. One of the masked men produced a small pill ready to

drive it into my mouth. I glimpsed the pattern on it – Blue Moonbeams.

The Doctor freed one arm and plucked the pill from his captor’s hand,

tossing it into his mouth with a broad grin. The rest of us gagged as the

pills were thrown down our throats. There was a brief moment of chaos

as Ben fought back. One of the guards punched him hard in the stomach,

forcing him to swallow. Polly choked; tears sprang to her eyes.

It is not dying. It is not dying.

I managed to catch the pill on the tip of my tongue and pin it to my

cheek, before feigning dismay as I collapsed to my knees, my hair

falling across my face so no one could see. The chalky substance of the

pill started to dissolve; I had to get it out quickly before the acid seeped

into me through the soft tissue. But I couldn’t do it while the guards

were there; they’d only make me take another.

‘That’s enough now,’ Mathilda said to the guards.

As they all moved out, I spat the pill into my hand and threw it away

with disgust. I could already feel a subtle change beginning; the music

was becoming more intense, the colours on the wall glowing with a

strange inner quality.

The Doctor hurried over, his own pill held in his open hand where he’d

cleverly palmed it with a little of his stage magic. Once he saw I was

okay, he turned his attention to Polly and Ben. ‘Quickly,’ he said.

‘There’s still time. We have to make them vomit up the pills. Can you

do that?’

I nodded, but my attention was wandering to the strange patterns the

lights were making on the walls. Oddly, shadows appeared to be

flickering on the edge of my consciousness, like when a strobe starts.

But it wasn’t a pleasant experience; something was starting to scratch at

the back of my mind.

The Doctor took my shoulders firmly. ‘Summer, I need your help. You

must concentrate.’

I turned quickly to Ben as the Doctor cradled Polly’s head and then

forced his fingers deep into her mouth. I did the same with Ben; I could

see in his roving eyes the dim beginnings of a trip.

They both rolled over and threw up the pills, which were still whole.

‘That should have done the trick,’ the Doctor said. ‘The effect will be

minimised ... and let’s hope the more sinister side will be curtailed.’

We helped Ben and Polly to their feet; from the way their eyes darted

around the room, I could tell they too were experiencing the illusion of

things moving. ‘Colours,’ Ben said with a note of tension.

Polly nodded forcefully. ‘Colours ...’ Her eyes grew fearful, fixed on

one spot. I could see a shadow of something in the same place. Brightly

coloured stars appeared to be bursting within it. I think Polly could see it

more clearly because the drug had had longer to reach her system.

I remembered what the girl had said, the man undergoing the hideous

transformation. ‘The Colour-Beast,’ I whispered. Polly stared at me with

wide eyes and nodded.

‘We need to get out of here very quickly,’ the Doctor said. ‘I fear

something very unpleasant is about to take place.’

It felt like there was a rat loose in my head. I had the horrible sensation

that somebody else was inside me; I convinced myself I could hear their

thoughts crackling next to mine, merging, writhing in and out with

lashing tails.

Somehow we stumbled into the next room where the music thudded

madly and the lights streamed like rainbows. It was like a scene from

hell. The people that had been slumped all around were in the throes of

the terrible transformation we had witnessed earlier. They were at

different stages: some were rubbing their hands over their faces and hair

in terror, while others staggered around as their flesh peeled back or

their capillaries unravelled; a few were bone and clothing. Others simply

winked out, leaving an impression, like starlight on my retina, but I felt

that once the trip took hold, I’d be able to see them again. The noise of

their torment was so terrible it even rose above the music.

‘Is this going to happen to us?’ Polly shrieked. The Doctor took her

hand and pulled her so she could look into his eyes; she calmed

instantly.

Ben was scratching at his scalp as if he were trying to tear something

out of his head. The Doctor turned his attention to Ben and managed to

ease him too.

We backed into the smaller room as the shapes raged around with

increasing craziness; even with the room half-empty we could still hear

the violent movement of many bodies careering off each other, attacking

each other. Disembodied howls made me feel sick; made me want to

cry.

The Doctor slammed the connecting door shut. Ben was not so far

gone, and the more he focused, the more I could see him shucking off

the effects of the Blue Moonbeams.

Polly slumped in the middle of the floor, her head in her hands.

‘What’s happening?’ she whimpered; the drug had touched her emotion

centre just enough to send her feelings wheeling out of control.

I could see they both, secretly, felt like me. Even with such a slight

touch of the acid, would we go the way of the people in the other room?

And so we waited, for an hour or more, until all the sickening sound in

the other room had died away. And even then I didn’t dare enter, but the

Doctor took control. As he strode into the silent room and looked

around, I thought: Don’t you feel anything at all?

‘Where have they all gone?’ I asked. No one answered.

‘I think we’re going to be all right,’ Polly said tearfully.

‘Not like those poor beggars,’ Ben mumbled. I looked around the

seemingly empty room and saw four bodies lying in the shadows where

the swirling lights didn’t touch. I inspected the closest. He had torn the

shirt from his back – the remnants were still clutched in his dead fingers

– and the marks of his own nails raked his torso.

I don’t know what prompted it, but I felt an instinctive tingling. I pulled

the tattered shirt free and held it up. The light played over it, red, green,

red, green, showing up the dark stains. The blood formed patterns

exactly like the ones on Denny’s shirt.

It is not dying. It is not dying.

Connections began to form in my mind, but I refused to face up to

them. ‘Why didn’t he disappear like the others?’ I asked feebly.

‘Maybe, like any other drug,’ the Doctor replied, ‘it has different

effects on different people.’

‘Acid can’t kill you.’ My voice sounded strained, tiny; I wasn’t really

aware what I was saying. All I could think of was why the blood patterns

were the same as those on Denny’s shirt.

‘This can,’ the Doctor said. He glanced at me, and I had the strangest

feeling he was reading my mind. I looked away. ‘If we get out of this

place,’ he said in an almost detached tone, ‘perhaps it would be better if

you left this city immediately. You’re not up to what lies ahead.’

That made me angry. ‘I’m seeing it through,’ I snapped. I walked away

from the body and looked around the room. ‘We can’t go out the way we

came in. And I’m betting they’ll be in here any minute.’ I noticed a

square every now and then taking shape out of the shadows shifting

across the ceiling: the entrance to the roof-space. ‘Up there,’ I pointed.

Ben was drifting again, and dragged himself back with irritation.

‘Come on, then. No point hanging around.’ He held his hands in a cradle

to lever me up.

We scrambled up into the dust, damp and dark, the music now a dull

ache beyond the rafters. The Doctor carefully closed the trap after us;

Mathilda would think we’d gone the same way as the others. Dead?

Disappeared? I really didn’t know any more. All I could think about was

Denny, how his death must have been so terrible; I couldn’t help

tormenting myself. I was a mass of raw emotions, but the irony wasn’t

lost on me: I’d come to San Francisco in search of a new life, but what

I’d found was death.

Yet, even so, I still believed. I had to do the right thing for Denny.

What we felt in our hearts was true, and though we’d suffered so

terribly, it was still the light in the dark. I wiped away my tears, trying to

think what Denny would have wanted me to do, and kept going.

When I look back to those times, it feels like I’m observing another

person: a child, cosseted, who still hadn’t worked out how the world

works. How stupid I was, how pathetic and naive. Yet that short time in

Haight-Ashbury is still so clear in my memory, every image in sharp

definition, the smells, damp misty mornings and sunlight on brick and

the ever present smell of grass, the constant background chatter of lively

people and the music that soundtracked a generation. Why does such a

brief experience have so much potency, especially when it ended so

badly?

The years that followed – the hitch-hiking, buses and trains, a

succession of grim, industrial cities and YWCAs, loveless sex, sex for

food, money or lodgings, sex for comfort – it all merges into one dreary

mass. An abstract, characterised by despair and fear, that sooner or later

he’d catch up with me; that it all would.

The evil that was loose in that town that day hasn’t faded away like all

those poor people who took the Blue Moonbeams; it’s got stronger.

For a long time, I thought this house would be my sanctuary. It was

bought with the proceeds of a hundred dead end jobs, every cent stored

away before I moved on to the next town. All those dreams of being a

poet evaporated early on; there was no poetry in my life; no poetry in

America.

I guess I was stupid thinking I could hide away here forever, on the

edge of the country. From the outside, the house looks like it’s falling

down – hanging gutters, fallen tiles, swinging shutters. Nobody ever

visits. For five years it was a place to rest and be alone with my

thoughts.

And then the phone that never rang, rang; and I knew that he was

coming.

Back there in the Haight we used to wish every day; we really believed

if we wished hard enough it would all come true. If I had one wish now

it would be to get back what remains of my future. But it’s too late for

that.

We got out of Mathilda’s place through a service hatch on to the roof.

Dawn was just streaking the horizon gold and purple, the sky lightening

so that I could almost believe I could see all the way to the bay. Down

below, the streets were filled with mist, ghostly, touching the city with

magic. I could have stayed up there forever.

We made it down a fire escape and hurried down empty roads to my

place, our footsteps coming back in deadened echoes so that we often

stopped in fear that someone was following us. By that stage, the only

remnant of the trip was a faint fuzziness on the edge of our vision; the

scratching in my mind was long gone and for that I was immensely

thankful.

When I reached the house it was immediately clear something was

wrong. The front door hung on shattered hinges. In my room my things

were scattered around, smashed, my bedroll torn to pieces. Jen emerged

from her room at the sound of my voice. Her left eye was swollen shut

and her lip split.

‘What happened?’ I hardly dared ask.

Jen fell into my arms. ‘The Goblin,’ she sobbed. ‘He was after you,

Summer. He wants you dead.’

***

I couldn’t stay there. The Goblin wouldn’t give up. He’d be back sooner

or later, and even if I hid he’d take it out on my friends. I salvaged what

I could from my possessions and told Jen that I’d find somewhere else,

but Polly put her arm round my shoulders and said supportively, ‘You

should let us look after you for a while. It’ll be safer.’

I looked to the Doctor, but he was staring into space, preoccupied. I

guess I wanted him to make the offer – I still wanted to think good

things of him – but it seemed then that he wasn’t interested at all.

