Dusk is descending as Mr Devereux slips out through the back entrance to his property having asked his neighbour, Maximus, to pop in to keep up appearances to sate the curiosity of the media. He skirts around the Little Venice basin, a short walk along the canal bank brings him to the back of Paddington station. He takes a train up to Oxford to see Professor Hoffenback, an old, trusted friend. A man who can take your weight in a crisis and who knows a trick or two. With in the hour Mr Devereux is walking from the train station to Professor Hoffenback’s. It feels good to be out the some. Wrapped in the familiar, comforting environment of sleeping spires he knows so well.
Hoffenback originally trained & practiced as a medic in the old South Africa. He went to work in suburban slums & rural communities helping the poorest people. In these places his medical skills were often pitted against the communities own medical men, shaman or witch doctors.
Going into the townships he I found my sister – she had died years before. He didn’t find her directly but first found people who gave meaning to his quest. Slowly the door opened and ridiculous as it sounds here he found himself guarding the countries psychic space whilst bartering with the government over tuition fees and funding streams. In a cold damp racist class ridden society with out a genuine shape shifter in site.
Hoffenback was interested in equality and ending apartheid. He was also interested in exposing the science behind the stupidstition of the Shaman. Instead he was drawn deeper and deeper in stupidstition. Something was pulling him in. He became a talisman, the White Witch Doctor with everybody on side, getting amazing results that the fucking drugs alone couldn’t have achieved.
When he came to Oxford in the 60’s. Everybody hated apartheid, hated South Africans, and hated him. Those that would hear him out thought he should have stayed there, to help the needy. He brought all his tools & skills . . . & ghosts. Oxford was strange and quiet as the grave. There were no sounds of the fight for survival heard on the savanna or in the Townships. On his first night Hoffenback’s spirit bird was alarmed by a new call at night. So much so he had to go out and find out what it was, chasing this raucous call for an hour in the dark. It turned to be nothing more unusual than a European Magpie, Pica pica. None of those in Africa. But here of course, the Magpie is associated with a number of superstitions it has a reputation as an omen of ill fortune, the only bird that didn’t sing or comfort Jesus when he was crucified . . .
Largely retired Hoffenbeck now charades as Emeritus Professor of PME at Oxford’s oldest College. Hoffenbeck in intelligent, charismatic, entertaining, an excellent speaker and as the Chair of Pretty Much Everything (Science, Medicine, History, Anthropology et cetera) he is invited to present all over the world and in every facet of the media. His personal area of research, publicly, is highly contested & much debated, is shape shifters. Privately he monitors and oversees Britain’s paranormal activity, a mantle taken on by Oxford University in the High Middle Ages.
After a brisk walk Mr Devereux is approaching Professor Hoffenback’s large residence next to the repurposed church on Woodstock Road. The house is somewhat sprawling, an unusual feature for this part of Oxford. Mr Devereux had called Professor Hoffenback’s the day before and having explaining the circumstances it was agreed they should forgo the formalities of dinner in college and meet at home. A resident of Summertown he has a study overlooking the cemetery on Woodstock road. “I like the view, it helps me focus in my work”.
As Mr Devereux arrives. Professor Hoffenback a large, solid man with a rectangular head that looked like it might be chiseled from granite was waiting in the doorway.
“If it’s not Indiana Jones! How the devil are you are old boy? Do come in Rupert. How’s the glamorous collecting game?”
“Thank you Bill. Antiquities dealing is as dangerous as ever.”
“So I hear. Is that what you come to see me about?”
“Yes.”
“I was very sorry to hear about Everard. How are you coping?”
“Oh you know, muddling on. We weren’t very close but I don’t think it’s really sunk in.”
“No.” Hoffenbeck the bear wore his college mentor face. “I’ll fix us a drink before dinner and you can fill me in about what happened, if you’re up to it?” Hoffenbeck shepherded his guest into and armchair (by the open fire). “I’ve fished out some Taylor’s 1970 Single Harvest Port, if you’ve no objection?”
“Perfect, you remember every thing Bill.”
“Maybe, maybe I just write everything down.” Hoffenbeck smiled sympathetically, handing over the port glass.
Mr Devereux began to relax into the chair and the congenial atmosphere. Above all, for first time in days, he felt save with Bill Hoffenbeck and on his second glass he began to describe the artefact, the incident, the aftermath and his thoughts and theories on the events.
After closing the door the Professor sat completely still and silent, as if listening to an orchestra. His port remained untouched. After Mr Devereux had finished speaking he continued, lost in thought.
“Well we simply can’t have that sort of thing. The college controls all supernatural activity in the UK. Has done since medieval times. The terrible events you describe are completely unsanctioned. The whole thing is preposterous!”
So, would you agree the whole, sorry incident revolves around Everard presenting to you with the Ixtab carving, the Rope Woman and Mayan goddess of suicide which he did not rightfully own and somebody or something wanted it at all costs.’
‘Exactly. I wonder if you know anything about these Ixtab artifacts, their properties and how many there are in UK?’
‘Hmm, well we know at our cost some of their properties but I don’t know how many there in circulation, not many, that’s for sure. But you are asking me this not out of a general curiosity, are you? You. . .’
‘Yes. I want know who is responsible. . . I want revenge.’
‘I believe you know who is responsible. These things cant really go undetected. But I suspect you want more . . .’
‘How to exact revenge on the dead.’
