Terminal Transit – Irish, Apocalyptic, Science Fiction, Horror Novel

Synopsis

A brilliant research student discovers a plot fulminated by demons from another dimension and kills himself in the process. The fate of the world is left in the hands of an elderly academic and a mysterious orphan.

Using the facts surrounding Ireland’s economic collapse in 2008 as its starting point, Terminal Transit is an apocalyptic adventure dealing with death and destruction in a Dublin slowly devastated by demonic intervention.

Can the end of the world be avoided?

Or is this planet simply scheduled for Terminal Transit?

Terminal Transit,

Chapter II ‘A New Signal’

Verse 2

The audience never came home from the homecoming concert. Not one single member. For a country well versed in statues bleeding, springs springing forth at the roadside, and many other modern-day miracles and mysteries, the disappearance of the audience left everyone totally baffled. A thorough forensic sweep of the stadium didn’t reveal a single, solitary clue. The newspaper headlines took up the story.

‘VANISHED, PRESUMED DEAD’

‘WHERE HAVE THEY GONE?’

‘AND THEN THERE WERE NONE’

‘WHO HAS SEEN OUR CHILDREN?’

‘LOST IN MUSIC?’

‘A NATION MOURNS’

‘‘MY BUS WAS DELAYED’ SAYS LUCKY ‘SURVIVOR’’

‘IT SHOULD’VE BEEN ME!!!’

‘THE NEW DISAPPEARED’

‘(WITH OR) WITHOUT YOU?’

ROCK BAND IN CONCERT MYSTERY’

‘PROMOTERS BAFFLED’

‘THE CONCERT OF DOOM’

‘WHO ARE THE5?’

And has always happened at the site of any disaster, friends, families, relatives and complete strangers marked the tragedy with candlelit vigils and public masses. And then the posters started; handwritten, typed, taped, photocopied, cheaply printed – the faces of the missing were stuck to fences and lampposts and anywhere else that a poster could be placed. Handbills as well, flyers, holy cards, medals, banners, balloons, photographs, portraits, paintings and bouquet. Like countless doom-weighed blossoms falling from the most hopeless of trees, the streets around Croke Park very quickly filled with these petals of despair. Though he knew it was helpless, Mac carefully pinned his card with the rest of them.

Loss always hits hard and holds firm and deep and long and even after a lifetime of solitude Mac now found he was unable to deal with a brand-new loneliness. There simply is no substitute for presence. Not ever. Mac had first met desolation the morning he lost Sibeal. The choking crushing numbness of her death broke him into a million desperate pieces and forced him so deep into his grief-shaped heart that he thought he was sure to drown in the throbbing, choking pain. It took him years to fish himself at least partially free, one lonely saddened sodden piece at a time. And each piece he rescued became a new word in a new sentence and then a new sentence in a new paragraph and then a new paragraph on a new page and then slowly these new pages grew to be new chapters. And so the Miscellanea became eventually Mac’s carapace, his shell, and like an elderly tortoise discovered on some far-flung archipelago, Mac carried the weight of his barely-repaired life heavy on his bent back. It was a price to pay and an obviously obvious weight to bear but it was something. In fact, it was everything. Now, Inteachán gone and his integument ruptured, Mac feared for the pieces of his frangible heart once more.

‘I’m a selfish cowardly fool,’ he told himself. ‘That a man should send a child to right the breaking world.’ The urge to punch his face with a bony fist was almost impossible to resist. Or pull the last of his straggled hair free from his temples.

‘I had no right, no right at all.’

Mac’s eyes filled with tears.

‘And now she is gone like all the rest.’

As he walked across Front Square the morning after the concert Mac felt that the world was now only different in every imaginable way. He knew the First of the TheFive was here. The disturbance was unignorable and as if his original burdens were not enough, Mac now carried the fact of Butler’s fears coming true like a sodden overcoat clinging stupidly to his sorry shoulders. This fact was a distant bell that tolled everywhere he listened. It was a newly damaged nerve that caused his eye to always gently twitch. It was a trouser cuff that kept getting caught on the heel of his shoe.

The tread of each step on the stairs as he returned to his flat weighed heavier now, only slightly but enough to feel the difference each day. In the same way, lifting a cup to his lips, a fork to his mouth, or the sheet at night to cover his shoulder, each and every ordinary movement that accounted for the passing seconds of every day, seemed to have acquired a new and denser gravity than before.