We spent the remaining hours until morning in an all-night café. Ben,

Polly and I all dozed off for a while in our seats, but the Doctor didn’t

seem even remotely tired, and shortly before dawn he abruptly got up

and left. After the rest of us had had some breakfast – health food and

ice cream – we finally felt able to talk about what we’d seen the

previous night, and how close we’d come to death.

‘That Mathilda is a witch in more ways than one,’ Polly said.

Ben picked seeds from his teeth, examining them distastefully. ‘And

she’s got her own private army going on.’

‘But what’s the point of it?’ I said tearfully; my emotions were all over

the place. ‘It doesn’t make any sense. Why feed people the drug if you

know it’s going to do that to them?’

‘You’re not going to make any money from it, are you?’ Ben agreed.

‘The effects are pretty terminal.’

‘Maybe she doesn’t like young people,’ Polly mused. ‘Take a bite from

this apple, Snow White.’

I shook my head. ‘The word would soon get round. I can’t believe she

was doing it there, at her place. When all those kids don’t come home

from her party, what are people going to say?’

‘Desperate,’ Ben said.

‘What?’

‘I said, she seemed desperate. You could see it in her face when she

came in to us. Like we might mess everything up.’

‘Like time was running out,’ Polly added.

I closed my eyes and saw skin peel back from flesh, fall away from

bone. ‘She is a real witch,’ I whispered. ‘She must have real powers to

do something like that to those kids. Maybe every single pill is a spell,

transforming them into demons.’

‘The Colour-Beast.’ Ben looked away; I’d never seen him look so

disturbed.

‘That’s what they called it. You saw it?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ He picked up the empty ice cream

cartons and took them over to the trash can, busying himself so he didn’t

have to think.

‘It was coming out of those poor kids. Or they were becoming it.’ Polly

stared into the middle distance, pale and uneasy. ‘I didn’t really see it. I

think the drug was helping me ... but it was becoming clearer. There

were colours ... lots of amazing colours. At first the shape wouldn’t

settle down, it kept moving all the time, and it felt like my mind was

having trouble pinning it down. And then the beast started to come out.

It looked – ‘ She put a hand to her mouth to stifle a gag.

‘Demons,’ I said. I’d never been much of a church person, but my

grandmother was Southern Baptist; she’d understand.

‘She’s planning something.’ Ben had returned from dumping the trash.

‘Everything that’s been happening has been some kind of test.’

‘You think?’

‘I wish the Doctor would take more of an interest in this,’ Polly said

wistfully. ‘He would work it out.’

‘We don’t need him,’ I said firmly. ‘If you’re with me, let’s go find out

about Mathilda.’

Stimson was typing furiously, surrounded by a cloud of smoke, his

cigarette holder stuck out dangerously. ‘Greetings, cat and chicklets,’ he

said through clenched teeth when he saw us. ‘Just let me finish these

pearls of wisdom – another great exclusive! Pulitzer here I come! – and

then I’ll be with you.’

We managed to find a few square inches not covered with piles of

paper and roaches and watched the other journalists go about their

business. Music filled the air – a live tape of Country Joe and The Fish

singing ‘I Feel Like I’m Fixin’ To Die’ – and the fragrant smoke drifted

everywhere. I couldn’t imagine straight newspaper offices being like

that: there wasn’t a touch of cynicism in the earnest conversations or

absurd asides, and the level of dedication was remarkable; they truly

believed in the people and subjects they were writing about.

Eventually Stimson came over, riding his wheeled chair like a tricycle.

He eyed me seriously: ‘How was the Goblin? Did he let you across his

bridge?’

‘That was a troll,’ Ben said. Stimson waved him silent.

‘He’s after my blood. But I can deal with that –’

‘Whoa! There’s fire in you, girl!’

‘We want to know about Mathilda

‘The Witch of Buena Vista?’ Stimson’s curiosity was piqued. ‘Why’s

she suddenly the dame of the day?’

I told him what happened, leaving out the part about the

transformations; a lack of cynicism goes only so far.

He whistled through his teeth. ‘So she’s behind the Blue Moonbeams.

That’s crazy. What’s she going to get out of that? She doesn’t have to

deal shit. She’s got enough moolah and influence from all those sappy

celebrities who hang around her all the time.’

‘That’s what we want to know. What’s her background?’

He headed for a filing cabinet and came back with a cuttings file,

which he leafed through quickly. ‘She’s got all the right credentials.

Former member of the Theosophical Society, friends with Krishnamurti,

studied Ouspensky and Gurdjieff, visited Gerald Gardner shortly before

his death. She started her coven down in LA where she met all her high

profile buddies. Moved up here eighteen months ago.’ He unfolded

cuttings and scanned quickly. ‘She became a mover and shaker pretty

quickly – she’s cute when it comes to publicity. Telling how her magic

works ... usually after the fact. Nothing here to show why she’d get

wrapped up in a scam like Blue Moonbeams. For such a publicity

hound, rumours about kids vanishing and all that horseshit can only be a

bad thing. Dig?’

‘She’s bloody well planning something big,’ Ben said. ‘I’d stake my

life on it.’

‘I told you kids, there’s only one big thing happening round here – the

Human Be-In tomorrow night. The whole country is talking about it ...

heck, maybe the world, even in the straight press. That Summer of Love

is on its way, and it starts here. Yeah, it’s getting hyped ... the Diggers

hate it, think it’s going to bring a lot of undesirables to the Haight ... like

we haven’t got enough already, right? But it’s going to get the message

across to everybody whose hair stays above the collar. This country is

changing. The shirts and ties, the greedheads, the politicians, the

generals – they’re getting a wake-up call that the people are on the move

and they’re not going to take their crap any more.’

I felt a surge of excitement and pride at Stimson’s words; it was what

we all believed in, what we were fighting for, and I really felt we could

win.

‘So could Mathilda be going to the Human Be-In?’ Polly had grown

serious; she’d latched on to something.

‘Everybody who’s anybody is going to be there. And, yeah, Mathilda,

she’s got a big part to play.’ Stimson fetched his notebook from his desk

and proceeded to read. ‘She’s carrying out a big ritual at the event .. .

going to magic our guys back from Vietnam ... stick one in Johnson’s

eye. I told you she had a handle on publicity.’

‘So it would be easy for her to hand out the Blue Moonbeams to the

crowd,’ Polly suggested.

Ben and I froze; we were both picturing the same sickening image.

‘Why would she do a thing like that?’ Ben asked.

‘How many are supposed to be going?’ Polly said.

‘It’s going to be big, big, big,’ Stimson said. ‘Everybody in the Haight

– every mover and shaker from Leary and Ginsberg to Janis and the

Dead ... and they’re going to be coming from all over the West Coast.’

He raised his eyes while he worked up a figure. ‘Say, maybe, twenty-

five thousand?’

We came out of the Oracle offices in a daze. If the Blue Moonbeams

were dropped by the crowd at the Human Be-In, it would be an atrocity.

‘We could go to the police,’ Polly suggested.

I laughed. ‘They’d probably come down and help hand out the tabs.’

‘She wouldn’t do a thing like that,’ Ben said, as if trying to convince

himself. ‘What would she get out of it?’

It wasn’t a question any of us could answer, but it left us in a bleak

mood as we set off to try to find the Doctor.

The Doctor emerged from his police box to find us waiting outside. He

was tossing up and down one of the Blue Moonbeam pills he’d

obviously saved from Mathilda’s place. ‘Very strange,’ he mused, half

to himself, before turning his attention fully to us. ‘I’ve given this a

thorough going-over, and there’s one element in it that I can’t identify.’

‘The bit that’s responsible for what happened to all those poor sods,’

Ben said.

‘I expect so.’

I was pleasantly surprised that the Doctor had taken time out from his

own investigations to examine the tab. I told him our suspicions about

the Human Be-In, and his face darkened. ‘You think that could be what

she’s planning?’ I asked.

‘I think Mathilda is a very dangerous woman indeed.’ He tossed the pill

one more time with distaste, then dropped it into his pocket. ‘Something

must be done.’

The plan was quite simple in the telling – get into Mathilda’s house,

render her stash of Blue Moonbeams unusable with an acid-based

concoction that the Doctor had brewed up, then get out – but Ben, Polly

and I all realised that it was nigh-on impossible to achieve. Any

optimism I had felt about the Doctor’s increasing interest in the Blue

Moonbeams had vanished when he had declined to come with us. And

when we’d arrived at the gloomy, gothic house, even the thin hope we’d

nurtured had blown away.

The house was dark and empty, Mathilda and her entourage had long

gone. Ben managed to break in through the roof-space that we’d used

the previous night, and let Polly and me in the front door We searched

the place from top to bottom, but found nothing incriminating. The

bodies were gone, the bloodstains wiped up, no stash of Blue

Moonbeams anywhere.

‘She’s gone to a bolt-hole,’ Ben said redundantly.

‘Where do we go now?’ Polly hugged her arms around her against the

growing chill. ‘Back to Jack? He might have an idea where she’s gone.’

‘He’s somewhere down at the preparations for the Human Be-In doing

interviews, remember?’ I said disconsolately. Alan Cohen, one of his

editors and the Oracle’s co-founder, was an organiser and the whole

staff had been drafted in to report on it. Then it struck me: ‘The

Diggers.’

‘The free food people?’ Ben led the way along the street. Nearby a few

people were listening to a guy playing Dylan numbers on a guitar.

‘There are two kinds of people in the Haight,’ I said. ‘There’s the art

crowd – the sit back and smoke and paint and make music and write

crowd. And there are the activists – the fighters, the change the system

crowd, the people who get things done.’

‘And the Diggers are the fighters?’ Polly said.

‘Yeah, they’re artists too, a lot of them ... poets, painters and street

actors. But they’ve got this idea of a socialist utopia ... they’re named

after some ancient English commune or something. Anyway, they hand

out free food in the Panhandle, and they’re always hitting the local

businesses to get them to distribute their profits to the community.’

‘I wish them luck!’ said Ben, cynically.

‘The thing is, they meet everybody. They might have some idea where

Mathilda’s gone.’

