Remember The Slap Films <remembertheslap@gmail.

com>

“A letter found inside a tree” - creeping horror by Remembertheslap

2. ...If you are reading this, then the stainless steel container has done it’s job and protected my letter - from the
passage of time, embedded in the tree. I would love to be there with you, when you discover it. I imagine you felled
the tree at the end of its life, when it posed a danger to the power lines, or maybe it came down in a storm and you
wrecked your chain on the canister while cutting it up for removal.

1. Of course, I cannot know when this will see the light again, It might be sooner than I think, so I must be vague
about some details. Read on and you will understand why. You don’t need to know much of my personal history,
but I will sketch it for you.
2.
3. My name is G.K. I was born in the United States in the late 60’s, the only child of middle aged parents. My father
was a tradesman, my mother a language teacher. I grew up bilingual - mom spoke to me only in Spanish until the
age of seven. My childhood was typical for the era. At school I was not academically gifted. My athletic prowess was
good, but not outstanding. In the arts and music I was a dud. But I enjoyed the Boy Scouts and showed a talent for
orienteering and an all-round resistance to discomfiture in the outdoors. As a young man fresh out of school and
with no prospect, or interest, for higher eduction, I went looking for local work and fell in with a landscaping outfit.
I had some strength and stamina and enjoyed the hard labour. I got along with the crew and liked hanging out after
work at the bars. I saved my money and rented a trailer on the outskirts of town. We used to contract in a climber,
“cranky” Cal Coleman, for difficult tree removals. He was a gnarly coot who’d logged old growth in northern
California and he could take on any tree, any condition, anywhere. Cal made me his sidekick whenever he worked
for us, which was fine because he was ornery and none of the other guys could work with him. As time went on, we
would sometimes drink a beer together after work and he’d tell me his logging tales.
4.
5. As my ability increased and Cal’s age gradually gained on him, he gave me more leeway to climb and rig. The
landscaping company got into tax problems and folded, so cranky Cal and I partnered up and went at the trees full
time. He was sought after in the county as a tradesman who was both cheap and good, so we had customers lined
up, but It wasn’t long before the old guy wrecked his knee for the last time and I was doing all the climbing, while
he bossed from below and drove the loader. The work suffered, but we coasted on Cal’s reputation while I got my
act together. I owe him a debt, not just for the skills he imparted, but for something else too, something I can’t
really explain. Like some of his old world grit transferred over and helped me survive the ordeal to come.
6.
7. Cal retired when when a new tree care outfit started up in town. Instead of joining them, I hit the road. You see, I’d
never really left my hometown, I was in my mid twenties and wanted to experience something of our great country.
New tires on my old Nova estate, a sleeping bag and a camping stove. In rainy weather my ropes and saws were my
bedfellows in the back of the car, and dry nights I slept on a sheet of plywood on the roof. I had money in the bank
and nothing to tie me down, moved around all over the States for the next three of four years, working different
jobs and meeting all sorts of people. During my drifting period both my parents died. I was informed about the
accident several months after it happened. I’d phoned home three or four times and got no reply, so I contacted my
mother’s school, and they told me the news. They had been on vacation, there had been an accident. You don’t need
to know where and how. Some distant relatives I’d never met came out of the woodwork for the funeral. It was a
rough time. The family home was a lifetime lease, so I was obliged to move their possessions. I had some volunteers
from Goodwill come and get the furniture and clothing and I walked away with only a pair of dad’s shoes, mom’s
apron and some photos. Other relatives picked over the books and jewellery and what not. My parents had not been
wealthy. After the attorneys took their cut I was left with a few grand, not that it mattered to me, but just to put you
in the picture - my dire poverty a few years later is instrumental to what happened.
8.
9. The darkness began then. I returned to the road, but empty, without the wanderlust. I had some money and my
needs were few, so I drove and drove, quite aimlessly. I must have covered a fifty thousand miles. I would seek out
long stretches of highway through desert and prairie and dark forests and just cruise along slowly for days at a
time.
10.
11. It was on a stormy night in a roadhouse bar and grill in a village called Demesne, somewhere in the northeast that I
found conversation with a stranger. How or why we got talking I forget, but turns out we were both arborists, so we
talked shop. Quinton was a local man, about my age. We played eight ball, as lighting flashed outside. Maybe I’d
had too many beers, or my depression got the better of me, but for some reason I told this man my story, and he
was interested. He asked me how long I’d been on the road.
12.
13. “Nearly a year now. Haven’t stopped in one place for more than a week. Probably head out again when the storm
clears.”
14.
15. “Got no family you can stay with? No friends?” I shook my head. There were some old friends back home, but I
hadn’t seen them in a long time. I scratched my shot and cursed.
16.
17. “Parlé Español?” he asked. I was confused. “You just cursed in Spanish” he explained.
18.
19. “Must have been a reflex” I said “I learned it as a kid.”
20.
21. “Is that so?” He planted the butt end of his cue on the floor and leaned on it, staring at me. I was suddenly weirded
out. It was obvious his mind was figuring at high speed. It was his shot, but he didn’t take it. “Say…you wanna do
some tree work for me? I’m thinking you might be just the guy I need.”
22.
23. “What did you have in mind? Storm cleanup?”
24.
25. “Yeah, exactly. There’s a couple of big ones I think are gonna go over tonight, gonna need tidying up just as soon as
the weather improves. If you could stick around for a few days, the money is -“ and he considered the table and
spoke more quietly - “Let’s just say it’s fair.” The plywood and tar felt roof vibrated like a drum from a concussive
thunderclap as Quinton leaned in to take his shot. He didn’t offer hospitality and I didn’t want to ask. I presumed
the guy didn’t want to bring a vagabond stranger home to wife and kids, and who could blame him. I slept in the car
as usual. Wrapped in my clammy bag and rocking like a lifeboat, the rain driving horizontally at the windows, I felt
adrift and rudderless on the ocean of life. And I had a horrible premonition - I remember clearly - that this Quinton
character was a submerged rock.
26.
27. Next day I checked into a motel in town to launder my things and shower. My funds were nearly gone, I realised if I
had car troubles I could very well find myself homeless. It would be harder to settle into to a job then. If Quinton
stiffed me on the wages…there were a lot of ifs. I just wanted to work, to find some stability again, and a bit of
community.
28.
29. I called him and we agreed to meet at my motel that night and discuss the plan. He showed up quite late, with some
beers, and laid it all out for me.
30.
31. “Ok dude, it’s like this. I got a pruning contract at a country club not far from here. Very high class clients, long
story. Thing is, they’re kinda weird people, you see, they only employ illegals. I dunno why, I think it’s a union
thing. They trust me to run the crew, but I’m only supposed to hire Mexicans. They pay extremely well, the days are
long but it’s easy work. Payment is in cash, through me, and off the books. What they don’t want is people talking
shit in the bars about their business. And they have spies in town. Don’t ask me how I know; I just know stuff, ok.
The beaners don’t talk, they’re earning fifty times a day what they could back home and they’re all wiring their
money back and buying property, so they keep their mouths shut. You, on the other hand, are a different story,
you’re not exactly the type they’re looking for.”
32.

33. “So why did you offer me the job then?” He held up his hands and smiled.
34.
35. “There’s a workaround. You got to pretend to be a beaner…” I was stunned. My suspicion that I was bing fucked
with for sport was growing stronger. I didn’t find it funny and I told Quinton in no uncertain terms. He assured me
he was genuine and the problem was real. But then, I pressed, why not just hire another Mexican? Why mention it
to me at all? Because they were getting harder to find, he said. The immigration crackdown had made them
nervous, apparently. All the good workers were keeping a low profile and holding their jobs, and there was another
problem: although the payment was extravagant, Quinton kept losing workers. Every so often, one of the guys
would disappear. Could be they had earned enough and figured to split while they were quids in and wanted to
enjoy their wealth with their family in Mexico. Or could be something spooked them, beaners were notoriously
superstitious. And Quinton could understand that - the place was creepy, he said. He wouldn’t blame an
uneducated peasant with a head full of religious nonsense to get worn down after a time. But he needed a climber,
for some work that had been left far too long and urgently needed doing; Quinton wasn’t much of a climber himself
- and the Mexicans couldn’t climb, at least not safely, anyway. Plus he was too busy supervising the work.
36.
37. “But I don’t look Mexican” I said. I’m white.
38.
39. “So are Latinos. They’re caucasians. You got a tan, you got dark hair. And more importantly, you can speak
Spanish. If you grow a moustache, you’ll pass. We don’t meet the employers up close and personal, all your contact
is through me and my contact is through the groundskeeper. Just talk the lingo with the guys and me and it’ll be
fine.”
 you’re not exactly the type they’re looking for.”
32.

33. “So why did you offer me the job then?” He held up his hands and smiled.
