In 1642, a prominent Catholic Marquis left London just before the beginning of the English Civil War, and moved back to his family home, from where he declared for the King and steadfastly refused to surrender. The nearby village was on the main road from London to the West Country, and so the family seat was close to a key route. Large enough to provide refuge for 150 Royalist sympathisers, it was also a convenient base for Royalist raiding parties who preyed on Parliamentary convoys. The Royalists moved a garrison of troops into the House in the summer of 1642, and spent the next year clearing a perimeter, building earthworks and fortifying the house. The Parliamentarians called it a “nest of papists” and eventually attacked late in 1643. Their artillery was ineffective, and they were repelled, and retreated. In the summer of 1644, prodded once too many times by raiding Royalists, the Parliamentarians set up a blockade. The Royalists broke the blockade and brought supplies and support to the house. In the spring of 1645, the Marquis petitioned the King to remove all non-Catholic soldiers from the house, leaving the Royalists undermanned. Around the same time, the Parliamentarians turned again to lay siege to the house, and this time the general in charge spent several weeks surveying and planning. His bombardment, in late September 1645, was a lot more effective than earlier attempts - a tower and a corner turret on the house were badly damaged. Then Oliver Cromwell and his New Model Army, fresh from success at Naseby and determined to defeat as many Royalist strongholds as he could on the way back to London, arrived. More artillery, more soldiers. Cromwell wrote to the Marquis in line with the conventions of the day, and assured the Marquis that, if he did not surrender now, there would be no quarter given. The Marquis declined to surrender, and Cromwell pounded the buildings with his artillery, before attacking the house on the 13th October, Cromwell delivered on his promised - about a third of the Royalist group, between 70 and 100, were killed, with twice as many captured and taken prisoner. Six of the ten priests in the house were killed during the attack, with the other 4 taken away to be hanged. Many of the casualties, Royalists and Parliamentarians alike, will not have been buried in consecrated ground, no ritual, no ceremony, no rest. Such dead as this are doomed to walk the earth. Allegedly, the daughter of an Anglican clergyman from London, seeing her father attacked shouted at his attacker, who hit her around the head and she was killed. Contemporary reports say that the Parliamentarians stripped her body naked and she was left there for everyone in the World to see.

Just for a moment, let’s suspend our twenty-first century sensibilities, and consider the possibility that there’s some element of truth in any long-standing belief system. Ask yourself why these stories have endured, why most old religious beliefs and stories share fundamental elements. Some of these are positive, like paradise, some of them are neutral, like having some ancient text to learn. Some of them are not positive, like Hell. Many of these places are not misery and punishment in perpetuity, while others have a place you go on the way to a more permanent Hell. Gehinnom, the Chinvat Bridge, Purgatory, Samsara. Perhaps it’s easier to move backward and forward between life and death from those places. Perhaps there are times and places where that journey is easier, as the tide of time ebbs and flows, like crossing a causeway from another time, another place, another state. Maybe now and again, something pushes through…