Ben stopped suddenly and looked behind us.

‘They’ll be there at this time of night?’ Polly asked.

‘There’s somebody around all the time.’

‘I thought I saw someone behind us ... following,’ Ben said.

Strands of pearly mist drifted across the street. We watched for a while,

but nothing moved.

‘You’re just spooking yourself,’ I said.

Ben shrugged, but he didn’t look convinced.

There were lamps along the main paths through the park, but they barely

made a mark on the darkness that turned the trees into an inky pool.

Along the skyline, though, I could see the glittering lights of the city. It

was funny; I rarely thought of the rest of San Francisco, the streetcars

and the hills, the rich suburbs and the bay. To me, the Haight was

everything; ‘the first psychedelic city-state’ like all the hipsters called it.

Ben had been unusually jumpy for most of the journey, but there hadn’t

been any sign of anything out of the ordinary. He calmed a little when he

heard the sound of workers doing last-minute construction on the stage

for the Human Be-In in the distance, and there were still people milling

around in a state of anticipation of the next day. A few tents were

scattered here and there among the trees. For once the cops were leaving

them alone, instead of giving them a help along with their nightsticks or

busting freaks for vagrancy.

A few Diggers hung around a trestle table where they offered hot

vegetable soup to anyone who passed. We took up their suggestion – it’d

been a long time since breakfast – and started chatting to a guy called

Spooner. He was in his early twenties with long brown hair tied back

with a stars and stripes bandana. After a while we got the conversation

round to Mathilda.

‘Yeah, I saw her earlier. Crazy chick,’ he said.

‘Any idea where she might have gone?’ Polly asked.

He shrugged. ‘She was hanging out with these clydes. They took off in

some limo. I don’t know, they looked like the Combine, you dig?’

I nodded, and tried to ignore Ben’s blank expression.

‘Maybe she’s cutting and running. This Summer of Love crap is going

to be the end of the Haight.’

‘You don’t like it?’

‘It’s all hype, man. It’ll get out of hand. They’ll be coming from all

over to get a piece of what we’ve got going here, and they’ll wreck it:

He stared off into the shadows dismally. ‘I don’t know, man – I always

thought that Mathilda was a one-percenter, but these days too many

people are giving up and going for the green.’

We drifted away until we were out of earshot, and then I explained to

Ben and Polly that Spooner thought Mathilda had sold out.

‘So she’s gone off to spend her cash from the drug deals,’ Ben said.

‘And we’ve got no idea where she might be.’

Our mood wasn’t good as we wandered off the path to take a shortcut

through the trees, heading in the direction of the Doctor’s police box. I

had an awful sense that things were slipping away from me, that I really

was as useless as I feared that day in Dealey Plaza. ‘This is a nightmare,’

I said. ‘Nothing makes any sense any more.’

‘You should see some of the things that we’ve seen with the Doctor,’

Ben said, distracted. ‘Nothing ever makes sense.’

Polly noticed Ben’s wandering concentration. ‘What’s wrong?’ she

asked.

He shook his head, forced a smile, but continued to cast furtive glances

into the dark among the trees. A prickling sensation tingled up and down

my spine. We continued in silence for a few yards until I caught

movement away to my left. ‘There’s someone following us,’ I hissed.

Before Ben or Polly could respond, several figures burst out of the

undergrowth. I let out a scream and tried to run, but they were on us in

an instant. I smelled sweat and dirt as they roughly grabbed my hands

and forced them behind my back. Somebody whispered something

disgusting in my ear. Foul breath wrapped itself around me.

They restrained Ben with a few punches and then someone hit him

across the face with a lump of wood; he sagged like a plug had been

pulled. Polly was out of my line of vision, her cries muffled by a hand.

‘I told you I’d get you.’

Terror came like a rush of ice-water. I tried to tear myself free in a

frenzy of struggling, seeing clearly what lay ahead.

The Goblin stepped into a pool of moonlight. He gave off such a

menacing aura that I stopped struggling, mesmerised; it was hopeless.

There were at least ten of them, strong and wiry and free of scruples.

The Goblin held his switchblade loosely as he approached, snake-like.

What I saw in his face made me feel like I was going to be sick.

‘I told you,’ he repeated. ‘I call the shots round here. I tell people what

to do. If I say vanish ...’ He made a chopping motion with his hand, then

followed it with a minor explosion of fingers. ‘Poof. Those are the rules.

Where do you get off breaking them? Who do you think you are?’ He

sneered. ‘Looking for your crutch ... But he’s gone, gone, gone.’ I

couldn’t control my expression. ‘What’s the matter?’ he continued.

‘Can’t take the truth? No point living in dreams, baby.’

He brought the switchblade up to my neck, but however much I tried to

press away, the thug at my back held me tight. The tip of the knife bit

into my collar bone, then moved up to my throat. He was getting his

kicks and I wasn’t going to let him; somehow I managed to find some

strength, get some diamond in my eyes. He didn’t like it when he saw

that. He wanted me scared.

He leaned in close and whispered into my ear. ‘It’s going to hurt.’ He

pulled back, his face darker and harder now. ‘First you, then the witch.

She’s not going to push me out of the Haight.’

There was a sound like the wind in the stillness beyond him. Then one

of his filthy henchmen suddenly crumpled to the ground; it was eerie, so

unreal it felt like a dream. The Goblin turned, puzzled. ‘Get up,’ he

snapped, as if the guy was playing some kind of game. Even I could see

he wasn’t moving.

Another moan of wind, another thug falling hard. I saw fear blaze in

the eyes of the other henchmen, the whites gleaming in the moon. The

hands around me loosened their grip and I pulled free, darting into the

trees. Polly was close behind, supporting Ben.

When we looked back, it was sickening but hypnotic. They were

running, but fell mid-stride. Their pale skin split open in mysterious

straight lines, tear marks slowly extending, four together. An arm came

off, a tuft of long hair and part of a scalp. Blood misted the air so that

briefly everything took on a red hue. It was trippy.

And then they were screaming, the sounds so horrible I clutched on to a

tree in shock, wishing I couldn’t hear. They didn’t know what was

happening, didn’t know where to run. The Goblin stood at the centre,

defiant, but the fear was starting to rise in his eyes too, and though I

hated myself it felt good to see it.

The last of his thugs fell and it seemed like he was finally ready to run,

but it was too late. As we watched, he just came apart; it looked like

he’d gone through a bacon slicer. There was a crumpling, and blood like

rain, and that last doomed, stupid expression that I’d never forget.

I was jolted out of it by Ben grabbing my shoulder. ‘Witchcraft,’ I

whispered, dazed. ‘She’s called something to kill them.’

We ran, not looking back, before it came for us.

***

JFK. The first shot in the war. ‘We interrupt this programme to bring

you a special bulletin ...’ MLK. ‘I’ve been to the mountaintop ... I don’t

mind. Like anybody I’d like to live ...’ Bobby. ‘Senator Kennedy has

been shot. Is that possible? Oh, my God! Get that gun, get that gun ...!

We don’t want another Oswald!’ Then John, outside the Dakota

Buildings while Yoko looked on. ‘All you need is love.’ All those lone

gunmen.

Crazy world, crazy life. Sometimes, in my bleaker moments, I think

people need to take more drugs. Yes, they’re filthy and dangerous and

screw you up, but if there’s one thing hallucinogens teach you, it’s to

make connections. They speak to that very old part of the brain, the real

you lurking at the back of your head and talking in a language the fake at

the front can’t understand. That real you knows everything we see

around us is a mask for the truth that lies behind it, where things are

joined secretly across time and space, hidden relationships, subtle cause

and effect, complexity so intense it can baffle logical probing.

Sometimes you just have to feel.

There isn’t a person who’s dropped acid or taken mushrooms who

doesn’t know about the telepathy, the way at times you know exactly

what someone’s thinking and they know what you’re thinking. But try

telling that to people who haven’t taken hallucinogens; it’s something

that can’t be communicated unless it’s been experienced. Like religion, I

suppose. In the same way, it’s impossible to communicate those

connections that exist behind the patina of our lives to someone who

doesn’t already know they’re there.

Lone gunman. Lone gunman. Lone gunman. Lone gunman. Twice is a

coincidence. Yet still people deny the pattern.

And as long as the majority denies it, we’re left with a consensus

reality where people like me – people who only wanted the best from

life – are seen as outsiders. This isn’t my reality at all. No wonder I’ve

been on the run for the better part of forty years.

I often wonder if we could have done more, if things would have

turned out differently. The human race is very good at assimilating bad

situations and making do. The only time it hurts is when people see how

it could have been. And no one does see, because the picture is

controlled.

But just how long can you keep assimilating? How much despair can

you soak up? I think you can exist in an atmosphere of pointlessness for

only so long before you have to face facts, and I think I’ve reached my

limit. I made a good fist of it. Years and years of running and misery and

fear. No one could say I didn’t try. Not that.

I’ve got a gun. The big-time gangsters would probably laugh at it, but

it’s enough to do the job. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t relish it. I’m

scared I’ll make a mistake, take half my face off but still be alive, to

suffer even more. But there really isn’t any point carrying on. When he

gets here, my life will be over anyway.

The question now is when to do it. When I see the lights splaying over

the dark countryside, when I feel the tread on the front porch, the creak

of the door handle, the step on the stairs? When is the right time to kill

yourself?

We were pursued through the trees, I’m sure of that, but when we finally

emerged into the open, the terrible feeling of dread that we had felt

seemed to lift, and we realised that we had escaped. When we reached

the Doctor’s police box, we lay against the side of it for several minutes,

breathing heavily and shaking. Ben was sprayed with blood from the

wound on his forehead.

Then the Doctor suddenly emerged, beaming from ear to ear. ‘I have

it!’ he said. ‘Simple, when you get to the heart of it! Symbolic

communication – that’s what it’s all been about. All the things presented

to me were representative.’

‘What?’ I said sharply, scarcely believing my ears.

‘Communication is the transmission of ideas or information in a

language that the recipient can understand,’ he lectured. ‘If there isn’t a

shared verbal language, then the best thing is the universal language of

symbols. The Cyberman, the Menoptra, WOTAN – it all makes perfect

sense!’

