book 2

An eyesore to behold, he faced similar issues as me in getting rid of it and must have grown bored and irritated of people gawking at the growth. Clearly someone had sympathised with his predicament as somewhere down the line he was passed the details of a white witch who lived up in the highlands of Scotland. She provided healing at the cost of a fiver, which was to be accompanied with a letter, detailing the persons problem and a lock of their hair. It all sounded far fetched and a bit of a ruse but Christopher thought it was worth a shot and followed the instructions. A couple of weeks later he went to wash his face and the wart just crumbled away. Mum had remembered the story and contacted him, luckily he had the kept the witches details. A few days later we followed the same protocol as Christopher and miraculously within weeks my warts were disintegrating before my eyes. The results were amazing giving me belief that magic or spirituality might have a part to play in life, but she was already awakened to that even if she liked to play it down. On a previous occasion she had attended a coffee morning in a nearby village at a friend’s house. Comfortably seated in an armchair, discussing the things ladies discussed, at these type of events, an ashtray suddenly came from nowhere, flying past her shoulder to thud into the wall behind her. Silence cut the room as the ashtray rolled back across the floor prior to a shocked acclaim of ‘Good god – what on earth was that’
blazed out from the startled onlookers, before the owner of the house whooping with delight, proclaimed that the resident poltergeist had taken a liking to Joycie, my mum. She wasn’t unduly alarmed by what had occurred but more flattered to have been chosen. The two events must have helped embolden her to become a very good sleuth, as she uncovered a patchwork of information over the following months from studying local parish and land registry records, as she searched for a reason behind the visitations.

Cirencesters history dated back to Roman times when it had been an important town with an amphitheatre, but in later centuries it had accrued most of its wealth off the back of the wool trade. The Norman’s had  built the town’s abbey but then in the reformation Henry VIII had it torn down before it rose again from the ashes. Historically speaking though it was best remembered for the English Civil war which would sweep through its streets in the mid seventeenth century. Most of the surrounding countryside had sided with the Royalists, but the town itself had been staunchly Parliamentarian. In the ensuing years there were plenty of tear ups resulting in the deaths of hundreds.  Charles II even stayed there whilst fleeing to France after his dreams of regaining the crown had been dashed at the Battle of Worcester. Seemingly the description of the ghosts bloodstained tunic and attire, given by Gina and Charlie and the towns civil war history led her to research that era. Historical information on the village, was sketchy centering on All Hallows church and the nearby Manor House, which our garden backed onto.The village it seemed had been a byway for the wool trade and other commerce to Cirencester helping to support a small community, with the church appearing to play an active altruistic role. An inclusion in the records made mention of a hostilery funded by the church existing on Silver Street roughly where our current house stood. It proved to be quite a eureka moment. Hostileries had been the original med-evil pre-cursor to the hospitals we know of today. Known as Gods Houses, they had been quite common and were administered and staffed by the church in essentially what was a large hall. Sometimes multi functional (they occasionally provided a haven for travellers), but their core purpose was to aid the sick or injured. Perhaps the revelation gave some credence to the old hall and porch being connected to the hostilery or why the well had been dug in the garden – surely a building of that nature would have needed one. Whatever the reasons the coincidence seemed quite compelling. Perhaps the ghost picked up on her research as before she had completed it visited once again scaring the living shit out of me.