34.
35. “There’s a workaround. You got to pretend to be a beaner…” I was stunned. My suspicion that I was bing fucked
with for sport was growing stronger. I didn’t find it funny and I told Quinton in no uncertain terms. He assured me
he was genuine and the problem was real. But then, I pressed, why not just hire another Mexican? Why mention it
to me at all? Because they were getting harder to find, he said. The immigration crackdown had made them
nervous, apparently. All the good workers were keeping a low profile and holding their jobs, and there was another
problem: although the payment was extravagant, Quinton kept losing workers. Every so often, one of the guys
would disappear. Could be they had earned enough and figured to split while they were quids in and wanted to
enjoy their wealth with their family in Mexico. Or could be something spooked them, beaners were notoriously
superstitious. And Quinton could understand that - the place was creepy, he said. He wouldn’t blame an
uneducated peasant with a head full of religious nonsense to get worn down after a time. But he needed a climber,
for some work that had been left far too long and urgently needed doing; Quinton wasn’t much of a climber himself
- and the Mexicans couldn’t climb, at least not safely, anyway. Plus he was too busy supervising the work.
36.
37. “But I don’t look Mexican” I said. I’m white.
38.
39. “So are Latinos. They’re caucasians. You got a tan, you got dark hair. And more importantly, you can speak
Spanish. If you grow a moustache, you’ll pass. We don’t meet the employers up close and personal, all your contact
is through me and my contact is through the groundskeeper. Just talk the lingo with the guys and me and it’ll be
fine.”
40.
41. “Ok, supposing I do that, won’t the guys figure out I’m American? How’s that gonna play out?”
42.
43. “Yeah” Quinton pondered. “I had not considered that, actually. I suppose...Panama?…no - I got it! I’ll tell them
you’re Spanish and you overstayed your visa. And you can’t go back to Spain because you’re wanted for a crime
there. And there’s an extradition for you, so you’re passing yourself off as a Mexican and hope to stay below the
radar and you don’t wanna talk about it!” He slapped his thigh and chugged on his beer “Ever been to Spain? No?
Well, just make up some bull if they ask you about it, none of them have ever been there either. Actually, better not
talk much at all. You’re the quiet type, right?”
44.
45. The whole deal sounded pretty rotten to me. I was privately sure there was some criminal element here, though I
didn’t say it. Were these people mafia types, I wondered? Funny, because I knew people who had worked for, or
rather served as tradesmen, for mob members. They said they were excellent employers, generous with money and
praise, no issues, as long as you played the game. And I couldn’t figure Quinton out. Given I didn’t know him,
outwardly he appeared to be a standard small town hick who’d lucked out with a lucrative racket. Nothing sinister
there…But I sensed a deeper intelligence also, that was hidden.
46.
47. We drank the beers and thrashed out the details of the plan. Quinton would pick me up at six in the crew truck, he
didn’t want me rocking up at the job in my own car. He left and I filed my chains and went to bed. I lay a while in
the dark, listening to the occasional vehicle passing outside and the faint sounds of a TV show somewhere in
another room. I realised I knew nothing about this place. I’d been roaming around so long it had never occurred to
me to research the community where I might be living for some time. The ‘village’ was really just a run down bar
and a motel, separated by a mile of road. A few scattered farms, a general/hardware store and a small church. I
wondered where Quinton lived, and his Mexican crew. Probably one of the isolated farms. I slept.
48.
49. The morning was shrouded in a damp fog. In the motel lot I sat on my rucksack, containing harness and rigging,
my 020 Super strapped to the frame and my old 038 Magnum and gas can next me on the concrete. I stomped my
smoke as headlights pierced the fog. A dirty white Dually crew cab, Quinton and two beaners in the front and
another two in the back. I stowed my gear and climbed in. If I record the details of that journey with too much
detail, it’s only because they are indelibly burned in my mind. I don’t like to revisit the memory too often - or what
came later - but when I do, its all there, just as vivid as ever.
50.
51. We rolled out of Demesne through the dirty gray fog, jammed against one another, sleepy and silent. The road
snaked through undulating farmland, branching often. I noticed no signposts. The neglected fields were replaced
by unbroken forest, and we were driving through a tunnel of trees. The fog, the trees crowding the narrow two-lane
on both sides, the silent Mexicans jamming me against the door, it was unbearably claustrophobic. Quinton had the
radio on but so low I couldn’t hear; it was playing a generic morning DJ show but the signal was so poor it warped
the audio into something menacing, interspersed with static. By my watch, we’d been on the road about half an
hour. Finally Quinton slowed the truck and turned across the two-lane into an even more congested dirt road. He
stopped at a rusty five bar farm gate, and while he unlocked it we all took a chance to pee. I indicated to Quinton
that I would lock up behind us, trying to be helpful, but he shook his head. I watched him in the side mirror, the
padlock was absolutely massive, must have weighed five pounds - one of those super locks that you need a cut-off
saw to get through. And the gate..I couldn’t define exactly what was abnormal about it right then, but it dawned on
me later; the way he swung the gate closed was too slow, ponderous. It was far too heavy for a regular farm gate. I
had an opportunity later that week to confirm my suspicions, and I was right, the bars were solid inch and a half
round stock, superficially rusted. 
52.
53. We were now on a single vehicle dirt track, barely wide enough for the Dually. The trees were ancient oaks, not
managed trees but scraggly and wild. I peered into the murk to my left as we slowly chugged along, headlights on
full though it was past sunup. I could see very little. Then the trees were replaced by an ivy covered wall on each
side of the truck forming an ally. I wondered what the hell kind of people lived in a place like this. Clearly, from the
apparent age of the two parallel walls, and their closeness, this estate was built in an era before motor vehicles.
Before box trucks and ambulances. The ally curved gently but consistently to the left. Railroaded. That was the
feeling - being uncontrollably carried towards something horrible. Finally the ally opened out into a wide circular
walled plaza and daylight. In the wall ahead, a huge metal double door. Quinton got out and spoke through a
letterbox in the wall and got back in the truck, the doors opened inward and we cruised on through, into the
country club grounds.
54.
55. Wooded, though not like the forest outside the walls, more like a park. I could see no buildings, just trees, post-
and-rail fenced pasture with horses. Our destination was a quad of old stone farm buildings, their gambrel roofs
sagging with age. Here we piled out and stretched ourselves, the guys fetched a couple of Gator buggies out of a
shed and we loaded them with tripod ladders and pole saws and trundled across pastures, weaving around stands
of trees until we came to a palisade security fence, fifteen feet tall with razor wire coiled at the top. Behind this
fence was a wall. The space between was a run, about eight yards wide - and in this run, grown tight together,
intertwining and ancient, were blackthorn trees. Between the trees, coiling around them in an insane tangle, was
more razor wire, rusty and ancient, and many tall rods of three-quarter inch rebar stuck in the ground jutting at
random angles. It was the ugliest and weirdest goddamn thing I’d ever seen in landscaping. 

56. I was made to understand that this security fence circumscribed the property, hugging the estate wall. Our job was
to prune the overgrowth where it interfered with the razor wire coil or protruded through the fence, and to top the
hedge, for that is what it really was, where it grew too tall. Quinton showed up with an all terrain cherrypicker and
put me and one of the beaners to work topping the hedge while the other two went at clearing the palisade fence.
My companion, Rodrigo, operated the box while I worked the polesaw. We had enough reach to get up and over the
razor wire coil but the angle was tricky and the work brutally hard and frustrating.
57.
58. At lunchtime, Quinton dished out sandwiches in one of the farm buildings. He had gone quiet, the whole crew were
quiet. They worked and ate without the characteristic banter of the Mexican labourer, it was eery. The weather had
cleared some, but a bright mist still shrouded the landscape.
59.
60. We worked till dusk and pulled out, my gear, unused, now sharing the truck bed with some broken lawn care
equipment. I squinted out the window as we cleared security at the main door, or gate. I made out a structure
attached to the wall, with a door and window, a guard post no doubt. Quinton exited, spoke with a man standing in
the door, he was dark, backlit by the room inside. Something changed hands and we made the torturous winding
return journey to the highway. We called into the roadhouse for supper then back to the motel were Quinton
handed me a wad of bills.
61.
62. “Same time tomorrow dude?” I said thanks and yeah. And then he stared hard at me, and said, very clearly: “Don’t
talk about this job to anyone here. Or anywhere else. Just don’t, ok? Because I’ll know, and they’ll know, if you do.”
I nodded. I paid up another weeks rent, showered and hit the sack. Two hundred and fifty dollars. A grand a week
clear…for swinging a pole saw. Well, I reckoned I’d keep going unless Quinton made us do something definitely
illegal. Then I’d split and never look back.
63.