‘Don’t you care about anyone apart from yourself?’ Bottled-up emotion

came rushing out in tears of frustration and anger. I motioned to Ben

who was clutching a handkerchief to his head wound. ‘Look at him –

your friend. And Polly – terrified. We’ve been through this terrible thing

and all you’re concerned about is your stupid puzzle!’

The Doctor looked taken aback. ‘Summer, it’s okay,’ Polly said.

‘No, it’s not okay.’ I caught myself and turned away. Ben placed a

hand on my shoulder; it was a simple gesture, but from someone as

restrained as Ben, it said the world. I couldn’t understand how someone

like the Doctor could have such loyal helpers. ‘I hope you appreciate

them,’ I snapped.

‘Oh, I do, I do.’ He gave Ben’s wound a cursory inspection. ‘That

won’t need stitches – you’ll be over it in no time. And Polly, are you

well?’ She nodded. ‘There we are, then. I gather you met a little

opposition at Mathilda’s house?’

Ben told him what happened. He was intrigued by the description of

the deaths of the Goblin and his men.

‘Witchcraft, you say?’ He sniffed. ‘I don’t think that’s very likely.

Particularly as it doesn’t exist.’

‘Then what was it?’ I said. ‘What is this Colour-Beast?’

The Doctor raised a finger. ‘Ah, now there is the question. But back to

the matter at hand – symbolic communication.’ I sighed; he watched me

for a moment through narrow eyes before continuing. ‘Symbolism is the

secret language we use to communicate with our gods, with our own true

selves ... and there are some who say that’s one and the same. It is the

language of magic, mythology, politics ... it’s around us all of the time,

but most of us are blind to it and to its overwhelming power to shape our

lives.’

I slumped to the foot of the police box, inexplicably overcome with

thoughts of Denny; I felt like crying. ‘So you’ve broken the code.

Whoopee.’

He seemed oblivious to my sarcasm. ‘Consider: the Cyberman. What is

he?’

‘A bloody nightmare,’ Ben muttered.

The Doctor tutted. ‘In essence, the Cyberman is a man transformed into

a cold, merciless killing machine. Then we have the Menoptra.’

‘The butterfly-man,’ I said. Something was tingling at the back of my

mind.

‘That is it exactly!’ the Doctor exclaimed. ‘From, admittedly limited,

perception, it is a butterfly – a creature that undergoes a transformation

from ugliness to beauty. And then we have a component from the master

computer WOTAN ... an integral piece from a wider, malign

organisation.’ He held out his hands as if we were supposed to

understand, then shook his head when all he saw were blank faces. ‘This

is leading us forward,’ he said firmly.

‘This is leading us into a trap.’ Ben stood firm. ‘Whoever is sending

you these messages knows your mind, Doctor. He knows you’re going

to be intrigued.’

‘And I am intrigued!’

‘That’s right. So you’ll follow wherever they lead.’

‘Oh, don’t you be so sure of that, Ben,’ the Doctor said sniffily.

Ben grunted, but he didn’t look convinced. He sneaked a secret glance

at Polly; I could see they were both still concerned that the Doctor’s

excitement would cloud his judgement and lead us into trouble.

Although I couldn’t grasp what the Doctor was trying to say, those

mysterious, unseen connections began to cause echoes in my deep mind.

‘A man transformed into a ruthless killing machine,’ I repeated. ‘That’s

what’s been happening with the kids who took Blue Moonbeams.’

‘Of course it is!’ he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the

world.

I looked at him for a long moment while he silently encouraged me to

continue. ‘The messages to you ... what’s been happening in the

Haight ... with Blue Moonbeams and the Colour-Beast ... and Denny ...

There’s a link,’ I suggested tentatively.

‘More than that!’ he said. ‘One and the same.’

‘How long have you suspected?’

‘Oh, there was never any doubt. Too much of a coincidence. They had

to be connected.’

‘Why didn’t you say something earlier?’

He clapped his hands excitedly; it seemed I was already forgotten.

***

We again spent the hours of darkness at the all-night café, afraid that

whatever had slaughtered the Goblin and his men was still roaming

around the Panhandle. When we finally emerged in the thin light of a

San Franciscan dawn, preparations for the Human Be-In were already

well advanced. We made our way cautiously to the Polo Grounds where

the event was taking place. Most activity was centred on the stage where

roadies swarmed like ants, but there was already a steady stream of

freaks coming in from all directions, in floppy hats and bellbottoms,

customised jackets and tie-dyed T-shirts, necklaces and bangles, long

hair blowing in the breeze, bedrolls and haversacks hung at hipster

height. The Gathering of the Tribes, Stimson had called it, and here they

were, a disparate group uniting under one belief.

Watching them, I had a surge of the bright optimism I felt when I first

came to the Haight. Here was our generation, conjoined by peace and

love and a belief in a better world. In the silvery morning, I felt they

could overcome anything. It was going to be a hell of a party.

We moved into the park cautiously, searching for anything out of the

ordinary, but it was a futile task; everything was out of the ordinary. Ben

and Polly went off in a separate direction to see what they could find.

‘Do you really think Mathilda will be here in person?’ I asked. We’d

spent the night filling the Doctor in on our fears.

‘I would think the kind of woman you described wouldn’t be able to

stay away,’ the Doctor said. ‘At least, not until the carnage begins.’

‘You think we’re right? That it will all happen here?’

He gave me a look that had the strangest hint of pity, as if he knew

something I didn’t. ‘Remember the butterfly: this is the moment when

your nascent movement transforms into something quite beautiful.’

‘The Summer of Love?’

He made an expansive gesture. ‘Feel the energy here. Given the

opportunity, this could change the world.’

‘But if those Blue Moonbeams get passed around, it will all be

destroyed.’

He nodded slowly.

‘I wish Denny were here.’

For perhaps the first time I glimpsed something like honest kindness in

his face; it was odd, but kind of good. ‘You don’t need Denny, Summer.

You miss him, but you have your own strength within you, I can see

that.’

‘But what are we going to do, Doctor? How can we stop this

happening?’ His attention was now focused on the crowd as he turned in

a slow arc. ‘What are you looking for?’

‘A sign.’

‘From whom?’

‘The one who’s been contacting me.

‘You don’t think he’s playing a game with you?’

‘No, Summer, I don’t.’

‘What, then?’

He wouldn’t look at me; he’d grown troubled once again, drifting into

his own intense world. He set off through the crowd, with me trailing

after him, scared and increasingly desperate, but filled with fire that

Denny shouldn’t have died for nothing.

We found Timothy Leary playing pattycake with a little girl. He smiled

and nodded to the Doctor. ‘Wait till you hear my speech,’ he called.

The Diggers were handing out free sandwiches while the Quicksilver

Messenger Service played their mercury communique of transformation.

The Hells Angels were all over the place, menacing in their leathers and

denim, big bellies and beards, pussycats in action. They were reuniting

lost children with their parents, shepherding the space cadets to calmer

places where they could come down in peace, generally spreading the

message of goodwill to all.

And the day passed in a haze of sunlight, bubbles, kites and streamers,

blissed-out smiles and hash smoke. Everywhere I looked I could see the

peace symbol. Finally Leary took the stage and gave the most passionate

speech I’d ever heard. He ended it with an exhortation that brought a

cheer: ‘Turn on, tune in, and drop out.’

But as the shadows grew longer, and the sun dipped to the horizon, my

anxiety grew.

Ben and Polly came up to us while Jefferson Airplane played in the

background. By that time the Human Be-In was in full swing; there were

people as far as the eye could see, thirty thousand, perhaps more,

jammed tight, some standing, many lounging on the grass, heads

bobbing. The atmosphere of comradeship – of love – was so strong you

could almost touch it. Complete strangers would meet, then hug,

recognising they were brothers or sisters.

It made me sick to think what would happen if the Blue Moonbeams

were handed out. Once the killing started, when the panic began, thirty

thousand tripping, doped-up freaks would turn the place into a frenzied

nightmare. How many would die in the crush alone? Suddenly the thud

of the bass and the drums felt like the beat of my heart, growing faster,

more intense. Time was running out.

‘There’s no sign of Mathilda anywhere,’ Ben said. ‘The word among

the Diggers is that she’ll turn up before the end ... make a grand entrance

to do her big spell.’

‘That may very well be too late,’ the Doctor said.

Before we could decide our next step, several things happened in quick

succession. First, there was a commotion in the crowd nearby. My heart

began to pound. ‘It’s started,’ I said.

But it hadn’t, not quite. A psychedelic light show appeared to be

moving through the massed ranks, raising a wave of astonished cries and

admiring whoops as if it were part of the event. The Doctor stood firm,

his face cold. Polly gripped Ben’s arm in apprehension.

From among the cheering crowd staggered a young man, his face

bearing the same blank expression as the one who had presented the

robot head to the Doctor. But the light that was flashing everywhere was

pouring out of him, seeping in reds and greens, yellows and blues, from

every opening in his body, his nose, his eyes, his ears, as if he were

bleeding colours.

There was something transcendental about it, but horrific too; it looked

like he was dying. He raised his arms wide, like Christ on the cross, and

then – and even now I don’t know if this was just an illusion caused by

the shimmering light – he floated an inch or two off the ground, his head

falling back beatifically, his mouth lolling, the light becoming a fountain

of delight soaring into the bright sky.

Within seconds we felt violent tremors run through the earth beneath

our feet, so much so that it was hard to stand, yet no one else in the

vicinity appeared to be affected. The ground itself was bubbling as if it

were liquid beneath the floating man’s feet, boiling, rushing upward and

out. And then he was sinking into the space that lay beneath; down,

down, except he wasn’t. Somehow he also remained floating. It was a

bizarre sight that beat any trip I’d ever been on.

Just as quickly, it was over. Those far-out lights winked out like

someone had thrown a switch. The guy hit the ground gently – or maybe

he’d never left it – and looked around in a daze before running off into

the crowd with cheers at his heels. We didn’t try to follow him.

There was a long period of silence while we attempted to make sense

of what happened, and then the Doctor said simply and quietly,

‘Remarkable.’

