Perilous Reading

A kilometre from Sainsbury’s Carpark. December 31st 2025. Day 31 saw the end of it. Some of it, at least. Albert Helsingr coughed himself awake, clutching his side through the pain. It was several moments before he quite worked out where he was, and for one of those moments he really thought he was still back in the dungeon. The ground was damp and foul, and there were rats. But there wasn’t any straw, and that was something solid to hold on to. He sat up, shielding his eyes from the glare of morning light. There were trees everywhere, odds and ends of autumn leaves that danced like speckled goblins. A whisper of rain had come dressed in diamonds for the sun to find. No morning could have come softer to him, even the enormity of what he’d done arrived in delicate sediments. Albert tried to stand several times, leaning on a fallen branch for support. Thanks to the proximity of the river, he knew the Tribe of the Houseless Brothers had dumped him somewhere along the nature trail. He straightened his suit, brushed off as much mud as he could, calculated the direction of Sainsbury’s carpark in relation to the rising sun, and limped off in the opposite direction.

Back at the Tribe camp, Aunt Sally Turnip woke from a slight and listless sleep. It had been lovely to have a singsong with all the firefighters, but no one had been entirely focussed on the marshmallows they’d brought along. It was long past midnight when Stretch Armstrong finally came back. She’d told them that Mary Rose needed his own company more than he needed their friendship, and so they’d left him to curl up on the ash and soot remnants of his sleeping place. The Tribe of the Houseless Brothers never delved into backstories, if anyone wanted to share, that was on them. But crimes, crimes were a different matter. Crimes needed to be spoken into life.

‘Butter made you a cuppa.’ Stretch Armstrong plonked herself down next to Aunt Sally Turnip. ‘But you were still asleep so I drank it for you.’

‘Mary Rose?’

‘Still sleeping. It’s like he’s locked himself inside a dark cellar, Aunt Sally. I’ve told him we’d leave him be.’ Stretch Armstrong took Aunt Sally Turnip’s hand when it was offered. ‘I also said we’re waiting right outside the cellar door, all he needs to do is set one foot on the stairs, and we’ll be there.’

‘We can do better than that.’ Aunt Sally Turnip squeezed Stretch Armstrong’s hand. ‘Delilah persuaded an old guitar out of the music library. We can put that by the cellar door too.’

‘He’ll love that.’

‘Ahoy, sailors of the good ship By Sainsbury’s Carpark.’ Aunt Sally Turnip shimmered heavily into the form of Captain James Cook. ‘Brace the mainsail. Batton down the hatches. Chain the anchor if you must. For on this very New Year’s Eve, I have stormy news to share.’ Aunt Sally Turnip adjusted her ghost powdered wig, resting one hand on her ghost broadsword. ‘I set sail from Hell a month ago, seeking only to clear my sullied reputation. But in my late night reading of the Christmas paperchains, I have come across the notion of cancel culture. Now brace yourselves good fellows, for I now realise I have been cancelled by heaven. In understanding this news, I shall no longer attempt to clear my sullied reputation. I shall instead do what all those who have been cancelled before me have done. I shall reinvent myself.’

The trees had burned to bone and the fire hoses had taken the rest. Even the scorched earth of his sleeping place had been washed into the river. Mary Rose lay on his side in the grime of it. He could still taste the smoke, he could feel the comfort of flames on his body. Hell was calling him home, and he didn’t need a demon to come and get him. All he had to do was stop holding on.

‘You’re ready.’

Mary Rose didn’t move. ‘Can I say goodbye to them?’

‘Can I?’ Qwer’ty IV hissed a laugh, folding the landscape between beads of time. ‘If I had a pound for every soul that asked me that question. Where do you linger, Maryrose?’

‘They let me sing with them.’ Mary Rose moved his fingers in the soot. ‘Is there music in hell?’

‘There’s quite a bit of postmodern jazz.’ Qwer’ty IV solidified into demonic form. ‘You’ve had 7 days, Maryrose. If there was time to say goodbye, then there was no way to say it.’

Mary Rose curled his fingers into the soot. ‘I like postmodern jazz.’

