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  Maryam had spent a couple of hours with Barham, Gatto and Iqbal and an individual from the Crown Prosecution Service, explaining out the nature of the trap that had been sprung on the young priest. How sophisticated it was and how grounded in Catholic teaching and belief it had been. Barham was angry and Iqbal confused. Sergeant Gatto was affected the most: he resonated with Jones’s problem about knowing things professionally that couldn’t be revealed on a personal level. It said a lot about why he was happy to remain a sergeant. Maryam wasn’t surprised when Gatto turned up to Mass a week or so later.

  What had surprised her was what happened when Father Jones took Mass. How the Church of the Mother of All Sorrows appeared to expand as if it were a living, breathing thing. How the singing of the choir when Jones was at the altar brought tears to your eyes. About the sense of life and light and wonder that sometimes filled you as he read the Gospel. It was a bittersweet experience. For side by side with the joy, with the sense of the sacred when he handled the Host, there was also the pain. The sharp stab of the sword piercing the heart: the shadow that sometimes stood by his side. The ghost sitting at the feast; the look in his eyes sometimes when he laughed out loud. How deep the darkness of desolation was now rooted. How the wound was unhealed. How his bedroom light would often stay on until dawn and how he would spend hours in the Church kneeling in prayer and yet not look at peace. How his light was sometimes occluded by doubt.

  Maryam waited until the call came for him to go to Rome. She then packed her cases as he packed his. She needed to get back home and wake up with the night in her room. A still, dark night, with no lights or cars or trucks or people: just the night. She and Barham had got a little drunk the night before, over a goodbye dinner, where they had spoken freely and drained out the canker that could form from a case unsolved. Both had learned that most cases were left unproven and that few were ever prosecuted successfully. Just as they both knew who had killed Jason Briggs and how, they were unlikely to ever be able to prove it or bring him to justice. Barham had thanked her for her help and confided that she was glad there had been none of ‘this occult nonsense’ to sidetrack the investigation from diligent police work. Maryam had smiled and poured the inspector another glass of wine.

  Her cases were in the car being driven by Andy Scott. She hugged ‘Jones the Priest’ as he liked to call himself and said goodbye. He was flying to Rome later that evening. He wished her well and smiled, but avoided looking directly at her. He knew that she saw the pain, the doubt, and it had begun to distance them from each other. She hoped that by the time they met again that pain would be healed. She turned and gave Father Jacob, who was staying on as the new parish priest, a hug. She then went up into the Church to say her goodbyes there.

  In front of the altar of Mary, she prayed for Wyn, that he would not lose his vocation. She prayed that Pargiter and whatever force had worked through him, had failed in his attempt to derail him. She prayed that she and Fred would continue to be on good terms and that Father Edwards would end his life peacefully in the retirement home that he’d elected to move to. She prayed for Iqbal, hoping that his career would not take too harsh a toll upon his spirit and prayed for comfort and safety for Gatto and Barham. She prayed that Andy Scott would come to terms with the work of the Congregation and forgive himself for throwing up in the back of the Church. She prayed that Pargiter would find peace and the world would be free of his evil.

  When all her prayers were said, Maryam lit three votive candles and placed them side by side, her voice speaking so softly no one would hear it even if they were standing next to her.

  ‘I give this light to you, Jason, in honour of your spirit. This one I give to your mother, who gave you life. This one I give to your father, wherever he may be. May you all three find each other one day and may you all find rest. Blessed Be.’

  As she left the Church, the scent of tea roses went with her.

  Author’s Note:

  No one should expect to recognise anyone, or anything, in this tale. Writers are liars who get paid for their time. The world in this story does not exist, it just happens to almost mirror the one we live in. No one should expect to recognise either the Metropolitan Police, or the Roman Catholic Church from the above words. Whilst the Church is real, the Office of the Congregation of the Arcane is completely fictional and is not based on any existing, or historic office within any actual religion. Demons do not infect people in the real world, only in this fake one. Peckham does have gangs, and Churches, and Mosques, and none of them are in this work of fiction. The real world is but a template for my pretend one: a world two shades different from the real one. In those shades you will find my characters and their stories.