We had no time to react. Ben suddenly stabbed out a pointing finger.

Away in the crowd, Mathilda walked haughtily and, I thought, with

contempt for those around her, dispensing smiles and cold, withering

stares with equal disinterest. Her masked crew surrounded her so that

she seemed the queen of all she surveyed.

One of them was handing out something to the people he passed from a

large plastic bag. I felt cold and sick: here it was.

‘Let’s go,’ Ben said. He started to push his way through the packed

bodies.

But then something caught my eye and the rest of the world fell away.

It was nothing, the merest glimmer; the shape of a head, or the curve of a

neck, there then gone in a split-second. Nothing at all; but everything. A

glacial chill spread through me, followed by the most intense heat.

Ben or Polly was saying something to me, but I didn’t hear, no longer

knew they were there. I was pushing away from them, drifting into the

sea of dancing, tripping figures. Bodies pressed against me, hands

touched my hair, my arms; a crazy whirl floating on the edge of my

consciousness. What had I seen that set me so on edge?

The sheer, heaving mass of the Human Be-In was in my every sense.

Was the hallucinogenic intensity of it turning my mind? Moving faster,

shoving people aside, running, the Doctor, the Blue Moonbeams, the

Colour-Beast all forgotten.

I remember the Grateful Dead playing ‘Morning Dew,’ a surge of

emotion like a tidal wave. I remember the sun and the sky and the

feeling of rising up and coming together.

From among the swell of bodies, a mask in African tribal garb with

incongruous oriental stylings loomed towards me. It was followed by the

hideous hard-edged screech of Mathilda’s voice as she pushed her way

past her henchmen.

‘That’s her,’ she snapped, jabbing one black-nailed finger at me. ‘The

little bitch who gate-crashed the party. I thought you dealt with her.’

One of the masked men muttered to her, but she flapped him away

furiously. Mathilda put on a fake smile for the benefit of the crowd. It

was all street theatre; however I reacted, there would be no response.

Her thugs started to circle, ready to grab me. I could see they were all on

edge, afraid I would do something to ruin their carefully laid plan. Then,

as I backed away, I noticed the bag filled with Blue Moonbeams and

decided to do something stupid.

Lunging forward, I snatched the bag from loose fingers and then forced

my way back into the crowd. Mathilda screamed like I’d stabbed her in

the belly.

Her monkeys came after me, but I was smaller and wirier. I weaved

through the bodies while Mathilda’s men stumbled and got caught up. I

fell straight into the Doctor, almost knocking him over in my panic. He

noticed the bag of tabs instantly.

‘Come on, quickly, we must hide.’

He pulled me behind a group who had stripped off their clothes and

were dancing naked, painting each other’s bodies with flowers. We

sprawled on the ground, watching the masked men searching futilely.

Eventually they gave up and returned to Mathilda. Her face was a

picture of fury and soon after they moved away, clearly leaving the

event.

The Doctor gripped my forearm enthusiastically. ‘Well done,

Summer!’

‘They’ve already given a few out,’ I said. ‘How long do you think

we’ve got?’

‘There’s not much we can do here –’

‘But we have to do something!’

‘And we will,’ he said calmly. ‘But not here. I now know the source of

all this, Summer, and we must finally face up to what lies behind it.’

The music floated over Golden Gate Park and out into the world as we

scrambled out of the crowd just in time to see Mathilda and her cronies

clambering into a long black limo with smoked windows.

Ben and Polly were waiting nearby with Stimson. He was sitting cross-

legged on the bonnet of a beat-up, rust-stained car, his cigarette holder

sticking out jauntily. He gave a theatrical wave when he saw me.

‘Ben and Polly found our good friend Jack in the journalists’ pen,’ the

Doctor said as an aside, ‘and convinced him to give us a ride.’

‘Are you going to explain that last thing we saw, Doctor?’ Ben said

drily as we clambered in.

‘Oh, you mean you didn’t work it out?’ the Doctor replied, teasingly.

Ben sighed with irritation, so the little man quickly continued: ‘The

symbolism was even plainer than on previous occasions. In 1906, San

Francisco was devastated by an earthquake. Many of the pre-earthquake

streets and buildings still exist beneath ground – the new city was simply

built over the top of them. Somewhere within those hidden streets hides

the source of all this.’

‘I don’t understand what this has to do with Mathilda,’ Polly said.

‘Whatever’s going on, we need to sort it out quick,’ Ben said. ‘You

think there’s some way to stop those kids turning into monsters,

Doctor?’

‘I think,’ the Doctor began, ‘that we have to explore every avenue.’

Stimson snapped his fingers at the wheel. ‘Sounds like a great story

here, people. But you’ve gotta give me something more to go on. Where

are we headed?’

‘There’ll be a sign; the Doctor replied. ‘I’m sure of it.’

While Ben and Polly attempted to fill a disbelieving Stimson in on

what had happened, the Doctor turned to me and said gently, ‘You seem

quiet, Summer.’

Through the window, the colours of the Haight had given way to the

brown blur of the straight city. I was wrapped up trying to make sense of

what I’d seen that had affected me so much; it was so slight it didn’t

register on my conscious mind, but it was wriggling away frantically at

the back of my head.

‘I’m okay. I just feel ... tired. This whole thing is getting me down.’

He nodded slowly and thoughtfully. ‘I realise you have been through a

great deal, Summer, but you are a very resilient woman.’

‘Not so long ago, everything looked so bright – ‘

The Doctor took my hand gently and secretly so the others couldn’t

see. ‘If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my travels, it’s that, for all its

horrors, the universe tends towards good. In the middle of a moment, it’s

easy to see darkness, and to give in to the blackest despair. But across

the scope of centuries, the view reveals a path that always encounters

valleys but continues ever higher, that never stops rising.’

I was surprised to hear those words of support. He’d always seemed so

distracted, so uncaring. ‘That’s what I always wanted to believe.’

‘Then keep believing. Don’t lose heart, Summer.’

I desperately wanted to accept what he said, but for some reason I

couldn’t put into words, I was afraid of what was to come.

We drove around an area suggested by Stimson without much luck until

Ben called out, ‘Doctor, I think you were right.’

A light show played out over the rooftops not far away. Stimson drove

too fast while attempting to re-light his cigarette, then brought us to a

sharp stop when he saw where we were headed. The guy we’d seen at

the Polo Grounds stood in the deserted street, light streaming out of him

so that the surrounding buildings were painted in the most amazing

displays of shifting colours.

‘Cool,’ Stimson said, transfixed. ‘And weird. And a little scary.’

As we approached, the light-guy indicated a dirty, old wooden door in

a place that looked like it’d been abandoned for years. It was locked, but

the Doctor managed to get it open with some little gadget he pulled out

of his pocket. An atmosphere of damp and age drifted out. The glaring

lights revealed cracked plaster, sagging ceiling, and a trapdoor in the

middle of dirty floorboards.

‘I think we need to go down,’ the Doctor said.

The minute we ventured inside, the amazing light-show winked out.

The street was empty, no sign of where the guy could have vanished to

so quickly.

‘Spooky,’ Stimson said, clearly affected by what he’d seen.

Beneath the trapdoor, stairs wound down into the dark. ‘Do you think

this is Mathilda’s secret hideout?’ Ben said anxiously.

Polly looked pale in the fading light. ‘What if some of those things ...

those Colour-Beasts ... are here, Doctor? They could be all over the

place and we wouldn’t be able to see them. They could kill us before we

even knew anything was happening.’

‘It seems from what Summer told us of her experience in the Goblin’s

house that those things can be seen – with the right altered perception,’

the Doctor said.

‘If you’re tripping,’ I added.

He nodded, removing from his pocket something that resembled a

hypodermic but with no needle. ‘I prepared this earlier ... not quite sure

when or how I intended using it.’

Polly eyed it warily. ‘What is it?’

‘A synthesised substance that will mimic the effects of lysergic acid

diethylamide without any of the dangerous effects.’

‘Wow,’ Stimson said. ‘Opening the doors of perception.’

‘In a way,’ the Doctor mused. ‘It will help us see clearly. But I don’t

think it wise for us all to take it. We need lucid minds for what lies

ahead.’

‘I’ll do it,’ I said. To be honest, there was no bravery in my offer; I

simply wanted something to distract me from my thoughts about Denny.

‘Oh, Summer, I don’t know – ‘ Polly began.

‘I’ve dropped acid before. I know what to expect.’

The Doctor waved Polly silent and took my arm. ‘It might be a little

different from what you’re used to. Certainly it won’t be so potent.’

‘I’m not looking for kicks.’ Now I’d made my decision I felt steel in

me.

‘Right you are, then.’ The Doctor put the hypodermic-thing against my

forearm and I felt a little pressure but no pain. He patted the back of my

hand like some friendly old uncle, then turned to the others.

‘Let’s go, shall we?’

The Doctor and Ben tried to persuade Stimson to stay behind, but he

wasn’t having any of it. As we made our way down the stairs, the hit

started to work. The Doctor was right: it was different from the average

trip, mellower, and I felt more in control, but I could feel the waves

building in the same way. The dark felt like velvet wrapped around me;

as we descended I had the impression I was floating down a long hole.

My hearing became more acute, or I thought it did; there was a sound

like the buzz of high-tension cables in the walls, and somewhere a noise

like the beat of a giant heart. Lub-dub, lub-dub.

At the bottom was a brick alley that smelled of old dust. We were in a

twilight zone of grey light on the edge of illumination from an electric

bulb not too far away. To one side there was a red door that looked

brand new. We approached it cautiously and listened. There were faint

echoes of machinery, but nothing more.

The Doctor reached out for the door handle, but then hesitated. ‘What

is it, Doctor?’ asked Ben, anxiously.

‘Well ... I do think we may be going into this Just a little ...

mobhanded,’ the Doctor replied. ‘Five sets of tramping feet isn’t really

ideal, if we want to proceed in caution.’

Under duress, Ben, Polly and Stimson agreed to hang back. The Doctor

took the handle firmly and swung open the door. We stepped over the

threshold.