‘That’s just the demon in you waking up.’ Qwer’ty IV reached out a cloven claw to take hold of Mary Rose. ‘No one likes postmodern jazz.’

‘Get your hands off my son!’ Albert Helsingr crashed into the demon, sending it tumbling into the scorched clearing.

Qwer’ty IV rebounded with the usual types of supernatural prowess, pinning Albert to a tree by his throat. ‘This is none of your concern, humannnnn.’

‘Before we go any further, ‘ Albert had hold of the demonic arm as it shifted and bulged through 8 dimensions, ‘I’d like to point out that this arm is quite a complex thing to be holding onto.’

‘You.’ The demon leaned in so close to Albert they were breathing the same air. ‘It was you who made him this.’

‘I’m not denying it. I am, however, attempting to set it right.’ Albert wriggled out of the demon’s grip, falling to the floor with the effort of it. ‘And there’s quite a lot to set right, so if you could come back later.’

‘You’re too late.’ Qwer’ty IV grinned with all his teeth, pointing to where what was left of Mary Rose lay in the ruins of fire. ‘He is already lost. Because of you, his soul has turned to ash. He is a demon now, the first of human decent since the flood.’

‘I beg your pardon, but Albert Helsingr is never late.’ Albert crawled to stand, holding his hand above his head. The Dust Bands emerged from the shadows, and light and shade were the same thing in the ribbons of their robes. ‘Now, I know you’ve probably met quite a few sin-eaters in your line of work, but bear with me because these are quite special.’

Qwer’ty IV crossed his arms in several disturbing directions. ‘You amuse me, humannnnn.’

‘Quite.’ Albert leant on the tree for support. ‘So here’s the deal. The Dust Bands can’t eat sin, they can however redistribute it. My life for his.’

Qwer’ty tilted his head. ‘You would take on the sin of your son?’

‘Like I said, there’s quite a lot to set right.’

‘Interesting.’ Qwer’ty IV circled around Albert Helsingr, running a claw across his cheek. ‘We could certainly make use of your particular talents in hell.’

‘Then we have a deal.’

‘No.’ Mary Rose put himself between Albert and the demon, the blood that poured from every part of him could have been fire in the morning light. ‘What you did to me. What you did to all of us. You don’t get to be the hero.’

‘Stan, you think so little of me.’ Albert flicked a signal to the Dust Bands. ‘The first demon of human descent since the flood? You must admit, it has Albert Helsingr written all over it.’

‘You took everything from me,’ Mary Rose said. ‘Don’t take this away from me too.’

Albert almost faltered then. ‘Listen to me, Stan. The reason I could do the terrible things I did is because it was always me that was beyond redemption. But you, you were never beyond redemption. I knew that when I gave you the robes. Product development had all these designs sketched out, oh you should have seen them, kiddo. Dieudonné pharmaceuticals wanted their Glass Band sin-eater dressed in robes of bioluminescent silk.’ Albert laughed despite himself. ‘You’d have looked like a jellyfish.’

‘Please,’ Mary Rose said, ‘just go.’

‘I gave you the robes of a vagrant because glass isn’t there to be seen, it just lets the light in. You let the light in, Stan Helsingr. Wherever you are, you let the damn light in.’ Albert took a deep breath and pushed himself away from the tree. ‘As for your dear father, I suspect I only have a single-use match in me. But waste not want not. This is my moment to strike a light. Stand back or you may be blinded by it.’

‘No.’

‘That coat is truly dreadful by the way.’ Albert nodded to the Dust Bands. ‘I should have gone with the jellyfish.’

The Dust Bands took hold of Mary Rose, and he tried so hard to fight them, but they’d been dust for too long, and all that was left of them now was chaos and human skin.

Back by the camp fire, the Tribe of the Houseless Brothers had been diligent in their waiting, but it was Aunt Sally Turnip who heard the first foot on the stair. ‘Mary Rose,’ she yelled. ‘Over here, we got a surprise for you, come and sit by me.’ Even from a distance they could see he was stronger, and when he joined them by the fire to get warm, they knew he’d come back to the Tribe. Aunt Sally Turnip patted the guitar lovingly before handing it over to him. ‘Our Delila got it, but it were my idea.’