Winter’s back in the seventies were no doubt about it colder than what we experience today. Mornings were greeted with fields shrouded in ghostly mists and frosty rimes which made the ground rock hard. Although the house was centrally heated, its age and size meant at times it could be quite parky. Sometimes in the morning I would lie in bed warm under the quilt watching my breath like l was exhaling a modern day vaporiser. Subsequently the two fire places in the living room and barn, were regularly in use helping to take the chill of the air. In the summer Jackdaws nested on the stack and chicks often fell down them. Their steely blue eyes would stare at you as you tried to nurse them back to recovery, but they rarely survived. I was sleeping downstairs in a room adjacent to the old hallway. It had a large double height window with its own shutters but never felt cosy with its high ceiling and we later made it into a dining room. Henry was away in Cheltenham so it had just been me and my parents in the house. It was a bitter night even for  November a few weeks before my 12th birthday. I just couldn’t get warm as I lay there in pitch blackness unable to sleep. In hindsight I should have just tossed another blanket over the bed but elected instead to make up a hot water bottle. I wandered out into the old hallway and down to the cellar where they were kept. As I reached for one on a shelf besides the row of coats, I felt a draft like someone was rushing past me. I craned my neck immediately, but no one was there in the dimmed light. The sensation left me feeling somewhat uneasy so I quickly left the cellar skipping up the half dozen steps to the stone floor which lead to the kitchen. The kettle seemed to take an eternity to boil as I  stared towards the barn at the back of the house. Henry and I would often creep down there on a Monday night to watch the Hammer House movie but the sense of foreboding washing over me far outstripped even the shock of the first time I’d viewed the Devil rides out.
The kettle finally finished its cycle and automatically turned off, steam belching from its spout. I unscrewed the stopper and poured the boiling water into the bottle before the same sensation I had experienced in the cellar overwhelmed me. Startled I spilled hot water over my hand as I spun round but nothing was there. The immediate rush of pain from the hot water was overrided by the alarm of what had just happened. After securing the stopper and running cold water over my scalded hand I gingerly headed back to the perceived sanctuary of my bedroom avoiding looking down into the cellar as I scurried past. My hand was throbbing as I climbed back into bed, clutching the hot water bottle close to my chest. I lay there for a while cogitating the spooky event, before my body was shocked into a neuro muscular paralysis – I could hear footsteps on the stone floor tiles. Gina’s screaming bout had been played out as a bad dream and although Charlie had been sworn to silence by my mother, pinned to the bed I was petrified that I was going to blink and be confronted by the bloodied soldier at the foot of my bed. The footsteps had moved into old hallway, their sound muffled by the carpet. At times I felt convinced they were right outside my bedroom door, before the sound began to weaken and disappeared into the night.

I lay there for a while  fearful of their return before the tension and pain in my hand subsided and sleep came onto me like a drug wrapping me in cotton wool. I mentioned what had happened in the morning over breakfast, Dad was quite dismissive crying: Oh god – Not this again, before gathering his shit up and going off to work. He refused to be dragged into discussions about ghosts, but Mum who’d been optimising her ken on the subject after finding out about the Gods House was all ears. As I walked down to the bus stop cooconed in my green parka against the cold my gut was telling me that we hadn’t seen or heard the last of the ghostly soldier.

A rebel finds his feet and religion