My tripping mind first told me I’d woken up from a bad dream. The

light was unbearably bright, but it was only after the semi-gloom of the

alley and because the walls and ceilings were a pristine white. We were

in a clean, modern corridor with strip lights overhead. Numbered doors

lay on either side and at the end was a T-junction.

‘Curioser and curioser,’ the Doctor said.

We spent what seemed like hours wandering around that place, though I

guess that was my warped time perception. My senses were flying; I felt

like a ghost, like I could walk through walls. I dreamt I knew everything

there was to know about life, and it was good. We were in some kind of

laboratory. Occasionally – or perhaps only once – we’d come upon long

windows giving a view into rooms filled with shimmering glass test-

tubes bubbling with golden light and machines that hummed like cats in

the night.

At one point voices came up like cascading waves. The Doctor grabbed

my arm and pulled me round a corner where we couldn’t be seen. I had

to stifle a giggle; I wanted to step out and show myself.

Four men passed by at the end of the next corridor and my laughter was

sucked away from me. They had faces like cemeteries, sloping in dark

suits, white shirts, dark ties; creeps. I recognised the guy who almost lost

his mask at Mathilda’s party. The Doctor watched them go, rigid and

dark.

I heard it long before I saw it. No, that’s not quite right: I felt it, in my

head. Whispering, quiet and gentle like the wings of a butterfly. Then

came the colours on the walls, ceiling and floor, migrating slowly as if

they had a life of their own. Miniature mandalas that swirled with so

many complex shades it made my head spin. The Doctor couldn’t see

them.

As we progressed, the colours took on form, became like water lapping

all around, like columns of fire, like skin rippling in the sun.

And then we came to a door, a white door, and it felt like a way

through to another universe. The Doctor put a hand on my shoulder to

steady me and we entered.

In the centre of a large vault was the Colour-Beast. The impression of it

on my mind was like hitting a brick wall; I felt terror and wonder in

equal measure and it was only the Doctor’s steadying hand that kept me

from running out of there, screaming.

It was twice the size of a man, with enormous batwings folded behind

it; the face was a mass of ridges and horns, like some horrible demon

from a medieval painting. And across its surface, those astonishing

colours swirled and mutated hypnotically. Yet more than its appearance,

it was the feel of it that disturbed me the most, as if I was recoiling from

the sheer alien-ness of it on some level beyond the five senses.

Yet despite its terrifying appearance, it was shackled to the floor by

huge chains. This confused me for a moment until something squirmed

in my mind, like a rat at the back of my skull, moving around, probing. I

heard a scream when I realised it was that thing doing something to me,

and was shocked to realise it was my voice.

‘Stay calm, Summer,’ the Doctor said firmly but gently. ‘Remain

focused. I can’t see anything – you are my eyes.’

I tried to describe what I saw, failed miserably, thought I was going to

be sick.

‘Your brain is having trouble comprehending the signals it’s being sent.

The nausea will pass.’

‘How can I see it?’ I murmured.

‘You may have noticed the strobing effect as hallucinogens take hold.

It’s caused by the alpha rhythm of the brain modulating the visual field,

producing a flicker effect. And again when the drug wears off.’ He

paused to steady me; the tension in the room was rising dramatically. ‘I

think this being we see before us modulates its natural colour at hyper-

speed, effectively making it one colour and all colours, certainly too

much for our normal faculties to deal with.’

‘But the acid adjusts us – ‘

’Just enough to comprehend it, exactly.’

‘Strange ... I don’t feel it’s a threat.’ Despite the soaring anxiety levels,

at its heart I sensed something almost gentle.

‘No. Despite what Ben and Polly thought, I always believed the

communication it established was an honest attempt to reach out.’

Suddenly the squirming in my head returned with renewed force. I

pitched forward, clutching my temple. I heard the Doctor cry out my

name, and then...

I was standing in the Oval Office. Honest to God, I swear I was there.

The seal on the carpet, the desk, the windows open to the sun-drenched

garden beyond, dust motes drifting in a shaft of light. It was so peaceful

I wanted to cry.

‘Hello.’ JFK stood before me smiling, though the space had been

empty a split-second before.

I think I cried out, maybe jumped back a step, but, really, I can hardly

recall a thing about my reactions. The experience was so rich and deep I

was lost inside it. And JFK spoke to me in that familiar Boston twang as

if bad things had never happened, would never happen, though I

remember nothing of the actual words.

Instead my head swarmed with stars, galaxies, the entire universe from

the beginning of time to the very end. I was aware of a race of

tremendous beings so powerful we couldn’t even begin to comprehend

their true nature, but good, wildly, excellently good in the way that I

believe the universe is good. They existed beyond us, moving back and

forward through time, through space, always watching, never

interfering. They knew our every thought, our hopes and dreams and

petty little hatreds. And they understood...

As lights flickered through the void between stars, I accepted how they

could alter perception at the most fundamental level, how their essence

could infect the mind... the building blocks of life... to create hybrids of

themselves. I saw the extremes of wonder, the glitter and glow of

existence.

And then the fall... Dragged down to our time, our place. Something

out there, specific to here and now, that weakened them incredibly. A

sucking blackness, as cold as the grave, thrusting them out of their

glorious existence into the cold, hard world, dampening their power

enough to be captured and contained by... by whom? Mathilda? Did the

witch cast some spell? Did...

And then it told me the meaning of life, and though I knew I’d never

remember it when I came out of that state, it filled me with light; I could

feel my tears hot on my face.

An explosion. I thought: It’s happened again. Someone’s killed him

again. JFK, receding through space, no Jackie there to clutch for the rest

of him. Desolation... the awful pain of separation...

And my eyes cleared...

The creeps were in the room, holding the Doctor back, six of them, those

cemetery-faces sucking me in. One of them had slapped me round the

face to jolt me out of the connection. The leader, a creep with a streak of

grey in his hair, said, ‘Get them out of here.’

We were hauled into an adjoining room with one of those long

windows so I could still see the Colour-Beast. Now I could look past its

appearance I felt so sad at what had happened to it. It was something so

wonderful, something that deserved to fly free, and it was imprisoned.

The creeps couldn’t see it, but it was obvious they didn’t care about it

at all. They were dangerous, the kind of people you saw all over the

place but didn’t pay any attention because they looked so dull, but a part

of you knew that if they needed to, they’d mess up your life without

blinking those dead eyes.

‘Now,’ the Doctor began. One of the creeps thrust a gun in his direction

furiously. The Doctor raised his hands and backed away quickly. ‘Let’s

not be hasty,’ he said.

‘You were communicating with it,’ the one with the grey streak looked

at me coldly.

‘How can you keep it penned up here?’ I said. ‘Do you have any idea

what it is?’

‘What did it say?’ His eyes didn’t waver.

‘It told me what you were doing.’ I sounded confident, but I still didn’t

really understand. I was just trying to pick the reality from the

impressions it had given me in the Oval Office.

‘What is that, exactly?’ Grey Streak said.

‘The Blue Moonbeam tablets contain some element of this creature,

removed in this laboratory,’ the Doctor said. ‘Once consumed, it infects

the host and turns him or her into a hybrid of this creature, but without

any control – an invisible killing machine. But no human being could

cope with that, and within time they are consumed by the forces

unleashed within them.’ He glanced at me. ‘At least, that’s what I’d

guess. You were speaking aloud as it communicated.’

I moved to the corner and sunk to the floor, hugging my knees,

overcome with a wave of paranoia.

‘The question is, what could possibly be the point of all this?’ the

Doctor continued.

‘Where’s Mathilda?’ I said suddenly, grinding my teeth.

The creeps’ faces were as much masks as the ones they’d taken off, but

I saw something – the faintest shadow – on Grey Streak’s expression.

The Doctor saw it too. ‘Gone.’

‘Gone?’

‘Disappeared. A loose end.’

A chill ran through me. ‘They killed her!’

‘Ah, but she was a cog,’ the Doctor said. ‘Unimportant.’ He seemed to

have grasped what was happening; it was still beyond me.

Grey Streak checked his watch. I guess he’d heard enough to conclude

that we weren’t a threat. ‘Get rid of them,’ he said. There was no

emotion there; it was like he was ordering a cup of coffee. They all

traipsed out after him, apart from the one who obviously handled that

kind of business; I couldn’t tell him apart from the others.

He took out a gun and fitted it with a silencer. In my state, I had the

sudden feeling I was in Goldfinger and the Doctor was James Bond.

He’d do something ... I don’t know, a karate chop, and save the day. It

didn’t happen that way.

What did happen was just as dramatic. There was a sound outside the

door and the creep went to investigate. As he grabbed the handle, the

door burst inwards. The creep went flying, the gun skidded to the far

wall. Ben piled in and stood over the creep with one fist raised, but the

creep had hit his head and was already out. Ben glanced at the Doctor.

‘You wouldn’t believe the trouble we had finding you. What are you

doing, hiding away in here?’

‘You took your time, didn’t you?’ The Doctor sniffed. ‘I was about to

re-assess my opinion of your ability to act on your own initiative.’

Polly came in and rushed over to me with Stimson close behind; he

looked unusually anxious. ‘What is going on here?’ he said.

‘Goldfinger,’ I muttered, drifting again.

‘We have to free the Colour-Beast,’ the Doctor said. ‘It may have the

power to prevent the tragedy that is unfolding. It was calling to me,

plucking memories from my mind to entice me, making them real

somehow, or the perception that they were real, so it must feel that I

have the ability to release it.’

‘What if you can’t get it free?’ I said. ‘Those creeps could be back any

minute –’

‘Go back with Mr Stimson,’ the Doctor said to me. ‘Do whatever you

can to end the event early ... guide people out of there.’ He paused,

searching for the right words. ‘And if the transformations have begun,

you can see them, Summer. You may be able to save someone.’

His tone made me cold; I could tell he feared the worst.

That was the last I saw of the Doctor, Ben and Polly. I got out of there

with Stimson and we beat it back to the Polo Grounds as fast as his heap

of junk would go. He didn’t talk to me all the way, too freaked out by

everything.

The Human Be-In was just coming to an end when we made our way

into the crowds, but most people were still hanging around, tripping,

loving each other, feeling part of something big.