***

That night Mac dreamed he was alone in an empty black desert. Five bright black moons hung low in the endless sky and glimmered like the deadliest of precious metals as they sped through the darkness like the bearings of some infernal gear. Ahead of him loomed seven vast dunes. The temperature was way below zero but even though he was only wearing his pyjamas Mac didn’t feel the cold. The sand gathered between his toes and started to swirl around him as a sudden wind appeared from nowhere and picked up speed.

‘wE R heer,’ said the wind as it licked Mac’s face. ‘wE AV wated 4 This MOMENt for orl tiMe.’

Mac turned his head to one side to stop the sand blowing straight into his eyes.

‘fliNcH nOt,’ said the wind. ‘BeHOLd ouR MAjeSTi!’

The wind gripped the sand and drew it up into the air like a swarm of angry bees. The sand around Mac’s feet eddied and whirled as it formed a column around him and then Mac found himself being lifted off the ground. The wind forced the column higher and higher until Mac found himself floating in the black mouth of space.

‘AlL tHIngs b4FOR uS FaLL,’ screamed the wind. ‘VaST GALAXiES AnD SINGEL trEES. ALL R aS NUFFiN 2 OuR SPLENda. Wee thrUGH a tINy PEBBel acrOSS thE VASt and broKE thE DINOsorS.’

A comet issued from the column and streaked out into the black. Mac followed it with his eyes until he couldn’t see it any more. The wind laughed softly, delighted by its own artistry.

‘ThaTz tHe COMet THAt 3 FOOlish pEEPING Men wiTh teESCOPes WIll FOLLOw TO a FIND a BASTArd BAbY.’

Mac’s mind whirled. He found himself saying things that were not his thoughts.

‘But surely the principles of the galaxy are such that you should be keen to seek balance and not redress? For who has caused you such grievous harm as to render all discourse irrelevant.’

‘NoT wont NO DIScouRse. Not Us. Not ALL. ONLy WONT iLL AnD deSTRUCtion.’

‘That may be so,’ ‘said’ Mac, ‘but ultimately such intent merely signals only malice. Can such energy ever result in maintaining the equilibrium?’

‘Is SUcH. TRUe SEd! MALicE onLEE ORLL. NoT ELLSe heeR. We NO ONlee wUN THINg wICh is HArM.’

Terminal Transit – Irish, Apocalyptic, Science Fiction, Horror Novel

Synopsis

A brilliant research student discovers a plot fulminated by demons from another dimension and kills himself in the process. The fate of the world is left in the hands of an elderly academic and a mysterious orphan.

Using the facts surrounding Ireland’s economic collapse in 2008 as its starting point, Terminal Transit is an apocalyptic adventure dealing with death and destruction in a Dublin slowly devastated by demonic intervention.

Can the end of the world be avoided?

Or is this planet simply scheduled for Terminal Transit?

Terminal Transit,

Chapter II ‘A New Signal’

Verse 1

Priory Hall.

Two words that stand as a simple testament to an ignorant nation’s stupid, craven greed – that special kind of breathtakingly galling greed reserved for the self-appointed nobility of this ridiculous island; the bankers and builders and business leaders and breakers and burglars and broadsiders and backsliders and bastards and bollox and buffoons and landlords and layabouts and kiters and cutpurses and swindlers and sweat drippers and debt collectors and drubbers and tally men and tossers and sewage hounds and arse lickers and no-gooders and politicians and pie-dippers and chancers and swindlers and shitflickers and not ever once forgetting the plain and simple good old boys from back in the day.

Now, as befits maps and mythologies everywhere, this particular broken beacon of a building forespeaks, speaks for, speaks of, denotes, indicates, screams, ‘this is a broken country.’ At night the wind laps this particular folly like a poisoned tongue on a mouth of broken teeth. Follies used to be architectural indulgences, used for the flashing of wealth and the winning of bets.

Now, the same indulgences related to the winning of a different bet, one that has nothing to do with anything other than avarice. The same bets that forced a government to add a levy to all insurance policies. The same bets that allowed the country to never learn from its mistakes but just kept making them again and again and foolishly again. But not anymore, the country has run out excuses and these mistakes will be among the last that the country and, indeed, the world will witness. For these same bets have now been collected by a brand-new bailiff.