For the next year or thereabouts the ghost took a sabbatical and i moved upstairs. It was an informative period for me as I learnt more about the social and political aspects of life and what my perspective on it was. I knew from the upbringing I had that it would be natural to follow the given order and mold into a middle class lifestyle that ticked all the boxes, but I just wasn’t like the others and always wanted to track my own course. My parents had wanted me to go to nearby Rendcomb college an independent private school, but I’d had my misgivings as soon as the subject was mooted. I’d been cohearsed into going for an open day and taking an entrance exam at the college. Although the expanse of playing fields looked enticing the gothic structure of the main edifice of the school put me off reminding me of St Benedicts. Although I’ve never in my life set out to fail anything – it’s just not in my nature but on that day a subconscious weariness resulted in the entrance exam being a complete disaster, firmly closing the door to the school and a private education. I’ve no doubt if I had passed my father would have insisted my attendance, but that all became immaterial. To be honest I wasn’t disappointed as I just wanted to be one of the lads. I had made some good friends in the village and at the primary school and most were all going to a new comprehensive in the town which was where my heart lay. I certainly didn’t want to be cut off in a boarding school as I was sure it would lead to emotional detachment, dissociation and a narrowed perspective on life. It was also an all boys school which I hated the idea of

as it would restrict my social skills and take me a way from the left field path that I seemed inextricably drawn too. That was getting influenced daily just by the news which was immersed with social changes beginning to sweep the country. The industrial dispute at Grunwick in Willesden was broadcast daily. Thousands of strikers demanding a fair wage just seemed to be getting a battering from the police and it just didn’t seem right. Then there was the increasing belligerence of a new phenomenon called Punk rock. Although the schooling from my siblings had given me an eclectic base in my music taste – a vacuum was waiting to be filled. The Glam rock period had been alright with loads of cool tunes which still stand their time, but I was to young to fully appreciate it. I’d liked T-Rex and Bowie but I was never one for platform shoes, flares and all the glitter and malarke that accompanied it. Many of the older kids were into Genesis and Yes and other prog rock outfits, but I found most of that quite uninspiring and largely dull. Henry on the other hand was quite progressive and had been touched by the alternative vibe beginning to sweep London. He would often pop up there for weekends to stay with Jane who was working for a publishing group and return with cassettes records and magazines including the occasional copy of Sniffin Glue. The riotous publication helped chart the new wave of music coming through, which was largely ignored by the mainstream media or musical press. I loved it and was fascinated by its Fuck you attitude oozing from its pages. That said, I liked my reading – our house was full of books – and I enjoyed stuff from Orwell and Tolkien. However being a bit of a ‘leafer’ I generally preferred fact (if you believed it) over fiction, which drilled me to be somewhat of a newshound. Finding that alternative voice though that spoke to me would always be somewhat of a quest as back then the landscape was somewhat barren. As most of my mates had older siblings the Skinhead series of books by James Moffat did the rounds in their tattered covers.They could be quite absorbing and raw – touching on youth culture from a working class viewpoint. However the main character ‘Joe Hawkins’ was a nasty, bigoted cunt who had a predilection for violence and hate which was normally administered by his twelve hole Dr Martin’s. Moffats books didn’t mince their words and spoke of a  subculture mired in racism and lost opportunities compounded by the fall of empire. It was Nationalism on steroids but the moral compass of Lordly campaigners like Mary Whitehouse, seemed to miss its attack on multiculturalism, concentrating their crosshairs on censoring Pornography or anything really that offered discourse to the judeo-christian bullshit we were constantly fed. This was an affront to a young man starting out on his wanking career (luckily I had a good stash of porn – courtesy of my brothers) but it was the do-gooders attack on my Friday dose of ‘Action’ – The sensational story for boys – which cemented a collision course with the powers to be.The magazine published in 1976 by IPC fed on contemporary issues and offered a top mix of stories which were realistic enough and interspersed with a lots of violence – it was brilliant. Character’s like Dredger the special agent made James Bond look like the village Bobby and the story ‘Kid’s rule Ok’ threatened the established order with anarchy and revolt, as gangs of kid ruled the roost.There were no weak players in its content and it was well a head of the game.