64. I had a nightmare that night. I was walking around an old seaside town in a heavy fog. The town was deserted. I
was looking for something, but didn’t know what. From the seafront direction I could hear foghorns far out at sea.
The streets were cobblestone, the buildings, stone, I walked up and down steps through narrow alleys, scanning the
ground. Then I saw a carpet in front of me on the street, a narrow, deep pile carpet, like the red carpet they roll out
for dignitaries. Only this carpet was black. And I had to take off my boots and step on that carpet and walk along it;
and I did walk along it, as it wound around corners and down alleys and over bridges, and as I walked, the foghorns
were growing louder, or closer. I was terrified, but I had to keep on following that carpet. It finally took me to the
steps of a church, and I saw it ran up the steps and under the doors, which were closed. I remember being very
aware of that detail, that the doors had squashed the pile when they were closed. I knew the back carpet ran along
the isle right to the alter. All the ships sounded their horns at the same time, and they never stopped, as I stood at
the bottom of the church steps and looked up at the doors. They were closed, but not locked. Some people were
waiting for me inside, and I knew, the way you do in dreams, that if I went in there…a situation would happen.
Something that would be very, very difficult to get out of…the odds would not be in my favour. The foghorns
droned in polyphonic reverberation and from inside the church a great cry answered from many throats, a warbling
insanity, and I just couldn’t stand it and I blocked my ears and closed my eyes tight and screamed…
65.
66. We went to work the next day, same deal. No chit chat, the Mexicans were sleeping next to me. Not a bad idea, but I
couldn’t. As we passed the farm gate I took a keen interest in the topography, trying to visually record every detail.
Some things that I missed the first day began to make sense now. I wanted to examine the entrance to the ‘ally’ as I
called it. We were in an avenue of old trees, then suddenly were were driving through the ally. I’d missed it. Why
was there an ally in the woods, what was the purpose of it? Too tired to think, I gave up and worked that pole saw.
The weather was fine and hot, we were happy at our labour. I put myself into a Mexican frame of mind, hoping that
my body language would transmit the same to anyone surveilling me from a distance or on a monitor screen
somewhere.
67.
 was looking for something, but didn’t know what. From the seafront direction I could hear foghorns far out at sea.
The streets were cobblestone, the buildings, stone, I walked up and down steps through narrow alleys, scanning the
ground. Then I saw a carpet in front of me on the street, a narrow, deep pile carpet, like the red carpet they roll out
for dignitaries. Only this carpet was black. And I had to take off my boots and step on that carpet and walk along it;
and I did walk along it, as it wound around corners and down alleys and over bridges, and as I walked, the foghorns
were growing louder, or closer. I was terrified, but I had to keep on following that carpet. It finally took me to the
steps of a church, and I saw it ran up the steps and under the doors, which were closed. I remember being very
aware of that detail, that the doors had squashed the pile when they were closed. I knew the back carpet ran along
the isle right to the alter. All the ships sounded their horns at the same time, and they never stopped, as I stood at
the bottom of the church steps and looked up at the doors. They were closed, but not locked. Some people were
waiting for me inside, and I knew, the way you do in dreams, that if I went in there…a situation would happen.
Something that would be very, very difficult to get out of…the odds would not be in my favour. The foghorns
droned in polyphonic reverberation and from inside the church a great cry answered from many throats, a warbling
insanity, and I just couldn’t stand it and I blocked my ears and closed my eyes tight and screamed…
65.
66. We went to work the next day, same deal. No chit chat, the Mexicans were sleeping next to me. Not a bad idea, but I
couldn’t. As we passed the farm gate I took a keen interest in the topography, trying to visually record every detail.
Some things that I missed the first day began to make sense now. I wanted to examine the entrance to the ‘ally’ as I
called it. We were in an avenue of old trees, then suddenly were were driving through the ally. I’d missed it. Why
was there an ally in the woods, what was the purpose of it? Too tired to think, I gave up and worked that pole saw.
The weather was fine and hot, we were happy at our labour. I put myself into a Mexican frame of mind, hoping that
my body language would transmit the same to anyone surveilling me from a distance or on a monitor screen
somewhere.
67.
68. At opportune moments I scanned my distant surroundings, taking mental snapshots. I could see pasture and trees.
A patchy forest inside this walled estate interspersed with open fields. And about a mile distant, another wall, but
no security fence. I bent my head again and worked.
69.
70. That night in my room, I flattened a cigarette packet and sketched a map. Maybe my unconscious mind had figured
it out for me, because the answer sort of formed out of nowhere. The ally was just a stretch of double perimeter
wall, two parallel walls that widened where they joined and formed the plaza. But then why the hell would you want
to build an ally to access the plaza? The ally served no purpose that I could understand…except, maybe..defence? If
you didn’t want people just showing up at your door, then a long ally would buy you time to come up with a story,
flush the stash or whatever. I was now thinking in medieval strategy terms, and things were making more sense
when I visualised the set up from above, saw my soldiers standing on the inner wall pouring arrows and rocks into
the ally as the foes approached the front door. Or set raging bulls on them, with only one direction to go, goaded
with fire from behind. Once you were in the ally you were at the mercy of the estate. I decided to presume the entire
estate was riddled with hidden sensors, cameras and other surveillance. So that left only one way in - breach the
wall. That would be easy enough, for the walls were not built to withstand a siege. This was a New England country
estate after all, not a medieval fortification. The walls were just regular walls, maybe four or five feet thick, twelve
feet tall, stone and mortar or brick. No battlements or towers, nor any walkway along the inside. Not really
defensible. Stumped again. I lit a smoke and told myself “Think, G.K, think!”…There were three layers of passive
security: Wall, thorn hedge and fence. Easy to make it up and over the wall. Hence the need for the hedge, six yards
deep and twelve feet tall. Blackthorn, laced with metal. Nobody was going to jump into that unless they were crazy.
Even in a suit of armour you’d never push through, the trees were too thickly inter-grown, you’d have to cut a path.
No chainsaws because the wire and rebar staves would snooker you, and the noise would give you away. Impossible
to cut through without heavy machinery. And even if you did, then you’d have to scale the fence and the razor wire,
or cut a hole in the fence. I lit another smoke.
71.
72. So hypothetically, if a thief wanted to break in, how would they do it? A long plank, laid from the top of the wall to
the top of the fence, squashing the razor wire, clean over the hedge? Ladder up the wall, haul up plank, lay plank,
haul up second ladder, cross plank with ladder and ladder down on the inside. I smirked to myself, but then the
next logical problem presented. How do they get back out? Up the ladder again, sure but what if the ladder isn’t
there anymore? What if one someone sees it and removes it? What then? What if the plank is gone or they can’t
find the breach point again? They’d be...trapped.
73.
74. A door slammed across the hall, voices raised in anger. A couple, shouting at each other. Trapped. Nausea was
growing in my stomach as the purpose of the crazy design became clear. The estate was built like a prison. Easy
enough to get in, if you really wanted to. But maybe impossible to get out. No way to get the drop on the residents
with a search warrant at the door, because the ally slows you down and takes away the advantage of surprise. Good
God, who are these people and what the hell were they doing in there? 

75. The realisation of the estate’s true nature seemed to quieten something in me and there were no more nightmares.
The next few days were just the same, I fell into the routine, stashed my wages in a plastic bag inside the frame of of
my car under the hood, on the pretext of checking the oil. The weekend came and Quinton and I met at the
roadhouse for a beer. He said the week had been a trial run and he was happy. The tree job would come later, but
we’d go ahead and finish the hedge first. I’d stopped shaving my upper lip, were a small moustache now grew. We
chatted, but not about the estate, that was a given. I thanked him for the work and said see you Monday and went
back to the motel. I turned in early and rose early, had to drive an hour to find a town were I could get a few items. I
got a buzz cut, then wandered into a sporting goods store. I bought a pair of small but powerful binoculars, a gillie
suit and a roll of camouflage netting. I hit up the newsagent for road and topographical maps of the area. A notion
occurred to me then, which took me to the realtor on main street. I was looking to buy, I told the agent, some
farmland back around Demesne. The agent checked her portfolio, but there was nothing for sale anywhere close to
Demesne. “What about the forest, the one just north of Demesne? Any hunting land for sale, or lease? Like, around
the country club?” Then she looked at me real funny. No. There was nothing like that on the market.
76.
77. Then I hit the town library for a history of the area, and the old librarian had great difficulty finding the only one. I
skimmed the index under “D” and discovered that the village of Demesne no longer existed, it had disincorporated
in the mid fifties. The place where I’d been staying was just a stretch of highway running through the middle of
nowhere. Even back in the day, the population had only been a couple of hundred. That was all I could find. No
mention of any grand estate. It was becoming clear that I’d need to go the the county clerk’s office to identify my
employer. I sat in my car and pored over the maps. The highway map did not show the forest lane we had used.