Priory Hall stood empty now, a monument, a gravestone, a mausoleum, and a warning to the people who passed it by, not that they knew it yet, that this particular gravestone now stood as a marker as well to what was about to commence, indicating in no uncertain terms that the end was beginning.

In one of the many badly designed flats on the fourth floor of the building a black, shiny, unknown stone of clearly alien origin sat glowering on the bathroom floor next to a leaking toilet bowl. The flats of Priory Hall had been closed down due to fire safety issues but clearly the inspectors responsible for closing the building had not factored in alien cosmogeology as another reason for declaring the properties unfit for human occupation. A trail of liquid waste flowed out from the cracked toilet pan. All this piss and shit and spittle and drip and bodily issuance wet the shiny stone which, in turn, due to its peculiar porosity, added its own cosmic foulness to the now freely flowing stream of sewage.

Now on the move, the porous flooring and cheap bricks were no match for this unholy water and in very little time the main waste outlet system was breached and as the flow got greater so did the pressure on the already broken system and in very little time the sewage began to puddle and pool on the grass above the pipes.

Inspired, suffused, attuned, the natural world met a new stimulus with the black stone’s outflow and as the sewage seeped into the earth around it so the hated hectares of Priory Hall became the site for a total recalibration of an old burden, Fallopia japonica, more likely known as Japanese Knotweed. As this new flow continued and found other new water systems to infect so the roots and shoots and rhizomes, the small delicate flowers with petals like crystals, the broad oval leaves, and the red stems began to assemble aggressively all over the city with a vigour never experienced before.

Japanese Knotweed has always been one of the most voracious herbaceous perennials known to gardeners, posing a chronic danger to foundations and flood defenses, forming dense and deadly colonies that choke the life out of their riparian rivals for light and space. This new alien stimulus imbued the weed with a renewed compulsion, an urge to begin further accelerating, out-stretching, entwining, redoubling its unsighted efforts to bury this pathetic island beneath a vast sea of its ruby racemes.

Across the history of the planet, cities normally surrender themselves to the natural world long after their final desertion. For example, waves of sand will eventually level even the tallest towers. Other architectural edifices inevitably fall inwards towards their own cancerous centre of gravity, as if opening their own navels and ingesting themselves. All civic buildings of import and significance eventually lose these same values and become the halls of apes and other primates whose behaviour on the whole speaks of a more measured approach to city life than those of the previous occupants. Fountains fall silent, choked, strangled, barren, and unable to sing anymore.

Slowly, troublingly, desperately, inexorably, inspired by the black stone’s issuant, the weeds of Priory Hall began to exert their new cosmic choke on the now barely breathing city.

Terminal Transit – Irish, Apocalyptic, Science Fiction, Horror Novel

Synopsis

A brilliant research student discovers a plot fulminated by demons from another dimension and kills himself in the process. The fate of the world is left in the hands of an elderly academic and a mysterious orphan.

Using the facts surrounding Ireland’s economic collapse in 2008 as its starting point, Terminal Transit is an apocalyptic adventure dealing with death and destruction in a Dublin slowly devastated by demonic intervention.

Can the end of the world be avoided?

Or is this planet simply scheduled for Terminal Transit?

Terminal Transit,

Chapter I ‘The Song of the NotBeSpeak,’

Verse 12

With the terrible truth now trickling from beyond, it is fair to say that the world has reached a dreadful juncture for this is the exact point in the very small history of this very small planet that every single ever prediction of doom, of death, of absolute destruction, every crackpot scheme and half-heard death knoll, every religious rune, sign, portent and symbol ever associated with the apocalypse has now come to pass and anyone in the history of the world who has ever laughed, or scoffed, or doubted and discredited, or mocked and ridiculed, terrorized and tortured or in any other way not seen that the end of the world was indeed coming after all must now be fully prepared to eat their entire words letter by miserable mouth-filling letter as the NotBeSpeak begin their cataclysmic entry.

Bart felt a gentle whispering wind wrap around his foolish pride-bulged heart.

‘The5 have come,’ Bart said inside himself. ‘I am complete and ready to be washed in the warmth of Their love.’

The whispering wind filled him with a comforting darkness.