Black Jack the professional boxer with a conscience was one of the first black heroes portrayed in a comic strip and Lefty Lampton the gifted footballer with a penchant for drinking, fighting and shagging was a far cry from boring Roy of the Rovers who sat top of the league. My pile of back copies grew tall before the wrecking ball of conformity ridden by killjoy Mary, has its content diluted and then killed it off by amalgamating it with Battle – which was so dated with its stories of Tommy and Fritz on whatever front. I was well pissed off by its censure but there was nothing I could do, bar eulogies about how good it was and remember that it was a trailblazer change. Anyway It didn’t take long for my rebellious balloon to be inflated again. Henry had brought home a cassette from one of his visits to London for his tiny Sanyo tape recorder. Kate Simon’s photo of The Clash and the albums rear sleeve of the police getting run at the Notting Hill Carnival, screamed attitude. By the time the mesmeric drumbeat opening of Janis Jones had coursed through my body I was hooked. The music and lyrics spoke to me like I was a friend and in many ways acted as a catalyst for the rest of my life as I believed the rebel had found his cause. Joe Strummer the iconic lead singer who in the future I’d get to meet, later stated that being a punk was all about attitude and questioning everything and that philosophy seemed to suit me down to the ground. I’ve worn it like a badge ever since. At times it’s led me astray, sometimes taking me on dangerous paths but as a wannabee freedom fighter that’s what it’s all about. It’s meaning helped galvanise my focus as it became my duty to object to oppression and corruption, to fight tyranny and to stand my ground wherever possible. Subsequently whatever monkey I’ve had on my back or whatever hole I’ve found myself in this attitude thing has been a mighty weapon for my well-being and making me believe that there’s always wheat to be found through the chaff and that there can be no retreat. I still play that album fourty years later and can feel the energy build from inside – It will always act as a standard bearer for doing the right thing. Football was on a similar path with the growing punk scene in my eyes. I clearly had a interest in society and its development and the hooligan pandemic sweeping the country just seemed to be an extension of the ongoing cultural war that the punk scene was fermenting. Compared to nowadays there was fuck all live Football on the TV. Bar the Cup Final, European Cup and the annual tribal bash with the Scots – which all pretty much happened in the same week. Although I’d seen the odd game in London and had been to Swindon a few times I was largely dependent on the radio for my live fix – I’ve dabbled with it ever since. Peter Jones classy and controlled commentaries were engaging and informative and helped to put the images in my head. I’d always try to replicate him on the subbuteo pitch or out playing football with my mates and I’ve probably because of him commentated internally on most of my life ever since. Oddly enough it’s kind of cathartic as you make things up as you live your life and it helps to keep you on a level and gives substance to whatever you do and a focus point to the game. Living with MS in later years was a case in point. Whatever the scenario – for example climbing stairs. It was always treated as an Olympic event and I’d commend myself with each step, like Jonesey would salute the team battling to find an equaliser late on in one of his commentaries. My long distance drives or cycle rides would be enlightened mapping my route, touchpoints on the waymake it to the finish line

The process has always made me believe, keeping me positive, and allowed me to map a way forward and to keep going whatever the odds. At times though living the dream as a young teenager especially as an Everton fan, could be cruel and soul destroying.
The Toffees loss to Aston Villa in the League Cup Final and weeks later to Liverpool in the FA Cup semi final left me beaten, distraught and angry. The front cortex of my brain clearly never recovered from Brian Little’s late winner in the former as my Villa subbuteo team was crushed beyond recognition and I’ve never forgiven Clive Thomas’s for disallowing
Brian Hamiltons worthy winner in the latter. That anger could manifest itself at times and would later get me in a lot of trouble before I mastered internal control. However my memory has always been sharp and I never forget if someone bursts my bubble. In a football context that was normally reserved for Liverpool who for years were like a Maesters chain round my neck. They probably still would be had the identity and fabric of the game – its innocence and appeal if you want, not been chipped away by the money, elitism and its complete commercial capitulation. As soon as Trevor Francis became the first £1M player a couple of years later, the writing was on the wall. Football became a gravy chain and it’s been milked ever since at the expense of the supporter. Back then the sense of identity and resulting tribalism meant something – it still does, but the globalisation of the sport although widening its appeal, subsequently  made it less inclusive and appealing.