Mary Rose ran his fingers over the guitar, they were still black with soot, but the sores of raw flesh were already healing. ‘I can sing with you?’

‘It’s a new year tomorrow.’ Aunt Sally Turnip picked up a mince pie that had been warming by the fire. ‘And new years have a way of cleaning the soul, no offence. So we’ll see the old one out with sea shanties, and welcome in the new with some My Chemical Romance. Hell’s still real. Captain Cook is reinventing himself and our Pauline’s up for leading a black parade.’

‘The damned souls think I saved them.’ Mary Rose was still looking down at the guitar. ‘But really they saved me.’

‘You saved them. They saved you. Your dad saved himself. Pauline saved the world. Butter saved me some mince pies.’ Aunt Sally Turnip stuffed the mince pie in her mouth and helped herself to another one. ‘I reckon we’re all just walking each other home.’

Nightfall came much as dawn had come on the far side of the city. At the House of the Lord Protector of England, the last of Silas Huxley’s possessions were loaded into a small van. In the study Meredith Cotton threw a white sheet over the austere desk and stood back to survey the empty room. He hadn’t got much experience being the Lord Protector of England, but he figured that being the absolute ruler of a small country was probably like growing asparagus. It was best left to someone else.

THE END

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_{Copyright © 2025 Jac Forsyth. SIN-EATER is an unfolding work of fiction, and thank goodness it is. Names, characters, business places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination, or used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Day 31 is the final episode of SIN-EATER. As a later legacy piece, you can find other episodes HERE. If you find yourself down in the roots and footnotes, and can’t bear to have reached the end, click the link and have a look at my liminal sci-fi ØRMA: An unlikely hero’s journey into the drifting deserts of Afghanistan and the chocolate chip based desserts of a visitor teashop near Chichester.}

By Sainsbury’s Carpark. December 30th 2025. Day 30 let the cat out of the bag. Mary Rose stumbled and sat down unsteadily. The shrubs and grasses where he slept had long ago scorched and died, but the river always kept something green waiting for him at the ends of the day. It wasn’t long after 4pm, the daylight was already unravelling in the complexity of winter branches and a moon sat low on the horizon. Closer to the carpark, the communal fire was burning bright for the Tribe of the Houseless Brothers. They’d sing carols again, tonight. And he’d try to say goodbye again, tonight.

‘Mission accomplished.’ Stretch Armstrong called to him as she walked past. ‘You did it, Mary Rose. You saved them all.’

He held his hand up to acknowledge her, but he didn’t speak.

Stretch Armstrong almost walked on. She’d tried to coax Mary Rose into eating some soup earlier. He’d just left it untouched and said he wasn’t hungry. He still came to listen to the music sometimes, but it had been days since he last sang. More than his work was coming to an end, and he was pulling away from the Tribe. They all knew it, but none of them had the heart to say goodbye. ‘I meant to say earlier,’ she said, turning back, ‘a few of the damned souls are going to hang around and help Captain Cook clear his name. The mostly hippopotamus has started a counselling service to help everyone adjust to having a pure soul. We’ve become quite a family, eh.’

‘Tell the Tribe I’ll clean all their souls before I…’

‘About that.’ Stretch Armstrong stepped away like she was stretching her legs. ‘Now, they had a chat already, and turns out they’re with Captain Cook on this.’

‘They don’t want the easy path.’ Mary Rose looked up at Stretch Armstrong. ‘Did I do the wrong thing?’

‘No, no, no, oh honey, no you didn’t do the wrong thing.’ Stretch Armstrong hugged him for as long as she could bear the heat of it. ‘All those terrible damned souls, all those monsters, you never once asked what they’d done to deserve hell, you just took their sin into your own soul. You did something so good none of us can even fathom it, and the Tribe, they want to honour that in their own way.’

He smiled a little then. ‘If they ever end up in hell, tell them I’ll keep watch over them.’