‘What do we do now, chicklet?’ Stimson said apprehensively.

‘Just leave it to me.’ I scanned the crowd; everybody was happy,

beaming, talking, but in my trippy state I could feel it was about to

happen. ‘It’s going down,’ I said. ‘Soon. Go to your boss ... see if he can

get these people out of here quickly.’

Stimson nodded and ran off. I pushed my way through the bodies

frantically.

And then it happened again: something half-seen that sent shivers

down my spine. I backed up, searched vainly; I couldn’t tell what it was.

A second later it was there again, nothing more than an impression,

perhaps a silhouette, or the shape of a craning neck; but it was enough. I

headed towards it as fast as I could, scarcely believing the thoughts

bursting like stars in my head.

A hand, a crook of an arm; a jigsaw-person slowly coming together.

The rest of the world slipped away. I emerged from a wall of humanity

into a sphere of pure silence.

‘Denny?’

He couldn’t have heard my paper-thin whisper beneath the crowd-

noise, but still he turned; and it was him. The late-afternoon sun was at

his back and his eyes were bluer than I’d ever seen them. His hair was

longer, and he had a scruffy goatee, his clothes home-dyed and scrawled

with peace symbols. I ploughed into him hard, burying my head in his

chest, trying to work out if it was another trip, if it was the Oval Office

in new form, feeling as if every bit of me was coming apart.

‘I thought you were dead,’ I whispered.

He prised me off, gripping my shoulders so he could look into my eyes.

‘Summer? What are you doing here?’

‘Looking for you.’ Now I couldn’t hold back the tears. ‘Where’ve you

been, Denny? What happened ... what ... they said you were dead.’ For a

second I thought my mind might actually wink out like a light bulb with

too much power running through it.

‘This isn’t the time.’ He pushed me to one side, uncomfortable,

distracted. I staggered back a step and the surroundings fell into relief.

Some of the masked creeps were nearby, looking out across the crowd;

waiting for the Blue Moonbeams to take effect. I don’t know if it was a

different group from the one that had been at the lab, but they hadn’t

seen me. I went to grab Denny’s arm to drag him away. Until I realised

he was with them.

For a few seconds my instinct and my conscious mind fought over

what I wanted to believe and what was really happening.

Then a commotion erupted in the crowd nearby. A scream. People

scrambling to get away, like ripples escaping a deep sea earthquake,

slowly turning into a tidal wave. Denny looked towards it impassively.

‘It’s started.’

I had only a second to feel queasy from what I saw in his face before

another pocket of panic erupted, and then another, and then in my

section of the crowd there was chaos and I was swept away from Denny

by the torrent.

Somehow I fought my way past the flow, thankful it was all confined

to one small area; if the whole bag of Blue Moonbeams had been handed

out it would have been disaster. But all I could think of was what

happened to the Goblin at the last, and how bad it would be with even a

few.

It would have been sensible to get the hell out of there, but I wasn’t

thinking, or maybe I was thinking too much. I got through to the horrible

centre of the disturbance, where flesh and muscle had disappeared, and

only staring bones remained, flailing, bad-tripping, terrified. I don’t

know what I expected to do ... drag out any poor freak too petrified to

move ... but it was just me and them.

This time I saw the transformation in all its sickening glory. As the

bones flickered and grew translucent, there was an instant where

everything froze and then the body started to put itself back together

again: reforming muscle, shaping horns and wings, making terror out of

nothing, but painting it with all the colours of the rainbow.

I should have run, but by then it was too late and, perhaps, I thought, it

didn’t really matter anyway. I was transfixed by the wild, crazy

weirdness of it all. And then they moved for me, faster than I could have

dreamed. I closed my eyes and waited.

There were colours behind my lids, in my head, colours everywhere.

And I waited, but nothing happened.

And when I looked again, the strangest thing was happening, even

crazier than everything before. The Colour-Beasts were unfolding,

turning back into the poor freaks they had been before, wings and horns

stripping back, colours flying away into space.

I felt a whisper in my head, saw dust motes in a sunbeam, and turned to

see JFK watching me from the stage. I couldn’t say he really smiled, but

there was something ... a connection. The Doctor, Ben and Polly had

done whatever they needed to do, and that wonderful thing was free to

fly and take all the madness with it.

Except there wasn’t a happy ending, not for me, or for the world. Not

long after, I found Denny in the shadows of the stands. I’d like to think

that he waited for me, that he at least owed me that, but I’m sure he was

just skulking until he had his moment to get away. The rest of the creeps

were gone, faded into the background like their kind always did. Those

who saw what happened would talk excitedly about it for a day or two,

but in the Capital City of Trips, it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.

‘They work for the Government, don’t they?’ I looked at him hard, by

that stage too strung out at the end of the trip to feel anything other than

hurt.

‘No.’ Denny was adamant. Then: ‘Not directly. They work for the

people who really run the country.’

‘The Combine,’ I said.

Denny snorted contemptuously. ‘Stupid hippie name for it!’

‘What were they ... you ...’ I said that with venom and I was happy to

see he flinched, ‘trying to do?’

Denny said nothing, but I already knew. It was the war, the one that

had started in Dallas, and they were gradually eliminating the enemy,

one-by-one. That day, a new threat was going to be derailed. They

wanted to keep reality their way – not our way. My way.

‘That thing they captured is like the bomb!’ Denny laughed. ‘With that

behind them, they can do anything.’

‘What did they do to you, Denny?’

He tried to laugh off my comment, but all I heard was a terrible guilt,

and that made his words even harsher. ‘This is the real world, Summer.

You’ve got to wake up to it. All that peace and love shit –’

‘You believed in that!’

He shrugged. ‘Maybe, for a while, yeah. But then you open your eyes.’

‘You sold out! They gave you ... what? A bundle of cash and

promises?’

‘So what? At least I know which way the wind blows. I’m not living in

a dream like you, Summer. They’re gonna win, and you might as well be

on the winning side. They offered me a job, that’s all – ‘

’To get in tight with what was going on here in the Haight,’ I said,

watching it all come together. They must have approached him the

moment he arrived. I couldn’t have stayed in his memory for more than

a day. ‘To spread the poisoned tabs.’

Denny looked out into the dark where a few strands of mist were

forming.

‘I found your shirt at the Goblin’s, covered in blood.’

‘He realised what I was doing there, cut me with that shiv before I got

out.’

‘Trying to screw up his business.’

‘We needed to get rid of him so there was a shortage of good stuff.

More demand for the Blue Moonbeams.’

‘You’ve really mastered your capitalism lessons, haven’t you?’ I felt

like my heart was breaking. How could I have been so completely wrong

about him? What does that say about me? Two hearts. Together,

forever. Was I as naive and stupid as Denny believed? Or maybe you

just can’t know anybody, not really, not in the secret depths of them.

‘What are you going to do now, kill me so I don’t tell?’

‘No.’ He shrugged, looked away; it wasn’t that much of a denial.

‘Nobody’ll believe you anyway. They’re good at making the papers and

the TV go deaf.’

‘And you think they’ll look after you? You’re a nobody, Denny,

another cog just like Mathilda. And when they finish with you – ‘

He shook his head firmly. ‘No. Because I play the game.’

I don’t know how long I thought about those words in the years that

followed; somehow it summed up the whole sick mess the world was in.

How could I fight something like that? If Denny could be corrupted,

someone who I thought had the purest of beliefs, then anybody could be.

The creeps didn’t have to kill that movement in the Haight that they

obviously found so threatening. We’d do the job ourselves.

With the mist folding around us, he turned to me, the lamps reflected in

the shadows of his eyes. ‘You want to get out of here, Summer. They’ll

be back soon, to clear up any mess.’ The stress he gave to that word told

me I was included in the description. ‘But now that you know about

them, they won’t let you fade away. I’m sorry it turned out like this.

Really. I liked you.’ I laughed. His voice grew hard with threat: ‘Keep

running, Summer, and don’t look back.’

And that’s just what I did.

There was another assassination that day, as effective as the one that

murdered President Kennedy. Denny killed the last part of me that had

hope for something better. With the mist drifting through the city, I left

San Francisco for the last time. Before dawn, I was heading south

towards LA, and from there I moved slowly eastwards, never staying in

one place too long, always watching over my shoulder. My life slipped

into the twilight.

The fear was always there; I’d seen what those people were capable of.

Every time I caught sight of smart suits and dead-eyed men, I’d step

back into the shadows; but that was the worst thing ... they were normal,

more normal than normal, and people like that were everywhere. They

never drew attention to themselves, only acted when it was necessary.

They could be anyone, in any place.

And if I ever thought it was all in my mind, there’d be incidents like

the time in Houma when I returned from my shift at the diner to find my

squalid apartment turned over and the landlord talking about men in

suits who’d be back. Or the night in some Kansas backwater I can’t even

remember the name of, when a black car with black windows followed

me for ten miles before trying to force me off the road. I only escaped

because I jumped out and hid in a cornfield.

I’m not stupid enough to think they were searching for me all the time,

but sometimes a file would be shuffled, or I’d just drift into someone’s

personal radar as a loose end, somebody who might surface at some time

with a story to tell.

These are the true enemies of life on our planet. Not alien creatures or

supernatural threats, not even religious fanatics with bombs strapped to

their chests; bland men in bland suits who will do anything to stay in

power.

So I watched from the sidelines as the Summer of Love burst in a blaze

of publicity and hope, knowing with a terrible fatalism that the end was

not far away. The players in the burgeoning hippie movement spoke of

changing society, challenging the war in Vietnam, but I knew they were

all deluding themselves into believing they had any chance at all; any

power.

When I was in the Oval Office I had a distinct impression of great

sadness, that the Colour-Beast wasn’t the only one imprisoned. That

there were more. Did they refine their dark arts, become more subtle in

the use of such a great power? Was it there, in the desert, when Charlie

was planning his night-time raids on LA? Helter Skelter. Death to Pigs.

Did it help corrupt Chapman when John was shot? John, the last

advocate of the hippie sixties, of peace and love, who was about to

launch a pro-cannabis campaign and speak out against the businessmen

and politicians and generals crushing America down.