Three months before the Liverpool defeat I had finally got to see my beloved blues – ironically a few rounds earlier at Swindon. Watching football then compared to now was a totally different experience.  Everton’s form was about the only thing to remain consistent and my Dad always gleefully referred to them as ‘Neverwon’ to the day he died. He had a fair point as we constantly underachieved but I had high hopes Gordon Lee’s blue & white army had turned the corner and were genuine contenders for every cup going. Sadly that cup would be half filled for another seven years as a crammed county ground witnessed a pulsating encounter. On a beach of a pitch, Kenny Stroud scored the goal of the season – (a rocket of a shot from 25 yards) as Swindon fought back to draw 2-2. I’d tingled with pride as I crained my head through a gap in the others, to see Mike Lyons our captain exit the tunnel. He was followed by the likes of Bob Latchford and Andy King – deities in my eyes. It seemed like half of Liverpool had decamped South and the intensity and passion of ten thousand Evertonians was infectious. They were like an invading army and certainly looked the part. Many wore donkey jackets had cropped haircuts and were a somewhat motley crew. My brother said they were probably dockers, as quite a few were missing fingers (presumably from industrial injuries) and most had toothless grins – All of them seemed inebriated. The celebrations that greeted Duncan Mackenzies deft opener were brilliant as we were swept down the terrace in a sea of limbs, blue and white scarfs, drunken dockers and streams of urine, which flowed beneath our feet. It had bemused me when I’d seen people urinating into plastic cups and pouring the contents away at their feet. Thankfully football’s sanitation and all seater stadiums largely removed this unsavoury practice although years later the symptoms of MS, would take me back to that piss sodden terrace. By the end of the game, there was a big crush getting out of the Stratton Bank. The police were non existent. Luckily those same guys – the cup pissers, stepped up to the plate, barking out orders, marshaling the fans and lifting frightened kids to safety. They saved the day. Three years later I’d be in the same spot for a cup game against Spurs. The match would be marred by crowd trouble and the ransacking and torching of a program kiosk.The resulting fire had threatened to alight the adjacent wooden grandstand, before the fire brigade arrived. I’d just stood there and watched it all happen – an accessory to the crime, with half a dozen programmes tucked in my jacket. Metaphorically speaking fires like the one at Swindon were ligniting up and down the country, as mobs of lads fought it out on a Saturday afternoon. At times it felt like society was turning in on itself and the tabloids helped woft the flames publishing weekly hooligan leagues of shame – a badge of honour to ‘The Firms’. We all loved it at school on a Monday going on about Millwall’s F troop, Harry the Dog or West Hams ICF (Inter City Firm) steaming some other clubs home end. Match of the Day or The Big Match stirred the pot too. They didn’t edit out the fighting on the terraces and the audio often echoed to the ominous chant of ‘You’re gonna get your fucking heads kicked in’ – normally reserved for the away fans, as their team trotted back to half way line after scoring a goal. Jimmy ‘The Chin” Hill, the anchor man on Match of the Day, would occasionally spew out his disgust when things turned really ugly and fighting or pitch invasions interrupted a game but often or not the authorities just ignored or swept the problem under the carpet – in many ways they poured petrol onto the flames. Every Saturday the BR network would have scores of the football special trains criss crossing the country. Chartered for away fans they didn’t quite live up to the Jimmy Savile adverts on ITV which eulogised The age of the train and its Inter City Service. Clearly the West Ham fans saw its potential for avoiding detection, but for the majority of fans it was a day of old rolling stock which lacked toilets, heating, refreshments and were prone to attacks by home fans waiting in the railway sidings on arrival. Once at their destination heavy handed police tactics took over as fans were herded to the ground before being enclosed in fenced off terracing, topped with barbed wire. As they say if you treat people like animals then expect them then to take on those traits. Inevitably the contemptible treatment of the fans would have its deadly consequences.The resulting disasters at Bradford, Heysel and Hillsborough, would be a catalyst for change and a force for good, but ultimately the cost would be football’s soul – as it sold out to the money men, over the ashes of the departed. My future and footballs though was unwritten that summer as I learnt to live with the Villa defeat, gluing the shattered subbuteo team back together. They were never the same, failing to achieve former glories on the green baize – but the past and history would have its moment. Liz would come to stay and the ghost would return to tell us its facinating story.