  If you have enjoyed these stories, please tell your friends. Word of mouth is life blood for books, and writers. You can also contact me directly at the website listed above. Reviews are also gratefully received, and if you want to help Maryam Michael get to her other adventures, then a good review would help her crawl to the top of my ‘to do’ pile.

  The Office of the Arcane thanks you for your time.

  Also available by Morgan Gallagher

  Changeling

  A young woman vanished from the streets, a life destroyed, her humanity a battle ground.

  London, April 1987. Joanne is out for a night on the town and her plans go awry. She slips into a pub for a quick drink before going to see a film. Jonathon Dreyfuss is on the prowl, looking for something tasty to devour. He spots Joanne through the window. Joanne vanishes from sight.

  She wakes in a room with no windows, trapped in a nightmare of pain and terror. Dreyfuss finds her boring and tedious... yet he can’t quite kill her. Something about her, some aspect of her, is pleasing to him. He keeps her for a little while, house training her as he’s attempted to train others in the past. She resists, as they all did, and he takes up the challenge, to prove once again he is master of all. Joanne fights back as best she can, terrified and confused, beaten, starved and lost in a madman’s fantasy. He spends months schooling her to obey, tearing her down. When she begins to break, as hope of escape fades... he reveals his final madness: he is Vampire. She too, will be Vampire: his Changeling.

  He wishes her to be his immortal companion, his eternal mate. What Dreyfuss wishes, Dreyfuss gets.

  The battle for her soul begins. All she has is her will and the need to be free. Dreyfuss holds all the cards: money, power and no conscience. Can she keep fighting, or will he win? How long can Joanne stay human?

  What would you do to win your freedom?

  Changeling is the first novel in the Dreyfuss Trilogy: a compelling and unique vampire mythology for adults.

  Horror: 152,000 words. Ebook and Paperback

  Reviews for Changeling

  “It took me two sittings to read it. Why two, because I started reading in at 8pm. If I had started earlier, this would have been one of those books you don't put down until the last page and you read that twice not wanting the adventure to be over. Morgan has mastered the emotional ride... a new talent to be discovered.”

  Betty Carlton

  “It was impossible to put down, disturbing and intriguing at the same time.”

  Alison Sauer

  “...brutal and visceral -- so well written that it was almost physically painful to read. [it does]... a very good job of depicting physical and psychological torture – people either crack into catatonia or fight with every scrap of their being. Even when fighting means taking it passively.”

  Christine Whitley

  “This is a very smart, well-written novel. It delves deep into the psychology of both the abuser and the abused. It contains graphic scenes of physical, psychological and sexual abuse that will upset those made queasy by portrayals of torture. But... this isn't splatterpunk. It's purposeful. So if you can handle that, you won't find a much better vampire tale than Changeling. ... I think that fiction should both entertain and make you think. It's surprisingly difficult to find novels th
at do both. Changeling does.”

  Alan Ryker

  Read the first four chapters of Changeling:

  CHAPTER ONE

  The door slammed shut with the deadened finality that comes with the emptying of a living space. Silence filled in behind her, flooding the rooms with despair. The air in her bedroom, thick with deodorant, hairspray, floral shower gel and perfume, settled into scented layers around the debris of her work clothes. The cat, nonchalant about her absence now it had been fed, climbed onto the front room window sill, looking out on its domain of kebab shops and off licences. Endless traffic piled the corners, hooting and groaning as it snuffed along, pouring stink into the already sickly late afternoon air. It felt more like the middle of September, than that of April. The cat preferred the view over the back windows, endless roofs, tantalising birds and other cats to snarl at. It would wait until the acrid chemical smells in the other room faded, before proceeding to settle in its usual spot, angled out to the inner square of the backs of the houses. It would mewl and scratch fruitlessly on the glass at the outside wild life: desperate to be free to attack, to chase. Or so it thought. Once, a pigeon had settled on an open window sill in the summer’s heat, and the poor cat, comfortable and safe in its window glass world, had hissed in fright. It was so big, so aggressive, compared to the small fluttering victims of its day dreams, tiny and fragile on the roof spars opposite. The bird had eyed him coldly, without fear. The cat had hissed and growled its warning, but it had had no effect. It was a stand off until the bird flew away, unruffled. Since then, the cat went into a frenzy any time a bird landed on the other side of the window. The other side of the closed window.