And the topo map didn’t indicate anything other than blanket forest.
78.
79. I used a payphone to call the county clerk’s office in the nearest large town; the automated message gave the hours
as weekdays ten to four. I would have to take my chance when it came.
80.
81. Sunday the weather turned foul again. On an impulse, I went to the church service, to see what kind of people lived
in Demesne, but there was no service and the church was boarded up. Braving the rain and wind, I walked through
the graveyard, examining the headstones. Old, very old - all of them. Briars overran the place and I noticed dog
fouling on the graves. No one had been buried here in a very long time, or visited. I wondered about the name of
the place. Demesne: A piece of land attached to a manor. This whole neighbourhood was likely once part of the
estate. Maybe it still was. For all I knew, every inch of ground for miles around might be controlled by the ‘country
club’, and everyone living here might be employed to serve it. The motel, leased from the estate? The roadhouse,
same deal? Maybe the bartender at the roadhouse was paid two hundred a day just to stick around and keep his
ears open. And where did Quinton and the Mexicans go after supper? Probably to a house owned by the estate,
down one of these dirt roads. The more I considered it, the more I felt sure my understanding was on the right
track. I was in the belly of the whale here, the whole community, such as it was, was on the payroll. Sooner or later,
Quinton would want me to come live with him and the beaners, where he could keep an eye on me, where I couldn’t
slip away after work or on weekends. 
82.
83. I decided to wait and gather more knowledge about the estate before taking action, simply because I couldn’t
imagine what action to take. We put in another week at the hedge pruning project, and the weekend came round
again. I still hadn’t seen any sign of the owners, or their agents, except for the heavyset security guard at the wall
door. He looked asiatic, maybe Mongolian. Black suited, no insignia. Quinton picked up the wages from him every
evening. I had drawn up a more detailed map of the estate, to which I added each day. I sat at the small table in my
room and considered the extent of my knowledge: Assuming the estate was roughly circular, if the general
curvature of the wall continued it would have to be about three miles across. The ally was roughly three hundred
yards long. The forest around the estate was a rough circle about ten miles across, with the estate situated
somewhere in the middle. It was unexploited. It was not a state forest. There were few roads through it and no
trails. There was no organised hunting. My assumption was the forest was private property, and this I confirmed by
walking into it aways and encountering deer fencing not far from the roads. There were ‘private no hunting no
trespassing’ signs at regular intervals, but not really visible to drivers.
84.
85. I took the chance to sneak off to the county hall midweek when a heavy rain set in overnight and Quinton cancelled
the job. Driving rain hammered my windshield as I crawled along the roads for hours. I finally reached civilisation,
found the place and sprinted inside. I’d cooked up a story about needing to contact the landowner to request
permission to hunt, and the rest of the afternoon was spent pin-balling from one office to another, waiting for
people to show up or get off the phone and trying to figure out who I was supposed to see. Finally landing in the
registry of deeds, maps in hand, I had difficulty establishing the exact property I was talking about. As I expected,
the whole forest was owned by the same entity: an alphabet soup consortium. But I managed to acquire a contact
address in Luxembourg for the organisation.
86.
87. Driving back in the rain I was looking at yet another wall. If there was a way to shed some light on this consortium,
I didn’t know how. I could track down a phone number for the address, by the look of it, a lawyer’s office, and call
them, but say what? “Hi, my name is Random Stranger, could you please tell me all about your wealthy secretive
client who owns a forest near Demesne USA please? That’s right, sir, just tell me everything you know about them,
names, personal addresses, what they do for a living…yes I’ll hold.”
88.
89. I ate supper at a truck stop on the way home, didn’t want to bump into Quinton this evening. A couple of truckers
were slamming down burgers and chatting in the neighbouring booth. Something about their tone inclined me to
tune in. My ears pricked up.
90.
91. “..Dropped another load at the woods depot this afternoon, man oh man..”
92.
93. “..Gook guards and every goddamn thing..”
94.
95. “..own tankers, I said tankers like a whole fleet - one for gas, one for av-gas, propane, Never let anyone further then
the depot..”
96.
97. “..some kind of bohemian grove deal…chopper in and run around naked in the woods, if you can believe all that
 permission to hunt, and the rest of the afternoon was spent pin-balling from one office to another, waiting for
people to show up or get off the phone and trying to figure out who I was supposed to see. Finally landing in the
registry of deeds, maps in hand, I had difficulty establishing the exact property I was talking about. As I expected,
the whole forest was owned by the same entity: an alphabet soup consortium. But I managed to acquire a contact
address in Luxembourg for the organisation.
86.
87. Driving back in the rain I was looking at yet another wall. If there was a way to shed some light on this consortium,
I didn’t know how. I could track down a phone number for the address, by the look of it, a lawyer’s office, and call
them, but say what? “Hi, my name is Random Stranger, could you please tell me all about your wealthy secretive
client who owns a forest near Demesne USA please? That’s right, sir, just tell me everything you know about them,
names, personal addresses, what they do for a living…yes I’ll hold.”
88.
89. I ate supper at a truck stop on the way home, didn’t want to bump into Quinton this evening. A couple of truckers
were slamming down burgers and chatting in the neighbouring booth. Something about their tone inclined me to
tune in. My ears pricked up.
90.
91. “..Dropped another load at the woods depot this afternoon, man oh man..”
92.
93. “..Gook guards and every goddamn thing..”
94.
95. “..own tankers, I said tankers like a whole fleet - one for gas, one for av-gas, propane, Never let anyone further then
the depot..”
96.
97. “..some kind of bohemian grove deal…chopper in and run around naked in the woods, if you can believe all that
shit…”
98.
99. I willed them to keep talking but their conversation suddenly dried up and turned to football and they lumbered
out. I finished my meal, and drove home deep in thought. A forest depot. Not the plaza, a different entry point. Or
maybe just a drop in the woods separate from the estate, where all the needed goods arrived. Own fuel tanker fleet.
Bohemian Grove. There was still some time before bed, and I knew the roads around the forest pretty well by now.
With a certain unidentifiable feeling of anger, frustration really, I started circumnavigating the forest. What I was
looking for was an unfamiliar slip road into the woods capable of taking a semi. And I found one. A dirt forestry
road, but cleaner and better constructed than a logging road, barred by a black and yellow swing barrier, bearing a
sign: ‘danger, no entry, logging in progress.’ And I noticed too that the high tension line also branched off here, into
the woods. That road was the true contact point with the outside world. 

100. Back home, I updated my map. The phoney logging road, assuming it took a direct rout, would reach the
perimeter wall on the opposite side of the estate to the ally entrance. I wanted to see this depot, but I did not want
to be seen. I was sure there would be a lock on the swing gate, and surely a guard stationed just inside the tree line,
probably in a camouflaged hide. There was probably a guard there now, or several, pulling the night shift. They
would be disguised as hunters, for they were visible to the outer world and only a small subsection of the trucking
community would know the secret. But they would be generously tipped. There would also be another gate further
down the road, out of sight, beyond where it made an unnecessary bend in the woods, as per design. There, too,
would be the deer fence and more guards, and these would be armed as well, though probably not with hunting
rifles. This was the first circle of privacy.
101.
102. I and the Mexicans were working in the second circle. Normally outsiders could not penetrate here, but we
were different, we were compromised. Ignorant, unschooled, illiterate, inarticulate, illegal and earning more than
we could ever imagine, We could not report what we had seen, if we were to see anything. And if we disappeared,
no one would come looking for us. The alley and the estate grounds were the second circle. This was a buffer zone
to trap interlopers who penetrated the perimeter wall, hedge and fence. A place were authorities could be given the
runaround. A utility space to keep horses and store the goods and equipment that served the third circle. And I now
had absolutely no doubt, that there was a third circle. Somewhere in the estate’s presumably four or five thousand
acres, was another smaller walled area. Where the fun happened.
103.
104. The weather forecast was bad for the rest of the week, really bad. High winds, heavy rain. Quinton phoned
and said to hang tight until the weather improved. I was glad he didn’t want to meet. I was developing a plan of
action.
105.
106. Next morning I packed my climbing gear into my rucksack as well as the gillie suit and some tools, and a piece
of the camouflage netting, water and some food. I drove around looking for a place to park the Nova where it
wouldn’t be seen. The plan was to cover it with camo netting and head into the woods on foot. By luck, I found a
spot: an overgrown entrance to an abandoned feild not far down the highway from the entrance to the forestry
road. It was ideal, as long as someone didn’t show up to use the entrance, but the field and its access showed no
signs of recent use, a gate was broken and rusting and weeds were growing in the flooded tyre ruts. Drivers would
pass this spot and never notice me. I slowed to check the road was clear before I reversed the Nova. The netting
draped, I climbing in the back and put the gillie suit on over my clothes. Then, I zip tied a section of camouflage
over my rucksack and headed across the field toward the tree line. I climbed a rickety barb wire fence with difficulty
in the suit, then I was in the woods, following the direction of the logging road, but off the the side among the trees.