‘We’re all so very proud of you, you know.’ Stretch Armstrong tucked her hands roughly into her pockets. ‘And you’d better come down to the fire tonight because Aunt Sally is planning a proper day of celebration to welcome in the New Year. She’s begged some guitars and keyboards and stuff from the music library. She wants a playlist from you, and there’s no getting out of it.’

‘I’ll be down in a bit.’

Stretch Armstrong looked at him. His exhaustion didn’t need explaining. ‘Just give us a couple of hours to put some food on first, eh.’

Mary Rose waited for her to fade from sight before he crawled down to the river to wash the blood from his face. The water was cold as ice, and sharp enough to catch his breath. He didn’t hear Albert Helsingr until he spoke.

‘Upholding the brand, I see.’

If Mary Rose had been strong enough, he would have been gone before Albert had even finished speaking. Instead, he stood up slowly, turning to face him. ‘Dad.’

‘Stan.’

‘I’m not going back there.’

‘I’m not here to take you back.’

Mary Rose was watching him carefully. ‘You want me to clean your soul.’

‘Maybe.’ Albert picked a blade of scorched grass from Mary Rose’s motheaten coat. ‘Would you do it?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘So, you never once asked what those monsters and damned souls had done to deserve hell, and yet you falter over your own father.’ Albert gave a wry smile. ‘I’m almost devastated.’

‘What do you want from me?’ 

Albert hesitated. He’d rehearsed what he’d say to the Glass Band so many times, but when it came to it, the words weren’t there.

‘Good talk.’ Mary Rose brushed past him, heading towards the communal fire. ‘See you in hell, Dad.’ 

‘It wasn’t Conner.’

Mary Rose froze. ‘What?’

‘It wasn’t Conner,’ Albert said. ‘It was a cat.’

‘No,’ Mary Rose was shaking his head, ‘I don’t believe you.’

Albert Helsingr signalled to the opposite side of the river. ‘He’s bright like you, particularly science and maths. He could be anything, but all he wants to be is a dancer. I guess that’s your mum’s side of the family gene pool getting in the way of everything again.’

‘He’s dead.’

‘It was a cat.’

‘Liar.’ Mary Rose backed away, his hands clutched around his waist. ‘You’re a liar.’

‘Conner!’ Albert waved cheerfully to a teenager stood with the Dust Bands. He was shorter than Mary Rose, fairer, but there was no mistaking him for anyone else’s brother. Albert turned back to Mary Rose then, his voice almost matter-of-fact. ‘I killed a cat. I put the bones in a casserole and I sat there and watched you while you ate it.’

‘You told me…’ Mary Rose sobbed.

‘I know what I told you.’ Albert took a step towards Mary Rose, but he didn’t get close. ‘I was there, remember.’

‘You said that’s why Mum left. You said I was a…’ Even now Mary Rose couldn’t say the word. ‘That’s why I had to have the robots. That’s why I only did the dead.’

‘It was a cat, Stan.’

‘No.’

‘It was a cat.’

‘Why, why would you do that?’

Albert drew a ragged breath, there was no good way to say it. ‘Because I could.’

‘Oh God.’ Mary Rose span away then, and he screamed. He screamed like he’d never be able to stop. And the earth screamed with him, rock and dust crackling in chunks of pixilated sound that exploded from him in flames.

The last thing Albert saw as he looked up was Stretch Armstrong’s fist.

He woke up with a boot on his throat. Aunt Sally Turnip tipped the rest of the water in his face. ‘You even think about moving and I’ll set Genghis Khan on you.’

‘You do know how to tempt a fellow.’

‘And don’t even bother to lie. Stretch told us what you done to her. How you made her betray Mary Rose like that.’

‘Look, I appreciate that we all got off on the wrong foot,’ Albert said, ‘but I came here to put things right.’

‘Oh, you came here to put things right?’ Aunt Sally Turnip glanced over to the decimated river bank. Several trees were still on fire. ‘And here’s me thinking you made everything a hundred times worse.’

‘If you’d just let me explain.’ Albert went to sit up but got pushed back roughly.