  Had she known it was the last time she’d abandon both the cat, and her flat, she might have washed the dishes. As it was, she had rushed around the flat, ignoring the smell from the sink. That morning, as she’d fallen out of bed to find that only her best suit was wearable, she’d planned to come in tonight and clean, ridding her life of the guilt the week had scattered around her. The resolution had been spurred on by the blissful thought of a Saturday morning lie in. A pristine flat all around her, requiring no effort on her behalf. Her change of plans, however, had left her with less than twenty minutes to bathe and change: she had once more ignored the chaos. Stopping only to throw some biscuits in the bowl (tinned food stank the place out) she vowed her allegiance to the hum drum of living; tomorrow. She’d do it all tomorrow. Clean out the cat litter, empty the bins, do the laundrette run and find her bedroom carpet under the skin of peeled off clothes that she kicked out of her way to find a matching shoe. Tomorrow would be good enough, and Sunday morning would be the sweet spot, as she lay in bed wondering how to fill a lazy day. She grabbed her keys and ran, heading off down the stairs at full pelt.

  After four days unexplained absence, during which all answer phone messages had been ignored, her boss finally called the mother of her erstwhile assistant. Mrs Maitland, to the embarrassment of all concerned, exploded into tears at the thought of her only child’s fate. A day later, after some hemming and hawing, the police were called, forcing open the flat in absence of anyone with a spare key. They found the dishes partially in the sink, partially on the floor, courtesy of an exceptionally hungry cat. The cat took its revenge on the probationary policewoman, leaving a trail of claw marks across her cheek. The sergeant, who had cautioned against such inappropriate action, handed a clean handkerchief over and called in the RSPCA. Their elbow length leather gauntlets would handle the animal, which had conveniently hidden itself inside the fold down couch in the living room cum kitchenette. He had never had any truck with people who took free ranging creatures and locked them into tiny fourth floor flatlets, or patted them as if human sentimentality could mitigate a completely empty stomach. He left his charge dabbing at the blood and had a good look round.

  There was a strong whiff of cat in the air. Cat sick, and well developed litter tray. Having scoured both rooms of what little food there was, the cat had evidently chewed through the motley crew of long suffering pot plants scattered awkwardly around, subsequently throwing up with abandon. Splotches on the carpet and furnishings tracked its comings and goings, mostly goings. It was a very annoyed cat, he had no doubt of that. The smell was one that the sergeant could easily stomach, was greatly relieved by, given what else there might have been in evidence, both of the girl’s disappearance and the cat’s subsequent hunger. As it was, there was no sign of the girl. The usual clutter of single living met his eyes; the fridge testament to the overall lack of care, or comfort, this young woman had afforded herself. Diet drinks, weeks’ dead salad, a dehydrated lump of cheese, rancid low fat spread and half a mouldy loaf. Two bottles of white wine and half a carton of milk, long turned to cheese. The bin, before it had been dragged around the floor, had been stuffed with various take away containers and two empty bottles of wine. She preferred Chinese, apparently, as the Chinese was six doors down, after the chip shop and the kebab house. On the other hand, the Chinese was first if you were walking back from the tube. The cupboard had several packets of fat free powdered soups, all well past their sell by date. The usual collection of tins and half a bottle of cheap vodka. The vodka had dust on the edges: no clues there then. The bread bin was stuffed with chocolate biscuits and crisps. The cramped and musty shower room gave evidence of the usual obsessions with creams and lotions, all feminine in nature. Nothing in the cabinet to suggest any other bad habits, not even the pill. The toilet bowl itself was clean and shiny, which confirmed his opinion. Make up was scattered out over the tiny table that served for a make shift dressing area, but that could have been the cat. The bed was single, unmade and rented out old. The sheets looked clean and the duvet was brightly coloured and newish looking. The clothes spread out on the floor were the formal side of business casual, the shoes impeccably heeled and well cared for. All the used knickers were in a laundry basket, but the bras were spread around. She used panty liners.