Rain pattered down on me and the leaf mould, obscuring the sound of my steps. The trees were mixed species,
mainly oak and beech. I could just make out the logging road through the trees, the bend was coming up and and
just as I predicted, a second gate, a proper security gate with a guard hut, set in the deer fence. I moved back into
the woods along the fence away from the guard post. Counting two hundred paces, until a suitable tree presented
itself. I removed the soaked gillie suit and donned my harness, then put the suit back on, over it. A slit across the
jacket front allowed the rope bridge to protrude outside and slits right and left gave access to the side Ds. A short
climbing line would be enough for this job and a lanyard. Both ropes had been dyed dark green the night before, in
the motel bathroom sink. My gaffs were covered by the suit trousers, with the hood down I would be
indistinguishable up in the canopy. I spiked up the stem and selected a tie in point where I could swing and drop
down over the fence. It was nothing more than mesh with a strand of barb wire, on galvanised poles, easy to cut
through. But, I didn’t know how often this fence was patrolled and inspected. I kicked off into a swing,
simultaneously descending on my hitch, the timing was right and by feet cleared the barb wire strand and I was
over, repelling down the far side. I left my climbing line hang there and kept my gaffs on, in case I had to ascend
again to hide, and continued through the forest.
107.
108. Through the trees I heard the rumble of a heavy truck. The depot was ahead. Another fifteen minutes or so
and I could see movement, glimpses of heavy machinery. Creeping, now, crawling from tree to tree to reduce my
profile, I edged closer ‘till I dared no more, then spiked up an oak and settled in the canopy with my binoculars
supported by a branch. I had a decent view of the scene.
109.
110. A wide clearing in the woods, where a semi trailer was backed into a sheet metal barn. By the sound of it,
workmen were unloading cargo with a loader inside. Unloaded, the truck pulled out and headed back up the
logging road. I shifted my position, and waited. Presently, a pickup and trailer loaded with stacked pallets emerged
from the other end of the barn, heading for the farm. Another half an hour passed, the pickup came and went
several times and did not return. I gave it some time then descended my perch and crept up to the depot. Just an
open ended hanger to transfer goods in the dry, empty. I moved back into cover and continued toward the estate.
111.
112.I started scanning for cameras when the perimeter wall came in view. None were visible on the wall or trees. I
thought about the logistics of miles and miles of cable, signal degradation and so on. There would have to be
thousands of cameras to cover the whole perimeter, and hundreds of eyes to monitor the feed. No, I decided, the
security would be concentrated around the entrances. The purpose, after all, was not to keep people out but to stop
them getting out.
113.
114.There was a maintenance road of sorts long the outside of the wall. It had not been used in a while. The wall, now I
had leisure to scrutinise it, was red brick, very old. Ivy covered it, but it was new growth, the rotting stumps of
former infestations were visible near the ground. I hiked along, ears open, looking for overhanging trees. I walked a
mile or more, but nothing suitable presented. The forest had been kept back from the wall, since ages past, for
obvious reasons. Sometimes the canopy reached out close to the vertical, but never overhanging the wall, or not
enough to be able to pendulum swing enough to clear the defences. To indulge in an old logger’s pun, I was
stumped. Retreating back the way I came, I wondered if anyone had ever broken through before. My line was still
there, hanging down the deer fence and I scaled it with ease, using my gaffs for purchase in the mesh, packed up
my stuff and headed rapidly back to my car. I was soaking wet by now and sweating in the gillie suit. I checked for
signs of disturbance to the camouflage netting and mud around the car, didn’t notice anything. Listing with the
window down, until the road was clear, I started the engine, the wheels spun worryingly in the mud for a second,
but then I had traction and was on the road, homeward bound.
115.
116.In the motel I changed into dry clothing and threw my wet gear into the pay drier. The manager, an obese, elderly
man, was watching TV in his living room behind the check-in counter. I shoved some change into the cigarette
machine, bought a soda and sat exhausted. The clock ticked and I stared mindlessly at a picture on the wall. A tacky
circus scene of acrobatic clowns swing on the trapeze. Then, as I pondered the daredevils I started to consider arcs
and distances. I went upstairs and sketched out pendulum swings from different heights, and did some calculating.
The problem was not the arc, it was gaining enough momentum. In order to swing out far enough to clear the razor
wire, the swing would have start off considerably higher than the finish. I wracked by brains, and then, quietly, I
started laughing.
117.
118. I fetched my dry clothing, showered and went to the roadhouse for supper. Quinton was there, playing eight
ball with one of the gang. We chatted in Spanish about nothing relevant. There was work in the morning, and I
would be pruning trees from now on.
119.
120. Next day at the country club Quinton drove me around in the Gator to remove certain branches. It seemed I
had passed whatever hazing test the hedge pruning constituted. I was to climb and thin certain trees, directed by
Quinton on the ground who communicated with someone on a walkie-talkie. I was clearing sight lines for
surveillance cameras mounted in the trees. From some of the trees I was able to view the grounds better than
before. It was mostly woodland pasture, with buildings here and there connected by macadamed roads. There was
one tree, a huge Monterey pine with a broken crown that needed topping. From the top of this tree, I could just see
stretches of another distant wall peeking out through gaps in the greenery and beyond, the roofs of buildings. And
then - I had to wipe the sweat from my eyes - a church bell tower. Yes, under the steeple roof I could just make out
the tops of double arches, it could be nothing else. And there was something adorning the spire, I couldn’t identify
it; but it was not a cross. I dropped the massive pine top on the deck in several pieces, while the Mexicans came
with saws and a trailer to clean up. Quinton was happy with the progress and we broke for lunch. I played it cool, I
was just an immigrant labourer after all, it didn’t make me no nevermind. 

121.When Quinton dropped me off after supper he paid me an extra two hundred. The next day, and the next were the
 machine, bought a soda and sat exhausted. The clock ticked and I stared mindlessly at a picture on the wall. A tacky
circus scene of acrobatic clowns swing on the trapeze. Then, as I pondered the daredevils I started to consider arcs
and distances. I went upstairs and sketched out pendulum swings from different heights, and did some calculating.
The problem was not the arc, it was gaining enough momentum. In order to swing out far enough to clear the razor
wire, the swing would have start off considerably higher than the finish. I wracked by brains, and then, quietly, I
started laughing.
117.
118. I fetched my dry clothing, showered and went to the roadhouse for supper. Quinton was there, playing eight
ball with one of the gang. We chatted in Spanish about nothing relevant. There was work in the morning, and I
would be pruning trees from now on.
119.
120. Next day at the country club Quinton drove me around in the Gator to remove certain branches. It seemed I
had passed whatever hazing test the hedge pruning constituted. I was to climb and thin certain trees, directed by
Quinton on the ground who communicated with someone on a walkie-talkie. I was clearing sight lines for
surveillance cameras mounted in the trees. From some of the trees I was able to view the grounds better than
before. It was mostly woodland pasture, with buildings here and there connected by macadamed roads. There was
one tree, a huge Monterey pine with a broken crown that needed topping. From the top of this tree, I could just see
stretches of another distant wall peeking out through gaps in the greenery and beyond, the roofs of buildings. And
then - I had to wipe the sweat from my eyes - a church bell tower. Yes, under the steeple roof I could just make out
the tops of double arches, it could be nothing else. And there was something adorning the spire, I couldn’t identify
it; but it was not a cross. I dropped the massive pine top on the deck in several pieces, while the Mexicans came
with saws and a trailer to clean up. Quinton was happy with the progress and we broke for lunch. I played it cool, I
was just an immigrant labourer after all, it didn’t make me no nevermind. 

121.When Quinton dropped me off after supper he paid me an extra two hundred. The next day, and the next were the
same. The estate was enormous and there was any amount of work there for one climber. If I continued, even for a
couple of months, I would have enough cash to disappear for a long time. But If I carried on for a year. Well, I could
move to Brazil and buy a ranch that size for myself. So what, I figured, if these people want to have private orgies or
whatever; even if they’re criminals, what does it matter? But then my gaze would return to the thorn hedge,
designed to stop people from escaping and I would remember, that I should be afraid.
122.
123. By now I knew the layout of the whole second ring. It was a donut about a mile wide, leaving the third and
innermost inner circle about a mile in diameter. The more time I spent working, the more anomalies I noticed. For
example, once, I stepped on the fletched end of an arrow, nearly buried in the ground. A broad head hunting arrow.