‘Clone or not, Mary Rose is one of the Tribe, and the Tribe ain’t none of your business.’

‘Firstly, he’s not a clone. Secondly, does anyone have any paracetamol?’

Aunt Sally Turnip pulled back a little then. ‘You told Stretch he was a clone.’

‘I lied.’ Albert brushed dirt off his suit, finally sitting up. ‘Not just to you. We lied to everyone, because we thought the lie would be more palatable than the truth. Turns out no one cared anyway.’

‘So you came here to tell Mary Rose he’s not a clone?’

‘Something like that.’ Albert looked around the camp, but there was no sign of Mary Rose. ‘He stands a chance now.’ 

‘Does he?’ The Butterfly Man crouched down next to Albert. ‘You’ve seen him. Does he look like someone who stands a chance?’

‘Butter’s right. That boy has willingly taken on the sin of hundreds of damned souls. Ain’t no one can save him from that, and he ain’t been asking for it.’ Aunt Sally Turnip leaned in, peering at Albert. ‘I think it’s you what’s come here looking for a chance.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘I ain’t so sure it is ridiculous.’ Aunt Sally Turnip was still peering at Albert. ‘That why all them sin-eaters got recalled, cos someone found out they ain’t clones?’

‘So far from the truth, it’s laughable.’ Albert rubbed his temple. ‘Did I mention the paracetamol?’

‘They all scream like that when they found out, did they?’

‘Right, I need to explain something here.’ Albert swept his hair into a quiff. ‘These scars on my face are not the result of a neglectful skincare routine, they are in fact a result of torture. And I may be preaching to the converted here, but once you’ve been tortured, you tend towards feeling twitchy when people throw questions at you. So you either need to respect that I’m feeling twitchy right now, or immediately let me go. Because I am done answering anything beyond whether I’d like water with my paracetamol.’

Aunt Sally Turnip nodded to The Butterfly Man. ‘Get him a brew.’

‘And paracetamol,’ Albert called after her.

‘We ain’t condoning anything. But we know a thing or two about respect.’ Aunt Sally Turnip kept her eyes fixed on Albert, but she didn’t ask him anything else until his hot drink arrived.

Albert glanced down at the lumps of congealed milk floating in his tea. ‘This is disgusting.’

‘Good.’ Aunt Sally Turnip sat back. ‘Now we can get to it.’

‘Best tell us all of it like a story.’ The Butterfly Man snuggled close to Albert. ‘Sometimes she’s Captain James Cook.’

‘Fine.’ Albert poured his tea away and took a deep breath. ‘His name is Stan Helsingr, and he is my son. When he was 6 years old, I fed him a casserole made with the bones of the cat. Then I showed him the bones and told him he’d eaten his baby brother. That he was a cannibal. That even God couldn’t forgive him for that. I watched as his soul fractured, and I told him that his mother had left because she couldn’t bear to be near him. When I discovered he was a Glass Band, I kept him in a room with only robots for company and told him that he was only allowed to work with the death rituals because he couldn’t be trusted around people.’ Albert looked up at them. ‘I came here today to tell my son the truth because even though the truth is the worst possible thing I could tell him, it’s still better than what I told him when he was 6 years old.’

This time it was Aunt Sally Turnip who punched him.

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_{Copyright © 2025 Jac Forsyth. SIN-EATER is an unfolding work of fiction, and thank goodness it is. Names, characters, business places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination, or used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The final episode of SIN-EATER will be posted on the 31st of December. As a later legacy piece, you can find other episodes HERE. If you find yourself down in the roots and footnotes, and can’t possibly wait until the 31st of December, click the link and have a look at my liminal sci-fi ØRMA: An unlikely hero’s journey into the drifting deserts of Afghanistan and the chocolate chip based desserts of a visitor teashop near Chichester.}

Arventon Cathedral. December 29th 2025. Day 29 woke to birdsong. Blackbirds, thrushes, robins, even a chorus of radiant starlings met the light of dawn. It was almost as if a heavy fog had lifted from the land. Two days ago, Sir Justice Rankin had dismissed all charges against Antonia Dieudonné, Conchita Ranald D’Angelo and Albert Helsingr. He’d also extended the Cathedral booking. The Lord Protector of England was publicly accused of witchcraft. To accuse him may have been beyond absurd, but it was no crime to accuse a witch. It was a very serious crime indeed, however, to be accused of witchcraft. In a last minute plot twist, Silas Huxley had fallen foul of his own legal reform. He was now guilty until proven innocent.