  An ironing board filled up the tiny space on the other side of the bed, with an expensive iron on the floor beside it. Not the cat this time, as it had been carefully placed to cool out of harm’s way. For all the chaos in the room, an expensive jacket in dark blue hung impeccably on the back of the door. A matching skirt had been hanging in the shower room, obviously left to steam out its wrinkles. The tiny fragrance bottle by the bed was pricey but affordable enough to have been a present to herself. A secretary, the report had said. The flat screeched up and coming PA at him; with three daughters of his own, he was wise enough to know the difference. The probationer sniffed around after him as he called in the details, heeding his warning to touch nothing. She crumpled her nose in disdain at the mess, and smell. She’d learn. She’d learn bloody fast. A double duty of nights in the riot months of summer and her no doubt currently pristine room back at the police house would look the same. He logged the time and complete lack of evidence in any direction. Her suitcases were on top of the wardrobe, and the drawers filled with underwear, clothing and two sex toys. A vibrating egg and slim finger sized vibrator. This made it extremely unlikely she’d just walked away. He finished his report and sighed: this didn’t feel a good one, not at all.

  A week of searching saw Joanne Maitland’s neatly typed details logged and filed, the case unofficially closed. She was lost somewhere in the mystery that the city became at these times, her disappearance overshadowed by a sensational libel case and another marital dispute over at the House of Windsor. Mrs Maitland, crumpled and creased from the jostled and chaotic trip South, shed her tears for the camera, wailing a little at Fleet Street’s seeming indifference. Had a paparazzo photograph of a distraught Princess of Wales not stolen the morning headlines, a little more might have been made of her one shot appearance on the evening news. As it was, London lifted its head in grief for a split second, returning to business as usual by close of trading. Jo, oblivious to the future of her good name, left behind a less than fitting epitaph in the form of her last confirmed sighti
ng. Breathless, half in her jacket, red from the run, she had stood and watched the tube she had just missed hurtle down into the depths of Archway station.

  “Shit!” is what she had said, loudly, as she stalked up and down the platform. “Shit!”

  It had been another vile day. Too much work, not enough time. Fridays were always her worst day, not the usual Blue Monday of office worker fame. Friday was the day she’d be in such a rush that she would skip breakfast completely, her Monday good intentions on sensible eating abandoned sometime around Wednesday. Friday breakfast usually joined Thursday dinner as a non-event. Friday break would find her stuffing chocolate biscuits down her throat as quickly as she could, her now up and running body desperate for anything that looked and acted remotely like a calorie. If she was lucky, and this Friday she hadn’t been, lunch was a sandwich and a doughnut, washed down with lukewarm coffee. Every Monday she began a perfect routine of fruit for breakfast and break, with peppermint tea to wash her virtue down. She would smile sweetly at the others as they moaned about the coffee machine being broken again, as she waited for her tea bag to infuse. By Wednesday she was beginning to think maybe she should phone through for a new machine herself, as she waited for the damn thing to gurgle out more tepid caffeine. Friday always found her deciding that she’d damn well put the order through as urgent as soon as she had a minute on Monday, as she sent out an order for a massive triple mocha from the coffee shop on the high street.