Inteachán imagined that she was lying safely in her bed. Everything was quite and still and as it had always been. Her parents were asleep in the room beside her and no one was trying to kill anyone. But then her bedroom door opened and in stepped her father.

Mac woke from the tangle of his elderly dreams. He sat up straight in his narrow bed.

‘And so it starts,’ he whispered in the darkness. ‘Butler was right. They are on their way. Inteachán has failed.’

Mac reached over and picked up his spectacles. He swung his tired legs out of bed.

‘And so this is what the end of the world feels like, inevitability and disappointment together.’

Mac looked out into the darkness.

‘We tried. We really did.’

Mac paused and a small tear began to form in his tired eye.

‘I suppose it was always the case that an old man and a young child would be no match for all the cosmic terror that the world has never seen.’

Mac smiled in resignation.

‘When the inevitable darkness comes for you, please be assured that it wasn’t the whole world who simply surrendered.’

***

‘Listen to me,’ said the enraptured Rock Star and the crowd fell silent. Bart spread his holy arms out wide, inviting his flock to worship.

‘The5 are here,’ he cried. ‘The5 are really here.’

Even though they didn’t fully know why, the crowd began to clap and cheer. Banners were unfurled and began moving, furling slowly in the darkness like the limbs of poisoned trees. Bart punched the air and whooped.

‘Yeah!’ he yelled. ‘Alright! They’re here. They’re really here.’

Bart played the crowd now. He climbed down off the stage and crossed the security divide to where the crowds were pressed up against the fences. He walked along the line, scattering blessings as he passed. A worried roadie followed behind him to make sure that the microphone cable didn’t get snagged. Burly security guards stopped the crowds from getting over the fences.

‘Listen,’ whispered the Rock Star. ‘Who wants to join The5?’

‘We do,’ someone yelled.

‘Who wants a new anointing?’ Bart continued.

‘Yes please,’ shouted someone else.

‘Some new gods to please?’

‘Me.’

‘And me.’

‘A brand-new cross to bear?’

‘Me too!’

Bart smiled and headed back up onto the stage.

‘Are you listening, children?’ asked Bart as he took his position in front of the band. Bart pulled out the Flute of Thelema.

‘My beautiful chosen children,’ he purred. ‘This next song is for all the world to sing.’ Bart put the Flute to his lips and signaled to the band.

Now we are at the heart of the matter.

What would you do to save the world?

How far would you go?

Would you go all the way?

Inteachán estimated the gap between her and the Rock Star. It looked an awful long way down. Bart turned around to look up at her. He winked. He knew that she had been up there all along. Their eyes met and held for a very brief second before Inteachán

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

jumped.

Terminal Transit – Irish, Apocalyptic, Science Fiction, Horror Novel

Synopsis

A brilliant research student discovers a plot fulminated by demons from another dimension and kills himself in the process. The fate of the world is left in the hands of an elderly academic and a mysterious orphan.

Using the facts surrounding Ireland’s economic collapse in 2008 as its starting point, Terminal Transit is an apocalyptic adventure dealing with death and destruction in a Dublin slowly devastated by demonic intervention.

Can the end of the world be avoided?

Or is this planet simply scheduled for Terminal Transit?

Terminal Transit,

Chapter I ‘The Song of the NotBeSpeak,’

Verse 11

With a dramatic sweep of his hand, Bart signaled for the film to start. A series of cursed emojis flashed across the giant screen and bathed the crowd in their infernal light.