Hoffenbeck laughed ‘I’ve often though how to exact revenge on the dead. . .
The dead of my own family!’
Devereux did not laugh and Hoffenbeck’s face tightened as he continued.
I think we can take an informed guess at who was involved in killing your son – I will tell you what we know or what we think we know. We have a reasonable amount of information around the case which can be used to paint a clearish sort of picture, probably the best we can expect.
I believe there was an Ixtab in the UK during the Victorian period it was thought to the possession of a Dutch collector called Leo Frobenius. Frobenius was interested in hypnosis, séances and the Victorian cult of death in general, including phenomena such as reincarnation. At some point he developed an alias of Frobius. Frobenius was a rather nasty piece of work. On the surface he was an honest, obsessive Victorian collector and benefactor. He legitimised much of his hoard by passing it through museums such as the Ashmolean, Horniman and the British Museum. I believe he moved to live quite nearby to Horniman Museum. I’m not sure if he’s dead or alive. Many of the Victorians experimented with Elixirs Of Life and that sort of thing – there are conflicting reports on how successful these potions and lotions have been, but it’s fairly certain he or what’s left of him has amassed quite a band of psychic criminals. Frobenius has a gang of toady sycophants – dirty, incestuous lowlifes who are always trying to kill him & free themselves”.
“Frobenius got many of his pieces through the earlier exploits of John Buchannan, an equally dreadful man, perhaps you’ve heard of him? A Bristolian servant’s son who took to the boats/slave trade, like a duck to water. He loved the cruelty of it. He quickly realised he good get a high price through plundering the artefacts of the new cultures the empire was finding, to satisfy the curiosity/fantasy of the bored wealthy Elite. The stuff which Buchannan believed contained real power he kept for himself & much of which is now part of Frobenius’s collection.
Devereux sat impassively.
As you know we monitor paranormal and psychic activity in the United Kingdom. We have our observers. Well place individuals looking for psychic activity & paranormal events in the fertile grounds of hospitals, train stations, police stations, on public transport, pubs, clubs and sites of drug dealing. This sort of sudden increase is often associated with increased drug consumption, though we have never been able to establish which is influencing the other, which is the cause and which is the effect, if any. We suspect it’s 50:50 but we haven’t been able to design a study to investigate it properly, for obvious reasons. There’s been increased activity in the south east which went completely off went off scale on Saturday”.
“The day Everard was killed”.
“Yes. We are aware of a number of things that happened that day. A TV physiatrist shooting a tabloid editor live on TV outside a trial in central London was the big news of the day which was sadly followed by what they are calling the Thames Skier”.
“Everard”.
“Yes, we are thinking these were some sort of a show of force, no idea what for but, it ended up with a psychic activity score we haven’t seen on main land Britain since the High Middle Ages. A less well-publicised event was the suicide – by hanging nonetheless – of a disgraced police officer detective, sergeant Sidney Fillery. We know that Fillery meddled in magic through Frobenius and his gang”. Other events tied into this show-stopping bundle appear to be, nothing is certain, the murder of an unknown quantity surveyor and maybe even the death and rebirth of Leo Frobenius, although I feel the later might be some sort of trick or trap.
“Rebirth?”
“Yes, I suspect much of this is about movingFrobenius’ essence to a new host.”
“So, Frobenius invested the Ixtab power to Fillery, to help towards this end.” Devereux finished Hoffenbeck’s reasoning.
“Perhaps.”
“So it could be a week point. We could find the Ixtab & punish them”.
“Might be best to let this one go Rupert. God only know what’s going on down there”.
“But you regulate the supernatural, you said so yourself”
“I am an old Oxbridge academic. To old for the troubled streets of London where it looks like they are gearing up for a return to the darkness of the Middle Ages. I’d say something big is coming. Best leave it well alone, old boy. Whatever is going on is bigger than us, we must monitor it & once we have some understanding of what we are up against then my successor will act.
I want to hand over my charge intact, responsibility for keeping 10 thousand years of supervision of the UK’s paranormal activity is been quite a cross to bear. ”
“You are a coward, hiding behind your academic remit. This is the moment you were made for. You must help me!”
“I was rather worried you might say that. I’d like to help, but I’m not sure I can and besides nothing we can do will bring Everard back – we might even exacerbate the situation”
“The Ixtab. Why did Fillery reclaim it?”
“As I a say, I’m not sure. I’m guessing he wanted to test out his new . . . lack of body . . moving to a new host. . . and as I keep saying set an example. It is rather gratuitous display, but you have to admit it seems to be working rather well for them,”
“So the end of my son’s life has been an a cock-er-ney villain’s joy ride? If you won’t help me, direct me to somebody or something that can, a book, an idea, a fucking carving! . . . this University and all it’s knowledge must be useful for something”.
“You’d have thought so, Old Boy.” Hoffenbeck stood up and charged his guest’s glass. “Now look Bert, we are not going to decide anything today so there’s no need to get all hot under the collar. I’ve cleared my diary so we can talk it over, relax and rest with some College hospitality and see if anything else turn up or falls out.”
“Sounds good Bill. I’m sorry, I’ve been a bit up tight”
Bill opened his cigar box and the conversation fell into the usual rhythm of University issues, the lack of funding, who’d been caught cheating and who might be going to prison. The fire fizzed and crackled, at appropriate points it was part of conversation, feeding on the energy in the room.