The trial opened with a stern warning to the jury. ‘Before I bring in the accused,’ Sir Justice Rankin said, ‘I would like to remind you that you are bound by law to put aside any prior knowledge or unsympathetic feelings you may have towards the Lord Protector of England. If you cannot do this in true faith, then you must stand down.’

The usher brought Silas Huxley in to a resounding silence. He was dressed in unadorned plainness, his stone-grey hair tied back like world order had begun with a sturdy hairband. When he walked, every footstep had to justify its own place on the stone floors of history. It had been terrifying, a week ago.

In the dock, Huxley’s details were confirmed and the charges read out to him. The irony of his Not Guilty plea wasn’t lost on anyone.

When the time came for the prosecution to call their first witness, a stern looking New New Model Army soldier wearing blood-soaked robes stood up. ‘The prosecution calls no witnesses, Your Honour.’

‘No witnesses?’ Sir Justice Rankin raised his eyebrows, but he didn’t comment. ‘Does the counsel for the defence have any witnesses?’

Meredith Cotton hadn’t had much experience defending a witch before, but he figured that defencing a witch was a lot like taking over someone else’s greengrocer shop. You just had to respect how it had been done before you got there. ‘Not a witness, as such.’

It was of no standard design. Just a plain set of ropes.

Sir Justice Rankin tucked his judicial robes around his knees to keep out the cold weather. ‘Mr Cotton, you have brought the court down to the river for what reason?’

‘The law requiring evidence of innocence, Your Honour.’

‘I see.’ Sir Justice Huxley had been wheeled to a patch of slightly higher ground so he could overlook proceedings. There was no dock, but one of the spectators had provided a pink blanket for Silas Huxley to stand on. ‘This is most unusual, Mr Cotton.’

‘Your Honour,’ Meredith Cotton produced a folder from his triangular bandage and handed it to the Clark of the Court. ‘Under current legislation anyone charged with practicing witchcraft is to be considered guilty until proven innocent. The defence therefore offers precedence dating 1597 and a statement dating 1769, naming this test as a valid means of establishing the innocence of accused witches.’

Sir Justice Rankin called a 30 minute recess, taking his time to read through the papers. Thanks to a Salvation Army tea wagon, there were plenty of warm drinks to keep the assembled crowds warm, and 30 minutes allowed everyone time to wander along the nature trail for a while. Most people stayed put. The river was winter-grey and ominous with the icy curls of a bitter north wind, and no one wanted to miss seeing Silas Huxley thrown into it.

The court reconvened to a final round of hot drinks. Sir Justice Huxley locked the handbrake of his wheelchair and accepted a biscuit to go with his tea. ‘Thank you to the defence counsel for proving precedence in this case. On principle, I see nothing here to object to. However, I feel it only right to allow the defendant a chance to protest.’

Silas Huxley had remained silent throughout the whole thing. His jaw tight, his chin raised, his upper lip as stiff as an upper lip could get in the freezing cold of an English winter. ‘Do what you will,’ he said. ‘God bears witness to my innocence.’

‘You must understand, Mr Huxley, that you are to be bound both hand and foot, and thrown into deep water. This method of testing establishes the guilt or innocence of an accused witch according to the principle that a witch will float by their very nature. Whereas an innocent person will not float, thereby establishing their innocence by drowning.’

‘I am not afraid to die.’

Sir Justice Rankin frowned heavily, turning to face Meredith Cotton. ‘Mr Cotton, before we proceed, is there any other evidence for the defence that you would like to present before this court?’

‘No, Your Honour.’