SKULL. SMILE. TURD. SKELETON. SKULL. GLOBE. WITCH. SMILE. CRY. FEAR. DOUBLE TEARS. SKULL. ZZz. ROBOT. SCREAM. X-EYES. SKULL. ALIEN. THUMBS DOWN. EYE. DOUBLE EYE. PRAYER HANDS. FINGER POINT. BABY FACE. RED LIPS. UNICORN. SHAMROCK. HALF MOON. RAIN. SNOW. LIGHTNING. LIGHTNING. FIRE. BLAST. DOUBLE SKULL. STONES. STARS. DESERT. SKULL. SMILE. TURD. SKELETON. SKULL. GLOBE. WITCH. SMILE. CRY. FEAR. DOUBLE TEARS. SKULL. ZZz. ROBOT. SCREAM. X-EYES. SKULL. ALIEN. THUMBS DOWN. EYE. DOUBLE EYE. PRAYER HANDS. FINGER POINT. BABY FACE. RED LIPS. UNICORN. SHAMROCK. HALF MOON. RAIN. SNOW. LIGHTNING. LIGHTNING. FIRE. BLAST. DOUBLE SKULL. STONES. STARS. DESERT. SKULL. SMILE. TURD. SKELETON. SKULL. GLOBE. WITCH. SMILE. CRY. FEAR. DOUBLE TEARS. SKULL. ZZz. ROBOT. SCREAM. X-EYES. SKULL. ALIEN. THUMBS DOWN. EYE. DOUBLE EYE. PRAYER HANDS. FINGER POINT. BABY FACE. RED LIPS. UNICORN. SHAMROCK. HALF MOON. RAIN. SNOW. LIGHTNING. LIGHTNING. FIRE. BLAST. DOUBLE SKULL. STONES. STARS. DESERT. SKULL. SMILE. TURD. SKELETON. SKULL. GLOBE. WITCH. SMILE. CRY. FEAR. DOUBLE TEARS. SKULL. ZZz. ROBOT. SCREAM. X-EYES. SKULL. ALIEN. THUMBS DOWN. EYE. DOUBLE EYE. PRAYER HANDS. FINGER POINT. BABY FACE. RED LIPS. UNICORN. SHAMROCK. HALF MOON. RAIN. SNOW. LIGHTNING. LIGHTNING. FIRE. BLAST. DOUBLE SKULL. STONES. STARS. DESERT. SKULL. SMILE. TURD. SKELETON. SKULL. GLOBE. WITCH. SMILE. CRY. FEAR. DOUBLE TEARS. SKULL. ZZz. ROBOT. SCREAM. X-EYES. SKULL. ALIEN. THUMBS DOWN. EYE. DOUBLE EYE. PRAYER HANDS. FINGER POINT. BABY FACE. RED LIPS. UNICORN. SHAMROCK. HALF MOON. RAIN. SNOW. LIGHTNING. LIGHTNING. FIRE. BLAST. DOUBLE SKULL. STONES. STARS. DESERT. SKULL. SMILE. TURD. SKELETON. SKULL. GLOBE. WITCH. SMILE. CRY. FEAR. DOUBLE TEARS. SKULL. ZZz. ROBOT. SCREAM. X-EYES. SKULL. ALIEN. THUMBS DOWN. EYE. DOUBLE EYE. PRAYER HANDS. FINGER POINT. BABY FACE. RED LIPS. UNICORN. SHAMROCK. HALF MOON. RAIN. SNOW. LIGHTNING. LIGHTNING. FIRE. BLAST. DOUBLE SKULL. STONES. STARS. DESERT. SKULL. SMILE. TURD. SKELETON. SKULL. GLOBE. WITCH. SMILE. CRY. FEAR. DOUBLE TEARS. SKULL. ZZz. ROBOT. SCREAM. X-EYES. SKULL. ALIEN. THUMBS DOWN. EYE. DOUBLE EYE. PRAYER HANDS. FINGER POINT. BABY FACE. RED LIPS. UNICORN. SHAMROCK. HALF MOON. RAIN. SNOW. LIGHTNING. LIGHTNING. FIRE. BLAST. DOUBLE SKULL. STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

STONES. STARS. DESERT.

As the images flickered and repeated so the terrible truth began slowly pouring from beyond. The crowd went wild.

Terminal Transit – Irish, Apocalyptic, Science Fiction, Horror Novel

Synopsis

A brilliant research student discovers a plot fulminated by demons from another dimension and kills himself in the process. The fate of the world is left in the hands of an elderly academic and a mysterious orphan.

Using the facts surrounding Ireland’s economic collapse in 2008 as its starting point, Terminal Transit is an apocalyptic adventure dealing with death and destruction in a Dublin slowly devastated by demonic intervention.

Can the end of the world be avoided?

Or is this planet simply scheduled for Terminal Transit?

Terminal Transit,

Chapter I ‘The Song of the NotBeSpeak,’

Verse 10

Inteachán woke to find the dressing room in darkness. She slowly got to her feet, all the while waiting for her eyes to adjust. Inteachán moved towards the door and tried the handle. The door was locked.