A Seance opens the portal

Out of all my siblings she was the most rebellious and flowed where she wanted to flow – we got on brilliantly. Like all of us she been offered the Catholic path and had been sent to a convent, but she was having none of it and ran away at 14. Two years later she’d left home and moved in with Micky D – a local Ealing lad.They rubber necked with the best of them including The Who,The Stones, Hendrix and many more in the heady sixties and the burgeoning local Jazz & Blues scene. She’d later get a job as a model before graduating into the film industry as an actor where she worked on some classics like Superman and Saturday Night Fever. That was well sick in my eyes, so Liz was always treated with celebrity status. I still  kick myself now wishing I’d looked after all the signed autographs she got for me but I did at least get to see Superman fly, when she took me to Pinewood Studios. She was often filming in the area so took the opportunity to spend time at home on her downtime. She was aware of the previous hauntings as we all were. Although the ghost had not been seen in a physical sense for over a year there was still an eeriness about the house when you were on your own and a feeling you were never alone or sometimes being watched. Like Mum, Liz seemed to have an open portal to the other side and had experienced the odd paranormal episode. She’d once seen the ghost of a scullery maid whilst filming in a haunted castle in Ireland and had also taken part in a seance at a friend’s house with a spiritual medium. She clearly had a gift of some kind. The medium had relayed a message to her from a close friend who’d recently died about her dog, which Liz had inherited. The scent of her friends favourite perfume had permeated the air as the medium had spoken. Liz was by no means a clairvoyant – or she didn’t think she was, but it appeared she could channel something spiritual as the two events went beyond coincidence. My mum was intrigued with Liz’s stories and revealed the revelation of the Gods house one evening when they were discussing the ghost. After a few whiskeys the two of them became thick as thieves as they conjured a plan to try to get to the bottom of the mystery. The discovery that a Gods house, pre existed the current structure had transfixed my mother. She was convinced the weathered porch, with its stone seats, chiseled into its interior, was a waiting room to the adjoining hall and the connecting cellar. They would have been an integral part of the hostilery. Mum didn’t like the idea of hiring a Medium out of respect to my Father. He’d sort of buried his head in the sand over the ghost and would find a happy place when the subject was aired. Despite most of his children turning away from the church, he was still  a deeply religious man and suspicious that any divination might unlock some evil spirit, but it was Mum who ran the show and she was a very determined person. After further discussion Liz proposed using a ouija board to connect with the ghost. The practice had been popular in the late 19th century involving the use of a wooden board with letters and characters and a planchette (normally a piece of wood) which was the conduit for communicating the spirits message. She had known of friends who had experimented with a home made device with some success utilising a wooden table, the letters of a scrabble board and an upturned wine glass acting as the planchette. My mum liked the concept. Perhaps the sense of enlightenment fostered by her family of birth and her own spirituality, coupled with the knowledge that Dad would be out for most of the coming Saturday up in London was a good enough reason. Henry and I were playing cricket in the garden that Saturday when the subject was mooted by both mum and Liz, who called us into the cub off the kitchen. We could have elected to carry on our game when invited to partake in the seance but neither of us were prepared to miss the opportunity of talking to the dead on a improvised ouija board.
We ate early that evening in the cub of the kitchen. It felt like the eve of a big cup game and I was experiencing bouts of excitement and nervousness as I toyed with my food. The night of the footsteps had shat me right up and the thought of potentially meeting a bloodied ghost left me somewhat perplexed. Equally though it was a journey into the unknown and I was inquisitive as fuck to get on with it. Liz had earlier fished out the scrabble set from the barn which was hidden amongst all my subbuteo teams in the games cupboard. It was at the far end of the table with a rounded wine glass. Both had taken on a new mantra and sat there like powerful  talismans – waiting to teleport us to the other side. I suppose there was a level of reassurance because my mum was there and Liz seemed quite purposeful about what we were about to do but Henry and I were giving each other some awkward looks as we trooped off up the stairs to the spare room where the majority of the kinetic activity had occurred. It was bathed in sunlight as we entered. Mum drew the green patterned curtains on both windows casting the room into shadow and turned on the bedside light. Liz meanwhile cleared the round wooden table in one corner of its vase of flowers, placing it in the centre of the room whilst Henry and I pilfered chairs from other rooms to make up a quartet, placing them round the table. With the preparations complete we all sat down. Liz had taken the lid of the scrabble board and had started to lay the letters of the alphabet out in a circle with the words Yes and No at the top and bottom respectively. She turned the wine glass upside down and placed it in the centre of the circle of letters. Glancing at each other, we gingerly placed our index fingers on the glasses base. Beams of light criss crossed the room as dust particles gently fell through them to the floor. Liz had stepped up to the plate taking on the role as our resident shaman and asked out loud ‘IS THERE ANYONE THERE’? Her words resonated around the room. Unbelievably the glass in a matter of seconds started to slide effortlessly across the wood veneer, gently nudging the word Yes, before returning to its start point. For Tumbleweed moments in my life – there’s been a few, it was up there with the best of them. We all sat there staring at the glass in silence, mouths agape, stunned by what we had just witnessed. Liz broke the hush asking with a tone of disbelief whether anyone had pushed the glass voluntarily. We all shook our heads in unison. My finger was pressed so lightly to it that just a film of my skin touched its surface. To move the vessel without some pressure would have been physically impossible. Liz continued after a short pause with a series of investigativq questions. Over the next fourty five mesmerising minutes, the glass – propelled by a telekinetic energy force, answered them. The tips of our fingers were mere passengers as the glass whipped around the table, touching letters, making sentences and spelling out the spirits story.
