James loved his parents, he knew they loved him too, unconditionally, even though he wasn't the blood of their blood. He was thankful for everything they'd done for him, given him a life, a home, a fresh start.

So, he was feeling guilty, as he lay on the single bed in his small childhood bedroom. The walls were covered with teenage memories, posters of rock bands, shelves full of must-have vinyl, and hundreds of books.

Books everywhere. All his stuff he'd pleaded his parents to buy, knowing they'd go without to give him that which made him feel part of the family. Felt ashamed that, at times, he'd played on their kindness.

Yes, he was thankful for the large but adolescent library he'd built. Cherished each and every tatty and well-thumbed book.

But they were not his book, hence the guilt.

His book got him the cars, the house, the travel, the money and fame, and whilst he appreciated his family home, he'd do anything to get his life back.

Anything? Would you kill for it?

The thought came to him, at the same moment sickening and thrilling.

A way to re-write his book, re-write his life!

What if (and it was a big if) he could get his hands on another pocket watch, travel back again (his heart swelled at the thought), recreate the Architect's Rituals.

History would record the murders, the killer would never be caught or identified, and he could, once again become the author of a best seller!

He had all the times, dates, and locations, knew the intended targets. Had the details of the Ritual in glorious detail bright in his memory.

A flicker of doubt crossed his mind – could he actually perform the Act; was he worthy of the Divine? Could he take another's life?

But these girls should be long dead, were already long dead, so technically he wouldn't be harming anyone, merely giving them the chance of Transcendence that the Council of Scribes had wickedly denied them.

But how?

The books on his shelves seemed to whisper the answer in the darkening room. Mostly one-book authors, trashy novels, self-published vanity projects.

The rare few – Asimov, Harrison, Barker, and Adams – stood out as bright stars amongst the mediocre spines. Talent outshining the ones who merely tried. Efforts lost to time, the authors never having a chance.

Then it hit him.

Find a new author, one with no obvious talent, a seemingly lucky break, a new star in the literary world. They will have a pocket watch, they will be his Way!

He was surprised how quickly his research offered up names, the internet delivering bios and professional CVs, pointing a digital finger at possible Scribes.

Within an hour he had two obvious targets. A young author and screenwriter from Manchester, responsible for the latest TV blockbuster set in Roman Britain, and an elderly woman, writer of historical romance, currently living in France.

Both had been catapulted to fame in the previous year, seemingly without any previous published works or experience. A minor Internet following for each giving no clue as to their talent.

Lucky breaks, or had the Council had a hand in their good fortune?

Riding lay on his bed, shattered mind plotting well into the night.

FWR

13.05.24 Front Page

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