‘You never know,’ Inteachán said to herself. ‘In all the excitement he could easily have forgotten.’ Inteachán turned on the light and looked around.

The room was almost the same and the rock star’s aftershave still hung in the air like an unwelcome guest. The chicken and chips were left on the table and one of the bottles of cola was half-empty. Above the table, half-hidden by a tobacco-stained curtain, was a small broken window. Inteachán climbed up on to the table and as she did so she nearly slipped on a piece of fried chicken skin. The window was rusted and the hinges were broken and it took very little time for Inteachán to work the window free sufficiently for her to be able to squeeze through the frame.

Working her hips and stretching her hands out and down in front of her Inteachán carefully slipped through the window and fell two metres into a filthy alleyway. Inteachán found herself behind the main stage. Cables and boxes were scattered everywhere. The band had just started their set and the noise where Inteachán stood was deafening. She felt momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer enormity of the sound waves that crashed upon her like an angry sonic sea. Inteachán gathered herself and looked around.

To one side of the alley stood the base of a control tower and as Inteachán approached she saw a thin ladder that led straight up into the lighting rigs high above her. With no other obvious options currently available Inteachán began to climb the ladder. As she did so Inteachán noticed that the she was also behind the giant back of plasma screens that formed the backdrop to the stage show. A complicated nest of cables and leads hang down like so many tangled digital vines. This was when the full extent of the difficulties Inteachán faced in her bid to somehow disrupt the show and bring it to a halt before the climax revealed themselves to her.

Bart was enjoying the gig of his life. He wore a t-shirt beneath a leather waistcoat that read ‘#TheFive’ and each note he sang reached deep down inside the heart of every member of the crowd gathered in Croke Park. Bart felt connected with them in a way that he could only feel and not ever explain. The band behind him played with a verve and alignment that they had hitherto only ever dreamed of achieving but had never yet fully realised. Every move they made was simply immaculate.

‘They are coming,’ Bart ad-libbed. ‘They are here,’ he sang as he artlessly changed the words to every one of their hits to accommodate his excitement at what was about to unfold.

‘You won’t believe your wondering eyes.’

Bart trilled.

‘If only you knew what I knew.’

The unsuspecting crowd went wild and greeted every ad-lib with a cheer. For them it was all part of the show. The only person not fooled by the performance was watching high up from her perch in the gantry above the back of the stage. As the next song came to end Bart raised his arms and stretched them out wide.

‘Hush!’ he whispered. ‘Hush, my special children.’

The crowd fell silent. Inteachán marvelled as the countless tiny lights of thousands and thousands of phones and cameras taking photographs punctured the darkness in the stadium. The night sky sparkled and danced, shimmering with a digital haze.

‘Welcome everyone,’ whispered Bart into his microphone. He removed his waistcoat so that everyone could see the message on his shirt. The crowd roared.

‘We have a real treat for you all tonight.’

The crowd roared again.

‘Something so amazing that it is going to change the world.’

The crowd roared once more.

‘Forever!’

Terminal Transit – Irish, Apocalyptic, Science Fiction, Horror Novel

Synopsis

A brilliant research student discovers a plot fulminated by demons from another dimension and kills himself in the process. The fate of the world is left in the hands of an elderly academic and a mysterious orphan.

Using the facts surrounding Ireland’s economic collapse in 2008 as its starting point, Terminal Transit is an apocalyptic adventure dealing with death and destruction in a Dublin slowly devastated by demonic intervention.

Can the end of the world be avoided?

Or is this planet simply scheduled for Terminal Transit?

Terminal Transit,

Chapter I ‘The Song of the NotBeSpeak,’

Verse 7

The next evening and Mac sat thinking in his chair. Inteachán sat beside him waiting. The coals in the grate cracked and whispered. Menace clung to the room like a funeral drape. Mac thought some more and then, just when she thought he had fallen asleep, Mac leaned over and placed his hand gently on her arm. He smiled.

‘I have to ask something of you, Inteachán,’ said Mac tenderly. ‘I have to ask you to do something that I don’t want to ask you to do. Your father made me swear that if the worst came to the worst that I was to look out for you and treat you as the grand-daughter I never knew.’ Mac shifted uncomfortably.

‘I hate myself for asking but I am too old to go and I really don’t think that we can trust anyone else with something as vast and secret as this so it will have to be you.’