It told of a man called Aziz who had come to England from Mesopotamia and who had served as a soldier in the English Civil War. At times some of the sentences were difficult to decipher, but the main crux of the story told us he had fought for the Royalists and had been wounded at the Battle of Worcester before fleeing the field on horseback with other allies. His injuries had been bad enough for him to have been left at the former hostilery a few days later, where he had succumbed and been buried in the grounds. He told us he had been a deeply religious man who had converted to Catholicism, but had died without receiving the last rites. Subsequently his soul had been in limbo for three hundred years unable to pass over until it was clensed. His visitations it appeared were cries for help in completing his journey as it turned out we were the first family of Catholics to have lived in the house in that period. We could have gone on for another hour, had my Father not interrupted us having returned from London. He was at first excited seeing us all crouched over the table seemingly playing a game, before he cottoned onto what we were doing. I rarely saw my Dad lose his temper but he shouted at all of us for messing around with the occult and practising all this mumbo jumbo as he called it, before storming out of the room. I had some sympathy for him. He generally saw things in black and white and stuck to the grain. The catholic church gave mixed messages on the subjects of ghosts and I’m sure that and his added stoicism, stopped him getting involved in the mysticism that had captured the rest of us. For me the church and its teachings had always been a bit of an enigma. The resurrection, holy ghost, immortal souls and Judgement Day all seemed a little far fetched when you really thought about it, but what I’d just experienced was far from fantasy. Although I wasn’t sold by the heaven trip the notion of the soul been stuck on a different plain seemed more than plausible from what I’d just witnessed and taken part in. The church in many ways had positioned itself as the Devils advocate for over a millennium. It sowed that seed of fear and the people just seemed to bow to its will. The idea that bad ghosts might exist was part of folk law and was further complimented with films like The Exorcist, which was doing the rounds. It had freaked people out, triggering cinematic neurosis and leaving people paranoid about the Devil. However Liz had hardly turned into the girl possessed, spouting green bile and croaking ‘Your mother sucks cocks in Hell’ as she expertly conducted our psychic session. In fact none of us had felt any malevolence or threat from being taken on this spiritual trip just a sense of well-being towards Aziz. My sister apologised to him for my father’s outburst as we concluded the session, promising to seek a way forward to which the spirit replied ‘You are my kindred – I will always be with you’
The sentence left me uplifted. Clearly Aziz had been an honourable man who wished us no harm and whose visits had been about spiritual redemption. All of us were now part of a collective paranormal entity – which would be his conduit to freedom.

An Exorcism of sorts

Father O’ Donnell our parish priest, was a breath of fresh air compared to the all consuming, constrictive experience I had encountered in Ealing. He looked like a stereo typical Friar Tuck, with balding ginger hair and was possessed with a cracking sense of humour. I still had to go through the ritual of attending Mass on a Sunday but he had made the servitude easier by making me one of his altar boys.