Other times, I would encounter flocks of sheep, more or less wild. A medieval style leather slipper. When I found
the finger…that was the moment when I was finally sure. It was a human finger, decomposed, but identifiable as
such. The ground around had been trampled by horses hooves. I re-experience the sinking sensation whenever I
remember it, a feeling like falling backward into cold molasses. It might, just possibly, have been an accident. It
might have been…but my heart knew it wasn’t.
124.
125. Quinton was slowly letting me work closer to the third circle wall. He knew perfectly well that soon I would be
able to see behind that wall. When we reached that stage, would he call time? Have me disappeared? That didn’t
seem at all far fetched to me. The clock was really ticking now.
126.
127. “We’ll be taking some time off next week” Quinton said, in Spanish, over the pool table one evening, “All next
week, actually, so get some rest. Anything you need, good time to get it. If it’s for the job, just gimme the receipts
and I’ll cover it, no probs.” I didn’t ask him why. I had fallen into the role of being a Mexican and never thought to
ask. “Don’t you want to know why?” He said quietly and he looked at me in a funny way.
128.
129. “Sure” I said, “Why?” Quinton smiled a little smile and chalked his cue tip.
130.
131.“The full moon is coming. It’s some kinda special moon apparently. A blood moon. Things get pretty busy at the
country club at times like that…a lot of people come to stay, some of them quite important. So they clear us out.
Security, and all that.”
132.
133. “I see.” Then, feeling that he was inviting me to ask, I said “Hey, Quinton, what’s the deal with the asian
security guys?” Quinton inhaled, and exhaled. He considered his answer for a while.
134.
135. “Well, you know they…they’re guys from some country in the former USSR. All from the same place. They’re
all related actually, more or less. I don’t know how they came to be working here, but they were around before me,
and they’re the tightest lipped bastards I ever met. You know, between you and me, I think they were working here
when the USSR was still a thing. Don’t mess around with those guys. We do our thing and they do their thing,
everybody’s happy.”
136.
137. Monday I rose early and drove to the city. There, I purchased a used 125cc scrambler, the lightest one they
had. A couple of cans of gas, some hardware store rope, a pair of small bolt cutters, a camera with a telephoto lens,
a flashlight. Also, a sleeping bag, a quilted polyester flight suit from an army surplus store, a bunch of snickers bars
and bottled water, talcum powder, Exlax, Immodium, Advil, No-doze, a first aid kit, a set of waterproofs and a
couple of small rucksacks. With the help of the bike shop guy we loaded the scrambler into the back of my car, it
barely fit with the lift-gate open and the handlebars and front wheel sticking out. At the blind field entrance next to
the highway I backed in the car and, with difficulty, unloaded my bike and stashed it in the briars and bracken,
covering it with cameo netting. The rucksack with supplies, wrapped in a trash bag, was lashed behind the seat. A
full can of gas was also lashed to the frame next to the rucksack.
138.
139. The moon would be full Wednesday night. I could only make my play under cover of darkness, so had all of
Tuesday afternoon to prepare. I figured if there was something to see, it would be at full moon, no point showing up
a day later or earlier. Monday night I popped some Exlax and visited the john a couple times in the night. Tuesday
morning I skipped breakfast. I counted my stash, about thirty grand. This, I made into two bricks with saran wrap
and duct tape, and along with my driver’s license I stashed them in a pocket between by shoulder blades formed by
two vests sewn together one inside the other.
140.
141.My small items were stowed in a kiddie’s rucksack which I configured to sit on my chest for easy access to the
camera, binoculars, mini bolt cutters, camouflage netting, rope, water, candy bars, medications, flashlight and so
on. I drank water and gatorade all day to hydrate as much as possible. Some hours before sundown I drove to the
secret entrance where the bike was stashed and dropped off the chest rig and my work rucksack with my big saw
and climbing gear. Then I drove another mile or so up the road, selected a farm access track and drove down it till I
found a field gate. The padlock yielded to my cutters, I drove into the empty field at full pelt and ditched the nova in
a bushy corner. I removed the plates and paperwork, draped the netting and left quickly, sticking the broken
padlock together with tape so it looked normal from a distance.
142.
143. I tossed the plates and documents into a drain as I hiked back along the road. The evening weather was calm,
thankfully, I could hear vehicles before they saw me, and had to duck for cover several times, as trucks and cars
thundered by. Walking as quickly as I could without running, I was very anxious to reduce the amount of time I was
exposed on the road. As I passed the fake forestry turn off, my heart rate increased, I kept my head down and
ploughed on, just some bum, hiking along. Finally the secret entrance gave me cover again and I rested against the
bike under the camo netting, fortifying myself with snickers and water. I lit my last smoke, said a prayer. I’d
rehearsed the details of the operation over and over, but there were massive unknowns. Everything rested on the
assumption that the guards would not detect me. I hadn’t been inside the estate at night, and couldn’t predict the
after-dark routine of the place. I assumed there would be patrols along the inside of the wall, and along the tracks,
but not in the forest outside, it was far too big an area to police. Once over the wall I would keep to the wooded
areas and if caught in the open would go prone in my gillie suit and pray they didn’t have dogs. That was all I could
do. “Ok,” I told myself “Let’s rock and roll.”
144.
145. I rolled up the camouflage netting from off the dirt bike and strapped it to the seat with a bungee, put the
machine in neutral and started pushing it across the field. It was laborious. Yard by yard, I pushed and pulled that
machine across the uneven terrain, laden down with my big rucksack on my back. I cut a big section out of the
stock fence and pushed on through into the woods. Stopping to move fallen branches and clear overhanging boughs
with my handsaw. When I came back this way, possibly at speed, I wanted a clear run. 
146.
147. By the time I reached the deer fence the light was fading. The cutters made short work of the mesh, clearing a
flap large enough for the bike and me atop it, I made three cuts, top and sides, so the section flopped down, then
patched it back up again with duct tape. A few quick slashes would bring it down again. With no sound of patrolling
guards my nerves somewhat relaxed and I concentrated on the Sisyphean task of pushing the bike. I guess it must
have taken a couple of hours to reach the wall, I was drenched in sweat. Now, again, I had to find a hide for my
getaway machine and camouflage it as best I could. At last I was getting into the nitty gritty of the operation. The
tree I selected was a huge spreading beech. In the dusk light I could see one of the tallest branches that would be
suitable, maybe, for the swing, but there was a limb lower down the stem that would be in the way. I spiked up the
tree, to the tie in point and surveyed the estate, and there was no activity. I set a false crotch with a pulley for the tie
in point, seeing as how I would need to plummet just as soon as I cleared the wire, before the counter swing carried
me right back into it. The less friction the better. Dropping down to the lower limb, I set to work with my handsaw.
The limb was a good foot in diameter, the work dragged and my hands cramped. Like a rat, patiently gnawing at a
castle door, time and effort wore the timber away and with a crack it fell to the deck. I disguised the fresh white
wood with netting, dropped down and rigged a three-to-one to haul the branch off the maintenance road and away
from the wall, where I netted the cut end as well - I was taking no chances. Then I buried my sodden clothing under
debris and covered myself in talcum powder. An old arborist trick it keeps you dry and prevents chafing, which is
the last thing you need to contend with in a tree. Fresh underwear and the money vest, then the one-piece thermal
flight suit, then the harness and finally the chest rig and over the whole ensemble, the gillie suit. The gillie jacket
was fastened with snaps, so I could access the stash on my chest, and it was baggy enough to cover. The problem of
how to carry the 038 was another big challenge. There was no convenient way to stow it, in the end I strapped to
across my back, uncomfortably, with bungees.
148.
149. I inched back up the tree, labouring under the wight of my gear, to the tie in point, where I tossed my grapple
hook down and out into a neighbouring tree. It took several throws before it bit, then I descended to the swing
point and proceeded to edge up the grapple line, using a small prussic for progress capture. It was hard on the
hands, and the farther I moved from vertical, the more weight I had to pull. I went as far as I could go, nearly up to
the grapple, which I could now see had a precarious hold. But it held, and the energy I’d expended was now mine
again, stored up in potential momentum, ready to be triggered. I had a clear swing that would hopefully carry me
over the defences. The plan was to perform a trial swing, then reset. I set a webbing strap handhold next to the
grapple, clipped to it, then coiled and stowed the grapple. Then I took a firm grip on the strap, unclipped, and let
go.
150.
151.The wall and hedge flashed darkly below my feet, I had almost reached the wire, but then I felt a drag and was
 in point, seeing as how I would need to plummet just as soon as I cleared the wire, before the counter swing carried
me right back into it. The less friction the better. Dropping down to the lower limb, I set to work with my handsaw.