The intersections between here and there aren’t always in the old places. Sometimes the new places generate enough energy to allow access, and ghost images begin to manifest at the margins. So it was for a moment in my childhood - between boy and young man, at 15 I was in a place that was neither here nor there, an overspill council estate demonised by people and peopled by demons. The world was at one of those moments where we could choose this way or that, and there would be consequences. But for now, the skin between worlds was thin and sometimes elastic and permeable. My whole world was a series of housing estates. The one I lived in, half-finished, and pushing outwards to the limits of the next estate, half-built houses and piles of sand and gravel everywhere, door- and window-frames stacked and leant against each other in labyrinthian patterns. No minotaur here though, not even an adult to stop us from careening through the skeletal half-built houses as if we owned them. No Health & Safety rules or sign of any Risk Assessment, just perfect preparation for a life spent running while carrying scissors. And then to the next fiefdom, an older estate populated by families fleeing the East of London as the lack of foresight or investment or both left the docks abandoned. That estate was filled with rhyming slang and people who thought the Grapes of Wrath was a pub in Limehouse rather than a prescient blueprint for their journey west. And then, like some mythical world of kingdoms, alliances, heroes and villains, across the next border into a new land. If you like. In reality, these estates were named for the farms they replaced, not fictitious tribal lands that were consumed by the growing sprawl. But some of the farms were in places that were settlements of earlier waves of settlers - Neolithic, Bronze age, Iron age, Danes, waves of interlopers who took the land by force, spilling blood rather than delivering compulsory purchase orders. Add in some small, short, extremely violent Civil War encounters (and the potential power from disturbances caused by fratricide shouldn’t be underestimated…) and a clever man might see a pattern developing, but not a teenaged boy. But that’s were the intersections are, the places where the ground was defended against aggressors, over and over again.Layer on to that a fresh population of intruders, gate-crashing into the town, confused and bewildered by the speed in which their lives had changed so dramatically from their forebears. And then add a long, hot, dry summer and a boy, and you can see why the crossroads might become a little more fluid and confused than normal. By mid-Spring, most of the grass had dried away or died away and the ground cracked and crumbled under the endless sun. There was a constant heat haze everywhere, and, mixed with the dust and the pollen and the seeds, every morning seemed clothed in a golden, sparkling mist. But the once-green areas that punctuated the estate were now an arid mixture of dirt and softened asphalt ruined by weeks of drought and abandoned by the children who preferred some shade. I walked through the concrete canyons, tunnels and dusty tracks between the houses, a nomadic tribesman, tanned and bleached by the long weeks of relentless summer. Wandering, mostly aimlessly, avoiding casual contact with the rest of the human race wherever possible. By early afternoon, every day had become oppressive enough to crush any plans. All that was left was to lay on some patch of hard, broken, dead grass, close your eyes, and feel the sun on your face. Even the birds gave up singing most days.

My grandfather rose late and dozed through the day. He wheezed himself upright each morning, coughing and spluttering into life like an old diesel engine in a dumper truck. He spent his days alternately smoking, choking and napping, sat in a dining room chair with his head resting on one upright forearm, his thumb behind his ear which helped him to hear, he claimed. He had worked in the Power Station, where the dust he continuously inhaled had invaded his lungs and was now slowly choking him to death. He didn’t speak of the Power Station much, outside telling us he’d got my Dad an apprenticeship there, and that he’d preferred the Merchant Navy and to get him a cup of tea. He was drinking his tea when he lifts his head. “Go and get us some fags, my lover”. He pushes a 50 pence piece across the table towards me. “Nine bob for a packet of fags. Bloody world’s gone mad.” He scowls. My mum looks over at him. “You don’t have to smoke, Pop” she says. He blanks her. She might as well have said you don’t have to breathe, even though the act of breathing is such an effort for him. Like he’s going to listen to his daughter-in-law anyway. She raises her eyebrows, shakes her head and turns into the kitchen. He smiles at me and winks. “Can’t clear my chest without a fag” he chuckles to himself more than me, “it’s almost medicine for me”. His Bristolian twang rises through his nicotine-stained fingers. “I’ll go in a bit, Pop”. “Well, don’t leave it too late, I’ve only got 2 left”. I push the 50p coin into my pocket and pull on my trainers. Outside, it’s a skip down the side of the house and a jump over the back fence into the world. Running down the wall alongside the steps, leap down to round the corner of the pub, and along into the newsagents. I think there was a soundtrack running in my head even then, music accompanying the action of getting me old Grandad some fags.