He knew I didn’t have much interest in things ecclesial, so we’d talk about football or fishing, as we donned our robes in the vestry before service. He was a big Liverpool fan so I had to put up with the usual gentle ribbing about Everton, but he loved to hear my tales of poaching trout from Lord Fanshaws estate, which bordered part of the village. Fanshaw was a Tory MP and suffered from Polio. He could never catch us with his windmill limp and me and my mates often gave him and his gamekeeper the run around. Father O’Donnell found this hilarious as the latent rebel within him would manifest itself as he chortled away at Lord Fanshaws expense. The actual mass that followed was always a bit of a show in reality as I’d lead him out into the nave, choking on the burning  incense and ringing bells like I was a Morris Dancer. He would then conduct the service delivered with his lilting brogue, before we’d divvy out the body and blood of Christ to the practitioners, including my parents. I always treated the Lords prayer – it tended to follow soon after the communion, with an inner glee as it signalled the end of the liturgy and a return to normality and my world. Afterwards he’d have a quick pull on a fag as he derobed, give me £0.20 for my time and then hurry outside to further bless the flock. The money was never taken ungratefully, but it was a small percentage for the part I had played in the charade of robbing the practitioners as they willingly filled the collection boxes. For added compensation I’d sneak a quick tot of the cheap wine masquerading as the blood of Christ from the chalice, before following him outside. He was a kind old soul, and I liked him a lot. When my mum told him of the hauntings and the seance the first thing he said with a twinkle in his eye was – ‘Are you sure it wasn’t Jamie moving the glass’
I’m sure my mothers steely glare would have advised him otherwise. Although I was always a practical joker much of what had happened was beyond me or anyone else round that table. I later read of the Ideomotor phenomenon, which argued the mind could subconsciously propel the planchette, but that thing had a mind of its own that night – no mortal force was propelling it. Luckily Father O’Donnell was a pragmatist and saw our problem in the same light. His attitude was that ghosts or vanquished souls did exist and simply sought redemption. Praying for them was part and parcel of worshiping the cloth. I still wasn’t sold on the Heaven trip
but saw the immediate parallel with Aziz’s beef about not being blessed before he died. Father O’Donnell was keen to help and offered a blessing at a future mass and to visit the house to offer the sacrament.

A few weeks later, as the last embers of Summer started to die, he was true to his word. The church was sparsely populated as he conducted his sermon, with my mum and myself in attendance. He wasn’t a bad story teller. His warming lilt and ability to marry the loose ends of life and gospel into a thought provoking narrative were sometimes campfire material and often left a seed to sow in your head. He was in good form as he weaved a tale about Jesus rejoicing on finding his lost sheep; the warmth of family and the importance of coming in from the cold- in a metaphorical sense. He soon deviated banging on about the gates of heaven and forgiveness – the usual Catholic guilt trip, before he blessed Aziz in the context of the story and recited the last rites prayer
mizzling anyone close enough with his holy water sprinkler. The speech was classic stuff, compared to some of the parsimonious monotonal sermons, I was used to and a fitting eulogy of sorts to the ghost and its quest. Afterwards we waited by the church gate, near to our car to give him a lift home to conduct the sacrament. He soon appeared from the side entrance dressed in his all black priest strip – bar the white dog collar. He was clutching a black leather bag and waved at us, putting on a slight sprint (like he was late for an appointment) before appearing to get the stitch and pull up  after about five yards, reverting back to his normal shuffling gait. He was puffing a bit and red around his cheeks and jowells as he climbed into the car but was his usual jovial self. He quickly commented about Everton’s poor start to the season as he swung round to face me with a wry smile. My upper lip curled in distain as I deflected his mocking assessment reminding him we’d just turned Villa over at their place to break our poor run.The banter continued before he turned away laughing. The journey home took about fifteen minutes
and the conversation quickly turned to the subject at hand. My mum thanked him for the service which he passed off as if it was a daily occurrence, as he explained the procedure for the reconciliation of the last rites. According to the church yo