In Mac’s troubled mind Inteachán was capable of anything. He just knew she was. Inteachán looked up from her tears. Her small face was red and smeared. Everything was far too much for her to bear.

‘How can I possibly help?’ she asked the old man. ‘What do you want me to do?’ Inteachán began to sob but Mac did not react. His mind was made up and nothing was going to deter him.

‘It has come to my attention,’ said Mac, ‘that the Flute of Thelema has recently been rediscovered and is now residing in this country.’

‘The Flute of Flelema?’ asked Inteachán. ‘Whatever is that?’

Mac nodded. He loved nothing more than having an audience, even if it was only a grieving child. Sibeal used to be his sounding post and though she teased him when his ‘sermons’ got too much he knew she really loved to hear him speak, or at least he thought she did.

‘It was in 1923 that a certain Raoul Loveday commissioned a local silversmith from the port of Cefalu to craft an ornamental flute which he intended to offer as a tribute to the noted occultist Aleister Crowley who had recently established his infamous Abbey of Thelema in the vicinity.’

Mac smiled wryly.

‘Sadly, however, Raoul drank from a local spring and succumbed to enteric fever before the flute was completed. Another version of the same story suggests that he died after drinking the blood of a cat. Either way Crowley was forced to leave his Abbey that same year and so the Flute became another tale surrounding the legendary occultist and his life.’

Mac’s smile ended and the agitation in his voice began to rise. The menace descended lower now.

‘It has long been the predilection for billionaire rock stars and other hapless creatures to collect occult and esoteric memorabilia – cloaks, spell books, wands, papers, powders, vials, grimoires, goblets and other such gruesome gimlets. Most of these misguided creatures simply place their collections in vaults or leave them laying around their mansions to be worn on special occasions or passed around at dinner parties for the pleasure of their guests.’ Mac snorted his displeasure at such behaviour.

‘However, and according to your late father’s intelligence, it appears that Bartholomew Hamson, the biggest rock star this country has ever produced, and known to the world as Bart, has recently acquired the long-lost Flute of Thelema. At midnight tomorrow Bart and his band will be performing their latest homecoming concert in front of 80, 000 adoring people at Croke Park and apparently, at the climax, so your father understood, Bart intends to play the Flute.’ Mac looked worried again.

‘At this stage I have no way of knowing why Bart would want to do this but it clearly cannot simply be in the interests of popular composition.’ He looked at Inteachán. ‘I need you to go backstage, locate the Flute and prevent it from being played.’

Inteachán had seen the posters around town; four men wearing skullcaps and too-large sunglasses, cowboy boots and leather waistcoats. Even though she couldn’t name any of their songs, Inteachán knew just how much this band meant to so many people. Mac continued talking.

‘Given the nature of the Flute’s origins, the site chosen for its debut and your father’s findings, I firmly believe that the sound of this infernal instrument is somehow intended to engage directly with the NotBeSpeak.’

‘But’s what’s so special about Croke Park?’ asked Inteachán. She placed another piece of bread on her fork and began to toast it on the fire as Mac spoke.

‘There is an ancient ley line called St. Michael which extends out from Ireland into Europe and then the Middle East. This line intersects with various sacred sites dedicated to the saint himself. There are various amplification points along this line, including Skellig Michael, the so-called holy rock that stands in the Atlantic Ocean. Unbeknown to everyone but a few, Croke Park is also another amplification point.’ Inteachán felt a slight shadow descend.

‘If the Flute is played at such a point of amplification then who knows what will happen next.’ Mac put down his plate. ‘As if that wasn’t enough, Croke Park also stands in Ballybough and Ballybough is one of the darkest parts of Dublin.’ Mac looked at Inteachán.

‘There is an old cemetery in Ballybough where the City’s undesirables used to be buried. Thieves, robbers, highwaymen and suicide victims, hence the name, the Suicide Plot.’

‘The worst thing of all,’ continued Mac, ‘was that each corpse had a stake driven through its heart so that they couldn’t further bother the residents.’

Terminal Transit – Irish, Apocalyptic, Science Fiction, Horror Novel

Synopsis

A brilliant research student discovers a plot fulminated by demons from another dimension and kills himself in the process. The fate of the world is left in the hands of an elderly academic and a mysterious orphan.