(i) A good way to waste a day is to lay in a field, looking up at the blue, unbroken sky. If you pick the highest ground, you can be lost in the grass or wheat or barley or whatever without anyone looking over you and disturbing your peace. Otherwise, it’s just you and the sun and maybe the occasional bird or buzzing insect. (ii) I walked to this field quite often. It has a long barrow. It wasn’t more than a couple of miles, but it might have been 1000 years away from the house. It’s remarkable how near you can be to the present, and yet not being able to see the buildings and pylons and streetlights makes it feel so long ago. I liked this particular place because it was all those things. The furthest corner was at the top of a gradual and gentle incline, so chances of getting found were slim. The field was wheat, so the planting was tall. You could skip through the houses down a path through the hedges and trees - effectively disappearing at the edge of the estate, and not reappearing until you were close to your final destination, a whole other place and time. Just past the Fiveways junction, where you might leave your offering to Hecate, the three-faced goddess of boundaries, crossroads and ghosts. If you were inclined. Perhaps she’ll keep the dead ones from coming through. (ii) There was a long barrow, built three and a half thousand years before Christianity, and storing bodies, parts of bodies and the occasional stone pot. Great dolmens held up the earth as chambers were raised and changed over centuries of use. Those that built the barrow knew. Often the bodies were separated so that similar parts could be kept together - a chamber of skulls, a chamber of chests, a chamber of limbs. Often, the bodies were excarnated, left naked for the flesh and fat to fall away, perhaps just laying outside for everyone in the World to see. Waiting until the next auspicious moment, when the barrows would be opened and the contents reorganised - new bodies, new parts of bodies. Some bodies weren’t left in the barrow. Some, perhaps, were removed from the barrow and left elsewhere. Some, perhaps, removed themselves. Long barrows could be extended so there was room for more - remember, these people didn’t live to ripe old ages. If you survived to 15, you might live to 30. If you survived to 15. So I imagine that there was always a need to extend, to make room for another generation of relatives. Down into the barrow, dig out a new chamber, move the old bodies, get the new bodies, parts of bodies. And no doubt this work had to be done at exactly the right time. (iv) Do we know when the right time was? I think we can guess. Perhaps when the skin between the world of the living and the world of the dead was most permeable. You might be able to visit your ancestors, to talk to your parents, to hold your dead children. So a small tear might be all you needed, as long as you stitched it up as you returned. If you returned. And Hecate would let you back.

A place where I regularly found myself was on the corner of a park that, although recently named for a local man, was sat between the Neolithic long barrow, the junction of 5 ancient roads, and the borders of four estates (two new ones and two old ones). Sometimes I was there on my own, but often I was there with girls. Girls who lived in my street, girls who went to my school, exchange students from France and Germany. The endless balletic manoeuvrings of young men desperate to impress and conquer young women and young women who seemed desperately unimpressed and remained unconquered. So we continued to circle each other warily, although the high temperature and the sun meant our hearts weren’t always in the chase. Those days when we were just mates and not circling like Montagues and Capulets were better days, calm and relaxed and amusing and satisfying. On one evening in August, I was there alone. This wasn’t as scary as it sounds now. There wasn’t really any reason to be worried - even the low level of post code (or at least “estate”) gang mentality we experienced had given up in the heat, and there wasn’t any knife crime or drug dealers that we knew of. So it was just late, and, although I was going to get told, I wasn’t going to get punished. The world was winding down, but the sky was deep red and darkening into another hot night with the promise of more of the same tomorrow. As I turned from admiring the sky, there was a girl there. “Ain’t you cold?” she said. She was pretty, fair haired, nearly as tall as me, lithe and wearing a white linen dress. There was a faint perfume, summer flowers and something else, darker perhaps. She didn’t sound much like an overspill kid, but then nor did I. I dithered. “Eh, no, not really” Not exactly oozing charm then. She laughed confidently. “No, nor I” she said “What’s your name?”

I told her my name. She told me hers. In some stories that’s enough to bind you. But it wasn’t in this one. Normally, at this point, we would both instinctively reach for some glamour, a charm or a small deception and pretend to be a cleverly constructed better version of ourselves. Not this time. She sat down on the dusty grass and smiled. I sat next to her. “I haven’t seen you before” I said “Where do you come from?”. She looked over her shoulder and flicked her head towards Fiveways. “Over there”. She didn’t seem to think it necessary to expand. Most people were quite specific, eager to establish their allegiance to some cul-de-sac or other. I ignored the obvious cue to shut up and blundered on. “What school d’you go to?”. “You’n half ask a lot of questions” she smiled. She laid back and stared into the starry sky. The evening was cooler now, and I laid back too. We lay there, quietly, for a little. “S’pretty though, ain’t it?” she said “I like the stars”. I shut my eyes. I’ve just recalled that there was a girl at my school who lost her voice. She woke up one morning with only a whisper, and that continued until we left school. I don’t know if she found her voice again. Perhaps though, she traded it for something else. I don’t recall her having new skills - she was already pretty and charming and popular. But I wonder. Perhaps she encountered someone or something who convinced her that her voice was worth….well, whatever she got. If she got anything. And so it is in transactions with the other side. Be careful what you wish for. I opened my eyes again. She had gone. She moved so quietly she’d escaped without me noticing. All that was left was the flattened dry grass and her perfume. And you can’t wash a memory or a fragrance in salt water, so you’re stuck with it.