Or am I just being another stupid, burnt-out, paranoid hippie?

What I do know is you can track the slow death of innocence and hope

across the 1960s and into the 1970s, as a parade of lone gunmen and sly

corruptors attacked from without and within, a thousand unconnected

events, coincidences and haphazard mistakes leading to the eradication

of the last chance we had for a better world.

The bland men in their bland suits won, and they would have won

without their Colour-Beasts and whatever other super-secret weapons

they used, because they’re just harder than us, they’ll go that one step

further to achieve their ends. We never stood a chance.

I’ve seen Denny several times, though never face-to-face, over the

thirty-plus years since we last met in Golden Gate Park on that misty

night when my world finally collapsed. He was always a grainy image in

the background of front page newspaper photos at global hotspots –

though I could always tell it was him – or merging into the crowds on

TV news reports of G2 summits and WTO meetings. Nam in the early

days, Cambodia, El Salvador, Colombia, Grenada, Afghanistan twice,

Serbia, Iraq; some I saw the pictorial evidence, others I simply knew

that’s where he was. Because Denny was good at playing the game.

Headlights just played across the dark fields and trees at the end of the

lane. This is it, the end. He’s here.

The other day I saw a news report of a team of weapons experts

coming back from a long stay of negotiations with various regimes in

the Middle East. Before that they’d been in the former Yugoslavia. And

before that ... who knows? Who knows anything, really? And at the back

of the group trooping off the plane was Denny, back on American soil at

last. I could see this wasn’t the Denny who’d saved me on that first night

we met. He’d worked hard to get his cold, dead, killer’s eyes; and he’d

got himself a nice, bland, merge-into-the-background suit.

The next day my phone started acting strange, taps and clicks and

occasionally I’d hear my own voice played back to me. Mail began

arriving late and clearly opened; they didn’t even bother to hide their

dirty fingerprints. And this morning I found a letter in my mailbox that

contained a single sheet of paper; on it was a drawing of two hearts.

The implication was clear: finally, it was my time. I’d disappear like all

the other thousands all over the globe. Even though I’m a weak,

cowardly thing, not a threat at all, those kind can’t abide loose ends.

The lights are moving slowly up the lane. He doesn’t need to move

fast. There’s nowhere for me to run, and besides, I’m tired of it.

Sometimes I dream of San Francisco and what might have been. I dream

of the person I used to be – bright, happy, filled with hope, and with love

– and I think of a life wasted.

I don’t like this world. There’s no place in it for someone like me. The

gun is hard and alien and I’m still not quite sure how I should go about

it. Do it now, get it over with? Or face-to-face, a last futile gesture? Does

it really matter?

The worst thing is that nobody will care.

The sound was like a siren running backwards, or the last, dying wail of

some mythical beast. It filled the house, echoing from the very rafters.

I stood on the landing, listening to the crunch of gravel as the car pulled

on to the turning area at the front of the house. The gun was against my

temple, my finger tight on the trigger, and still I couldn’t do it. But when

I saw his face, carrying the weight of years and other people’s misery,

that would be enough, I thought; I hoped. But that strange, disturbing

sound?

‘You wouldn’t believe the trouble I had finding you.’

The voice made me start and I almost pulled the trigger by accident. A

strange man stood at the end of the landing. He had a friendly face and

he was wearing a floppy hat that would have been fashionable back in

the 1970s and a long scarf wrapped several times around his neck.

Though I’d never seen him before, I had the odd feeling that I knew him.

He noticed the gun. ‘Come now, that won’t solve anything.’

‘I’m not trying to solve things.’

He tutted, motioned for me to put the gun down. Outside, a car door

slammed.

‘Who are you?’

‘We met a long time ago, by your terms. In San Francisco, 1967.’

He could have been any one of a hundred forgotten hippies, but I

recognised some indefinable quality. ‘Doctor?’ He smiled. ‘How... ?’

‘Long story. No time for it now.’

He motioned for me to follow. I felt like I’d stepped into some strange

dream, or else I was on another trip; and perhaps I was, one that had

started more than thirty years earlier. The gun hung limply at my side as

I trailed into the spare bedroom. If I’d had the slightest doubt, it

disappeared then: that freaky police box stood in one corner.

‘Ben and Polly?’

‘Long gone, I’m afraid.’

A rattling at the door downstairs.

‘Why are you here?’ I asked, dazed.

‘For you, Summer. After the Colour-Beast was freed, I came looking,

but you weren’t to be found anywhere. Frankly, I feared the worst. It

took a remarkable effort to locate you.’ He smiled again. ‘But it was

worth it.’

‘You searched for me? But you never seemed like you were interested

in my problems at all. You were always telling me to give up ... when

you could be bothered to talk to me at all.’

He gave a silent laugh; despite the darkness of the moment and my

mood, I felt oddly comforted by his presence. ‘We have to find our own

path,’ he said. ‘If I did all the hard work for you, you’d never have

appreciated it.’

The faint sound of the lock clicking. I glanced back at the landing, then

at gun.

His eyes grew concerned, and the smile faded. ‘I know what you’re

going through, Summer.’

‘How could you possibly?’

‘I know many things, Summer. A great many things.’

A blast of cold air as the front door opened silently.

‘All I wanted was a better world.’ My voice broke. ‘But there’s nothing

anyone can do. They’ll win every time!’

He shook his head. ‘All those years ago, I told you how it works. From

your perspective, things look dark. But over the span of centuries, of

millennia, there is a different – a better – view.’

I shook my head in disbelief, tears filling my eyes so I could barely see

him. ‘Why did you come here, Doctor?’

Footsteps crossing the hall, checking the downstairs rooms. It felt like a

shadow had fallen across me.

‘Why?’ l blinked away the tears and was surprised by the compassion

in his face. Suddenly I felt like a child again, looking up at my father.

‘The universe needs people like you more than you would ever know,

Summer. You must never give in to despair. You – and people like you

– are important. Special. You can make a difference.’

‘You’ve seen them –’

‘You can, Summer.’ He pulled a book from inside his jacket: The

Secret Government – an investigation of the corruption at the heart of

America. By Jack Stimson.

Footsteps on the stairs now, the darkness drawing closer.

‘When was this published?’ I asked in amazement.

‘Next year.’ He smiled. ‘There’s always hope, Summer. You just have

to keep your head up during the dark times.’

‘Why are you helping me, Doctor? Why me?’

He shook his head, wide-eyed with exasperation. ‘Why? Because I like

you, that’s why!’ He nodded to the gun. ‘You won’t be needing that.’

Footsteps on the landing, my desperate past catching up with me. I

threw the gun on to a chair.

‘Now, shall we go on a little journey?’ He stood aside and motioned to

that weird little police box. Through the open door, the most brilliant

golden light glowed. I looked into his face, briefly, and saw such

honesty and hope and innocence there that I was appalled by how much

I’d previously misjudged him. ‘Thank you,’ I said, blinking away the

tears.

‘Oh, don’t mention it.’

We stepped into the light together.

My first impressions were right about the Doctor, if only I’d stuck by

them. Whatever he claims to be, I know the truth. It’s there for anyone to

see: he comes from somewhere else in the time of your greatest need,

offering you a hand to help you when everyone else is lost in the dark.

He’s true and decent, a force for good in a bleak universe. He saved me

from despair, and he led me towards a better world. What does that

define? We know. We all know.

It might be a metaphor; as a poet I understand those things. It might...

My first impressions – I remember them like they were only yesterday,

like time had no meaning at all...

About the Author

Critics have praised Mark Chadbourn for the astonishing detail and

realism he brings to his novels. The reason: the kind of research most

people would go out of their way to avoid. For example, for his first

novel Underground, set in an isolated mining community, he worked

hundreds of feet beneath the earth, crawling along tunnels barely two

feet high, experiencing the same kind of brutal lifestyle as his coal miner

characters. Other novels include Nocturne and Scissorman, and a non-

fiction book Testimony, for which Mark experienced the terrors of a real

haunted house ...

His current fantasy trilogy, The Age of Misrule ( World’s End, Darkest

Hour and Always Forever) has received acclaim for both its detail and

its academic research. An expert on British folklore, Mark studied

volumes of research on prehistoric Britain, including the sites of

Stonehenge, Avebury and Tintagel, as well as Celtic culture and

neolithic life. He spent six months on the road touring Britain, mapping

out a detailed path for his characters to follow, including not only

famous historical sites, but also industrial estates, pubs, cafes, shopping

centres and more. It’s possible to use these three volumes as a travel

guide to the UK.

His penchant for gritty research began when he was a journalist,

working for British national newspapers, magazines and TV. On NATO

manoeuvres inside the Arctic Circle, Mark slept in tents with the British

soldiers in temperatures of -20°C, fired bazookas and drove tanks across

the snowy wastes. He was also set on fire by an exploding lamp – and

saved by a nearby snow drift. Other work has seen Mark being locked in

a shop and threatened by gangsters, being at the centre of a riot, being

shot at in the California desert, accompanying a Formula 1 racer at 250

mph around Donington racetrack, and going undercover investigating

criminal activity across Europe and America.

World’s End and Nocturne were both nominated for the prestigious

August Derleth Award for Best Novel, and Mark has been shortlisted for

the British Fantasy Society’s Best New Talent award. His career took off

when he won Fear magazine’s Best New Author award for his first

published short story, ‘Six Dead Boys In A Very Dark World’. His latest

book is another novella, The Fairy Feller’s Master Stroke, about the

coming of age of a young man through the eponymous painting by

Richard Dadd.

Mark has interviewed scores of celebrities – from Paul McCartney,

Bob Geldof and Elton John to Tim Burton, Catherine Zeta Jones and

George Michael – and has also worked in the media as a film and TV

reviewer. Outside of journalism, he’s cleaned toilets, driven vans,

worked as a fitter’s mate at a power station, and put Marmite jars on a

conveyor belt.

During the early nineties, Mark’s long-standing love of music saw him

turn to managing bands – including one top five act – and running the

independent record company, Faith.

Mark hails from the Midlands and a long line of miners. He now lives

in the heart of a forest where he indulges his passions for environmental

campaigning and magic.