The limb was a good foot in diameter, the work dragged and my hands cramped. Like a rat, patiently gnawing at a
castle door, time and effort wore the timber away and with a crack it fell to the deck. I disguised the fresh white
wood with netting, dropped down and rigged a three-to-one to haul the branch off the maintenance road and away
from the wall, where I netted the cut end as well - I was taking no chances. Then I buried my sodden clothing under
debris and covered myself in talcum powder. An old arborist trick it keeps you dry and prevents chafing, which is
the last thing you need to contend with in a tree. Fresh underwear and the money vest, then the one-piece thermal
flight suit, then the harness and finally the chest rig and over the whole ensemble, the gillie suit. The gillie jacket
was fastened with snaps, so I could access the stash on my chest, and it was baggy enough to cover. The problem of
how to carry the 038 was another big challenge. There was no convenient way to stow it, in the end I strapped to
across my back, uncomfortably, with bungees.
148.
149. I inched back up the tree, labouring under the wight of my gear, to the tie in point, where I tossed my grapple
hook down and out into a neighbouring tree. It took several throws before it bit, then I descended to the swing
point and proceeded to edge up the grapple line, using a small prussic for progress capture. It was hard on the
hands, and the farther I moved from vertical, the more weight I had to pull. I went as far as I could go, nearly up to
the grapple, which I could now see had a precarious hold. But it held, and the energy I’d expended was now mine
again, stored up in potential momentum, ready to be triggered. I had a clear swing that would hopefully carry me
over the defences. The plan was to perform a trial swing, then reset. I set a webbing strap handhold next to the
grapple, clipped to it, then coiled and stowed the grapple. Then I took a firm grip on the strap, unclipped, and let
go.
150.
151.The wall and hedge flashed darkly below my feet, I had almost reached the wire, but then I felt a drag and was
moving back toward the trees. The dead end of my line had become fouled in the hedge, slowing the swing as it
trailed over the edge of the wall back to the ground. It wasn’t going to work this way, I would have to carry it with
me. But this I realised was going to be too difficult - I would need a third arm to tend the coil and pay out without
snagging. I forced myself to be calm and think. There was no way around it - I had to lose the dead end. I hauled up
what I figured was enough slack and tied off to a side D, then cut the remainder off with my rescue knife and
stowed it. I was now on a closed loop system, the dead end would travel with me and the loop would close as I
descended, lifting away from the hedge.
152.
153. I reset the grapple and hauled myself back for the real swing. It was crunch time. Right hand on my friction
hitch, I committed to the swing and released the strap. It was beautiful. I glided out over the razor wire coil, pulling
down hard on the hitch in perfect sync with the momentum and alighted like falling snow. Losing no time, I de-
rigged, pulled my line through the hedge and wire, where it snagged irretrievably. I had no choice but to ball it up
and toss it into the thorn trees, some of the dark green line was visible in the wire but only if you looked for it. I still
had the cut-off section, which would have to serve for the rest of the operation.
154.
155. The first objective was a tall fir about three feet thick and closer to the wall than most. There were cameras
mounted half way up, which scanned certain areas, but I knew the blind zones by now. At the foot, I dumped the
camo-wrapped 038, then I spiked up the tree to just under the cameras, tied off the hank of hardwear store pull
rope and descended on a munter hitch. Unburdened now, I navigated from hiding place to hiding place sticking to
the deeper darkness under the trees, evading the cameras that I knew about, gradually encroaching upon the inner
sanctum wall. Once, an electric golf cart surprised me coming silently down a track with the lights off. I dived,
waited and went unseen. Another time I heard voices in the shadows not far from me, speaking a guttural language.
I was obliged to crawl, very slowly, trusting my shaggy profile to protect me should their attention fall in my
direction. My glowing watch dial showed three hours had passed since I cleared the wall, it was now coming on
nine pm. The full moon had crested the forest canopy, sending long shadows across the paddocks and open spaces.
156.
157. The moon was high when I made it to the inner wall. There were more guards patrolling here, gliding along
outside the wall in golf carts, I counted four to a cart as I crouched in a patch of tall weeds, scanning the scene
through my binoculars. The wall was some two hundred yards distant now and very faint sounds from the far side
were wafting on the night air. Drums? I couldn’t be sure. Another half hour passed miserably as I timed the patrol
intervals. A five minute window to get to the tree and ascend. It was a storm damaged chestnut, one of its massive
codominant stems sheared off and long gone, leaving the surviving stem leaning in toward the wall as if it were
craning to see.
158.
159. I waited for the next golf cart to pass, counted thirty and launched into a run. Still counting, I slung my wire
core strop around the big stem and started spiking up, on the side hidden from oncoming patrols. I made it over
the ragged and decaying wound and continued up the remaining stem. Then lights, I hugged the stem close and
went very still. The patrol passed below, continued, vanished. Heart racing I ascended further up the stem then
threw what was left of my main line to advance further still. I went just as high as I could and made myself a kind of
hammock from the leftover shred of camouflage netting, into which I could lean, taking some of the pressure off my
legs while at the same time screening me. Here I made myself as comfortable as I could, popped a No-doze and
drank some water. Remembering the fiasco with my climbing line in the hedge earlier, I gave a care to it. The bit I
had left would be just long enough to reach the ground in a single leg set up, so I tied one end off to a sturdy branch
and configured the munter, ready to go when I decided to bail.
160.
161.After settling into my perch I fished out the binoculars and was finally looking at the secret world behind the inner
wall. Through the high magnification, low light lenses, a moonlit scene appeared. I could see a church, about half a
mile distant. A chapel really, built of cut stone and set atop a low hill. Round about the chapel hill was a village,
clusters of slate roofed stone houses several stories tall. I noticed quaint diamond pane windows reflecting the
moonlight and smoke rising from crooked chimneys. It looked like a old renaissance era town, plucked whole from
somewhere in central Europe, along with its ancient woods, and dropped there. Further back behind the hill and to
the right, I made out a castle, or fortification of some kind. There was patchily wooded park-land here too, with
many clearings. I couldn’t reference the topography from my single vantage point and angle, or details, because of
the darkness - everything was barely illumined by the moonlight. But I kept panning back to something that didn’t
fit with the rest of the scene - an unpleasing, lumpy shape of something I knew but couldn’t identify. It bothered
me. And then realisation came to me, the way they do sometimes when you’re brain figures out the answer to a
problem unconsciously: it was a Chinook helicopter. I scanned left and right, trying to make sense of the weirdness
of to all. Although the land was dark, the chapel stood out clear and close, illuminated by the moon, which
thankfully was behind me where i perched. The door was closed and I could see flickering orange light inside, as
from a fire, streaming out through the narrow windows. Moving through the beams of dull luminescence I noted
the shadows of security men patrolling. 
162.
163. Out in front of the vestibule was a large, flattish, circular object. It reflected the moonlight like wet or
polished stone. Something about this thing made me lock onto it, it was just too weird. It was like a squat column,
maybe three feet tall and six across, hard to say. The way the light played over it’s surface showed the top to be
gently domed. I checked my watch, it was after midnight. I fished out the camera and tried a couple of shots, but in
the darkness I couldn’t see much through the viewfinder. Nor could I see the dials and settings, and cursed that I
hadn’t practiced the day before. I put it away and picked up the binoculars again.
164.
165. There was activity at the door of the chapel, several shadows coming out. Robbed and hooded shadow people,
holding flaming torches. More and more filed out and took up positions along the path leading from the door to the
circular object. The security were still milling around the chapel back in the deeper darkness.
166.
167. Then something horrible happened. Presumably by command, each of the torchbearers raised an object in
their other hand toward their head. And I heard a distant droning of horns, low and deep. Suddenly my dream
came back to me and the terror that had gripped me then, returned, but more acute now in full wakefulness. Sweat
beaded and ran down my face - how, I thought - how could I have dreamed this? Am I dreaming now? I was not.
Glued to the eyecups of the binoculars I drank in the perverse ritual played out, half a mile away, and far too close.
168.
169. Four monkish shadows burst from the door carrying a naked human being. Each struggled with an arm or leg
as the prisoner convulsed and twisted in their grip. I strained my ears but could hear no screams. Gagged, maybe, I
thought. They barrelled toward the alter - for that’s what it was - flanked by the horn blowers, who again winded a
mad, droning dirge, and slammed their burden down, spreadeagled on the dome, limbs pulled back unnaturally,
and fastened the captive there. Then they melted away into the night and the figure lay still. I squinted to see, but
the angle of the light was wrong and the image wobbled too much in my trembling hands. I couldn’t see if a man or
woman was tied there, it was all was shadows and flickering orange light. I forced myself to breath. Penetrating
through the physical and mental stress I was suffering under, was the ever present need to think logically. I would
need to be oxygenated when I split out of here, I remember thinking. I would need my legs to be working. I shifted
my weight in my perch, trying to work blood through my muscle. Something new was happening.
170.