A thousand years before the Long Barrow, three thousand years before Christ, five thousand years before now, in Mesopotamia they worshipped a goddess called Inanna. There is a poem, Inanna’s Descent into the Underworld (another Hell, this one called Kur) which tells the story of Inanna visiting Kur, where her sister Ereshkigal is queen. Inanna wants to steal Ereshkigal’s powers, but Ereshkigal orders each of the 7 gates of Kur bolted, and Inanna is told she must remove an item of clothing to unbolt each gate. Finally, she appears in front of the 7 judges of the Underworld, naked and powerless, and they declare her guilty and strike her dead. Her naked body is hung on a hook for everyone in the Underworld to see. She is revived and rescued by Galatura and Kuryara sent by the god of wisdom, Enki, but the Gallu (7 demons who dragged people off to Kur) followed her out, insisting that she needed to be replaced in Hell. They eventually took her husband, Dumuzid. Syncretism is the combining of different beliefs, merging and assimilating gods and traditions to absorb faiths into your own. Time passes, empires rise and fall, and Ereshkigal evolves and combines (perhaps with Isis from Egypt, with Lilith, from Sumer) and becomes Hecate, three faced. Offerings to Hecate are meant to protect people, homes and places which is why you find her shrines at the entrances to houses and to cities. And crossroads. And why would anyone leave an offering? Because Hecate could be found at places where two roads crossed each other, on tombs, and near the blood of murder victims, and at night she sent demons and phantoms from the Underworld to teach sorcery and witchcraft. And whether it’s just a place far enough away from the settlement to bury those who might be troublesome if they returned, or a place that’s betwixt and between, there’s no doubting the power of the crossroads.

It was late when I got in. Mum was waiting. “Where’ve you been?” “Over at the park” “Until this hour? What were you thinking?” “Lost track of time. Sorry. Where’s Dad?” “He’s taking Pop home. You missed him. Pop said goodbye and left you this”. It was 50p. “He’s moving in with Uncle Roger. He’s not really well enough to be on his own all the time”. “Right”. I went up to the Living Room. “I’m going to listen to some music before I go to bed”. “Put the headphones on then. Not everyone wants to hear it”. I thought about the girl. I didn’t see Pop or speak to him again. He moved in with my Uncle but died a few weeks later, silicosis and lung disease slowly crushing him. The cigarettes probably didn’t help much, but even then we all knew that. My Dad seemed OK about the death of his remaining parent, at least I don’t remember how he was. I’d ask him, but he’s not here either, his chest also pressed into submission by the asbestos he inhaled as an apprentice. New bodies, new parts of bodies. I’ve been there this year. The estate is still there, some sold to tenants by Thatcher in the 1980s and the rest sold to Housing Associations in 1995. It’s not a place I’d live in, but then I don’t have to. I guess you could still leave an offering for Hecate at the Fiveways crossroad, but I’m pretty sure someone would steal it. That would be on them, of course, not you. The field is now an industrial estate. The highest ground is a car park, and you wouldn’t stop there without someone looking over you and disturbing your peace. Otherwise, it’s just you and the sun and maybe the occasional lorry or fork lift truck. I didn’t stop at the park. I’m pretty sure the doors between here and there are closed, if they were ever open. The passing of time will be different in the different worlds, and the idea that I could be so old and she still young upsets me. But I miss her perfume.

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. (William Shakespeare - Macbeth)