Using the facts surrounding Ireland’s economic collapse in 2008 as its starting point, Terminal Transit is an apocalyptic adventure dealing with death and destruction in a Dublin slowly devastated by demonic intervention.

Can the end of the world be avoided?

Or is this planet simply scheduled for Terminal Transit?

Terminal Transit,

Chapter I ‘The Song of the NotBeSpeak,’

Verse 6

Mac looked out into the darkness and smiled awkwardly.

‘I think that it is fair to say that what you have just read are the psychotic ramblings of a complete and utter energumen – all pointlessly puerile fiction and paranoid ramblings that lose their meaning as the pages unfold.’ Mac hated himself for saying this.

‘Sibeal always worried that Butler had something of the tragic about him – ‘licked by the black dog of death’ was how she described him the first time they met.’ Mac paused as the weight of all the loss he had ever known bore down on him momentarily. He shuddered, took a deep breath and then collected himself.

‘I could weep forever when I consider exactly how far Butler could have gone as a scholar; the Nobel Prize would only have been the beginning. And yet he only managed to get as far as murderer, madman and suicide. Instead of a stellar publishing career with award after award after award the only thing left to show for all his so-called brilliance is this loose collation of word-games and demonic doggerel.’ Mac threw the folder to the floor and looked out into the darkness. It was a minute before he spoke again.

‘It really doesn’t bear thinking about. But think about it, I must. After all, and knowing the man as well as I did, there has to be the possibility, however slight or slim, that Butler did actually manage to stumble upon some kind of cosmic truth amidst all of this apothegmatic chaos.’ Mac adjusted the blanket on his knee.

‘If we step back for a moment from our contemporary notions of nosology we might recall that earlier conceptions of madness tended to combine elements of the divine, the diabolical, the magical and the transcendental. We might also recall that madness then was also seen a moral issue, constituting, somehow, some form of punishment or a test.’ Mac grimaced and then relaxed, as he warmed to his analysis.

‘What if Butler is right? What if the prophecy is pointing to the fact that this planet is about to be destroyed? Butler’s madness does then become a very real moral issue, only for me now, and no longer for him. Can I really ignore the possibility, however far-fetched this talk of stones and stars and dark planets is, that the extinction-level event Butler has foreseen isn’t going to come to pass?’ The old scholar smiled, thankful for another chance to impart his boundless knowledge.

‘I am reminded here of the 10th Century English word dustsceawung,’ he said. ‘This was the contemplation of the fact that everyday ordinary dust used to be many other things, usually far less everyday and ordinary; walls, and trees and books, for example. With Butler’s discovery of this horrendous prophecy in mind, we might also add islands, nations, and planets to this list.’ Mac shuddered and then held up three bony fingers and pointed at the first.

‘From what I can remember of the last conversation that we had, on the morning of that terrible night, this is how the whole thing is supposed to work. This finger is the first Tier, Past-Change – what was. It can be understood most simply as History but it is simply the case that nothing is ever that simple.’ Mac pointed at the second finger.

‘We understand Present-Change in terms of what is. The here? The now? The immediate?’ He pointed to the third.

‘Future-Change is best understood in terms of what will be. What lies ahead? The shape of things to come? The second after the minute it takes to read this sentence.’ Mac paused.

‘As a race we humans either dwell in the past, refusing to let go of what was. Or we live for the moment, happy to acknowledge the ever-changing nature of what is. Failing either of these two, we look forward to things, projecting our thoughts and desires to a time that has yet to occur, what will be’ Mac pointed to each of the three fingers in turn.

‘The Three Tiers of Change are the normal state of affairs for the world and they ensure that the status quo is maintained, even allowing for occasional wobbles along the way. From the world’s perspective the separation of these three tiers has always been a good thing.’ Mac folded the three fingers back into his fist.

‘We humans are not temperamentally equipped to occupy all three Tiers of Change at the same time. If you don’t believe me then try dwelling in the past, living for the moment and also looking forward to something yet to happen. Fatally, however, our unableness to do these three things at once, will likely bring about our downfall as a planet.

This is because it appears that the NotBeSpeak can be present in all times at the same time. Apparently, this is how they have always existed. Here’s the thing. Though they have always existed it is only now that the conditions are right for them to act. And act they will.’