171.A pale figure was now standing in the open chapel door. A bald headed, ragged, scrawny, naked woman. She
moved, slowly, through the gauntlet of robed monks, arms outstretched and staggering. She stumbled and fell, sat
for a while and then crawled. Something about her erratic movement puzzled me. Was this a prisoner too? Then
suddenly I just knew, with certainty - this person was blind. Blind and intoxicated, or mad. Creeping and tottering,
she finally made it to the alter, and began climbing up to straddle the prone body secured there. I couldn’t think. I
couldn’t pray. My hands had stopped shaking and the frame was still.
172.
173. Why I counted, I don’t know, but I did. The murder took all of fifty five seconds to achieve. Mercifully, the
shadow of the hunched squatting creeper hid the work from my view. The monks blew their dirge, and the backlit
shadow slowly rose to stand, one foot on either side of the body, unsteadily, atop the column, and lifted something
glistening high toward the moon, toward me. The strange tableaux seemed stuck in time, the figure was locked in
place, arms outstretched, frozen. Finally the creeping figure slowly lowered the offering, her head drooping as if in
depression. And then, as if possessed by a sudden spasm, she looked up directly at me, into my binocular lenses…
with her blind eyes…and pointed at me.
174.
175. I don’t actually remember bailing out of the tree. That event is literally missing from my memory, but I do
remember rising from the grass and trying to run. My legs were weak and I fell and was crawling for the bushes
across the track, then managed to hobble as the circulation returned. Finally I was jogging. I still had my spikes on
and I needed to ditch them as soon as possible. Nor was there any use for my harness now, but it would take too
long to remove; time was of the essence and my future could be decided by a matter of minutes or seconds. I
couldn’t afford to hide, now was the time for purposeful movement. The guards on my side of the wall would have
been alerted by now and be swarming the chestnut. I fumbled the buckle straps open and flung the spikes in a
direction I wasn’t going, and set off at a good jog back toward the perimeter wall.
176.
177. I guess my adrenals had become exhausted at some point during the ordeal, because I keenly felt the weight
of my body as I pounded through the shadows. I tripped and fell, several times, aware that all I needed was to
sprain something and my life would be effectively over. Back in the vast darkness I could hear the occasional shout,
 suddenly I just knew, with certainty - this person was blind. Blind and intoxicated, or mad. Creeping and tottering,
she finally made it to the alter, and began climbing up to straddle the prone body secured there. I couldn’t think. I
couldn’t pray. My hands had stopped shaking and the frame was still.
172.
173. Why I counted, I don’t know, but I did. The murder took all of fifty five seconds to achieve. Mercifully, the
shadow of the hunched squatting creeper hid the work from my view. The monks blew their dirge, and the backlit
shadow slowly rose to stand, one foot on either side of the body, unsteadily, atop the column, and lifted something
glistening high toward the moon, toward me. The strange tableaux seemed stuck in time, the figure was locked in
place, arms outstretched, frozen. Finally the creeping figure slowly lowered the offering, her head drooping as if in
depression. And then, as if possessed by a sudden spasm, she looked up directly at me, into my binocular lenses…
with her blind eyes…and pointed at me.
174.
175. I don’t actually remember bailing out of the tree. That event is literally missing from my memory, but I do
remember rising from the grass and trying to run. My legs were weak and I fell and was crawling for the bushes
across the track, then managed to hobble as the circulation returned. Finally I was jogging. I still had my spikes on
and I needed to ditch them as soon as possible. Nor was there any use for my harness now, but it would take too
long to remove; time was of the essence and my future could be decided by a matter of minutes or seconds. I
couldn’t afford to hide, now was the time for purposeful movement. The guards on my side of the wall would have
been alerted by now and be swarming the chestnut. I fumbled the buckle straps open and flung the spikes in a
direction I wasn’t going, and set off at a good jog back toward the perimeter wall.
176.
177. I guess my adrenals had become exhausted at some point during the ordeal, because I keenly felt the weight
of my body as I pounded through the shadows. I tripped and fell, several times, aware that all I needed was to
sprain something and my life would be effectively over. Back in the vast darkness I could hear the occasional shout,
flashes of high powered flashlights playing across the greenery. If one of those beams fell on me while I was
running…but none did. And then, a sound that brought bile into my mouth: barking.
178.
179. Dogs, golf carts, lights. They would cross the mile between the inner and outer wall in about five minutes if
they used the tracks. The dogs might get to me sooner. But now I could see my ace card, the big fir, coming up
ahead, and a mad grandiosity filled me, and I grinned though the pain, burning in my lungs and legs and - I
remember clearly - I was laughing as I drop-started my faithful old 038 and set to cutting the notch. Thank God
there was no cloud cover and the silver light was just enough to work by. Cut, reposition, cut again and kick out the
face chunk, then powered into the back cut…and then the tree set back and pinched the bar. I had forgotten the
wedges. I was snookered. I killed the saw and scanned - yes, many, many lights heading my way. And then
something whacked into the tree above my head and I heard whizzing in the air. They were shooting in my
direction, with suppressed weapons. I wrenched and strained to work my bar out of the timber, but to no avail.
180.
181. More bullets thudded into the tree and turf around me, they must have been spraying more or less randomly.
There was nothing else I could do, so I grabbed the hanging pull rope and ran toward the outer wall, at about a
forty five degree angle and pulled. I pulled like my life depended on it, and felt the tree move. I put all the traction I
could muster into the edges of my boot soles, digging deep into the grass and sod, and landed on by butt under the
big fir as it came crashing down over me, onto the palisade fence. 

182. The dogs were rushing me now, not barking, and behind them bobbing lights. I don’t know if the guards
actually realised what had happened, because they'd stopped shooting at me, or, maybe orders had come down to
take me alive. I clambered up the stem on all fours, over the fence and into the boughs that now crushed the top of
the thorn hedge and wall. Manoeuvring though them, I got out over the wall, set my grapple and slid down the line
bare handed, burning my palms. Then I was running again, for the bike. I had pinned its location in my mind
relative to the big fir and I found it again. It started on the third kick and I was moving, the headlight illuminating
the path before me, cleared of obstructions. I hammered the bike in first gear, weaving between the trees,
obliterating distance between me and the highway, the deer fence was coming up and I ploughed into it, the front
wheel lifting as the duct-taped patch tore loose. Through the fence and onward, out of the forest, across the field
and onto the open road. I briefly stopped the bike then and looked back, there were no lights behind me in the
woods, or on the logging road. But they were on their way. I raised a middle finger salute, gunned the little motor
and sped away down the road.
183.
184. I put forty miles or so behind me before pulling off the road to vomit, refuel the bike and change the gillie suit
for waterproofs. I was headed out of state now, on the backroads. I was going to ride until my gas supply ran out,
then take cover until morning. As I was pouring the last of the gallon can into the tank, headlights came up the road
behind. A vehicle had been trailing me with the lights off. I had no plan now, no story and no weapon. I prayed it
was highway patrol and tried to act casual as a white pickup truck pulled off the road and parked beside me. The
engine stopped and the lights went off. The driver window came down, it was Quinton.
185.
186. “Relax” he told me “We’re not going to do anything.” I approached the truck, it was too late to run anyway. I
noticed the Mexicans were there too.
187.
188. “Why’d you follow me?” I asked him. I couldn’t think what else to say. Quinton pulled a smoke out and lit it,
offered me one. He didn’t say anything for a while. I mounted the bike again, not to try and flee but simply because
my legs were sore and I didn’t want to stand anymore. Quinton spoke again, he sounded a million miles away, in
some other time and place.
189.
190. “Look..its complicated. I was actually born here. Me and the gang…we’re leaving, never coming back. Dude, I
need to know exactly what you saw in there. I just really need to know.”
191.
192. “At the church?”
193.
194. “Yeah.”
195.
196. I told him, just as I have told you. The Mexicans understood English better than I had thought. They all
crossed themselves and started muttering prayers and didn’t stop. Quinton didn’t show any obvious sign of
surprise or distress, although it was dark inside the cab. He smoked in silence. “Ok,” he said at last “You need to get
out of the country too. Leave by land and not through a border checkpoint. Disappear off the map and never come
back…or at least not for twenty or thirty years. He fumbled in the darkness and handed me a roll of bills out the
window. “I kinda feel bad for ruining your life dude. But….I had to know for sure.”
197.
198. I took the money and he wound up the window without another word and drove off, the way I was headed. I
followed, after a while. I don’t remember much of the next few weeks, but I slept in fields under a poly tarp and put
a lot of miles on that bike. I stuck to the backroads and was not pulled by the law. At some point I crossed the
Mexican border and then the next stage of my life began. Life has not been easy for me, after what happened.
People seem to avoid me, and sometimes I hear things, at night. I guess I’m writing this just to get some kind of
closure, if you know what I mean. And let me say again, if you wrecked your chain on the canister, I’m sorry.
There’s fifty bucks in there as well, buy a new one, on me.

199.
200.