‘Very well.’ Sir Justice Rankin nodded to the two New New Model Army soldiers currently holding Silas Huxley. ‘As there is no other proof of innocence provided by the defence council, this court will permit this test of witchcraft to proceed.’

The shock of it should have killed him outright, but Silas Huxley was no stranger to cold water. A few of the New New Model Army soldiers had quietly suggested that he allow them to fill his pockets with pebbles beforehand, but that was the act of a witch, and Silas Huxley knew he wasn’t a witch. He was a martyr to the greater cause. He would die this day, and forevermore sit at the right hand of God in eternal paradise. They would probably make him a saint. Saint Silas. It had a nice ring to it. His name would carry on the good work for generations to come.

The crowds watched as Silas Huxley bobbed to the surface like a cork.

Sir Justice Rankin finished his tea and turned to face the jury. ‘Before you withdraw to consider your verdict, I will remind you that the defendant is charged with practicing witchcraft. He is already presumed guilty, and it is your job to decide if the defence council has provided enough evidence to dissuade you from this guilty verdict. Due to the grievous nature of the charge, I must also remind you that a unanimous decision is required in this case. The court will now stand in recess until the jury has reached their verdict.’

An hour later, the court reconvened in Arventon Cathedral. Unlike the previous day, the spectator gallery was standing room only. Those who couldn’t make it to the cathedral watched the video footage stream live on their TVs and laptops and phones. It might have been a chilly Monday afternoon in December, but everyone knew where they were the day the Lord Protector of England failed the witch test.

‘All rise for Sir Justice Rankin.’

‘Has the jury reached a verdict on which you are all agreed?’

‘Yes, Your Honour.’

‘On the charge of practicing witchcraft, do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?’

‘Guilty.’

The judge heard the guilty verdict in a solemn stillness. ‘Mr Huxley, you have been found guilty of practicing witchcraft. Before I pass sentence do you have anything you wish to say?’

‘I am not a witch.’ Silas Huxley lifted his head to look at the courtroom. He was wrapped in a survival blanket. ‘Why, any fool could see the river was artificially oxygenated by Satan himself. None could drown in such circumstances. I demand the opportunity to re-sit the test.’

‘This is not a driving test, Mr Huxley.’ Sir Justice Rankin pulled a black wig from under his desk, but he didn’t put it on. ‘As a witch, you are hereby stripped of all titles and properties, including the title of Lord Protector of England. All your worldly goods are now the property of His Majesties’ government, to be disposed of as this court sees fit. Furthermore, under your own ruling, a charge of witchcraft carries only one punishment. That of death by burning.’ Sir Justice Rankin turned the black wig through his hands. ‘However, as presiding judge, I’ve been informed that it is within my power to show leniency should you renounce Satan and all his associates.’

‘I refuse,’ Silas Huxley said scornfully. ‘I would rather burn than renounce Satan.’ It was a poor choice of words, but they’d get the gist.

Sir Justice Rankin put the black wig away. ‘I am not going to burn you, Huxley. The last thing this country needs is another witch burning frenzy. However, in failing to drown you have been found guilty of witchcraft. And while I do not condone the legislation by which you have been found guilty, I am a high court judge and I must uphold the law.’ Sir Justice Rankin leaned forward ominously. ‘As Lord Protector of England it was your sworn duty to respect and care for the people of this land, instead you have manipulated and controlled them by means of fear. The powerful and terrible spell of fear. Moreover, you have exploited the discovery of hell to shamelessly further your own political agenda. Under your authority, a woman has been burned at the stake. I have no doubt that had your ambition not been curtailed, many more innocent people would have died at your hand. I do not for one moment believe you are a witch, but I most sincerely believe you to be evil. It is therefore my judgment that you shall be taken from this court and confined at His Majesty’s pleasure for the rest of your natural life. And considering the severity of the charges for which you have been found guilty, there will be no appeal and no opportunity for parole.’

In the front row, Antonia Dieudonné smiled softly. ‘You gotta love a Plan B.’

Conchita Ranald D’Angelo was watching her friend carefully. ‘You already knew that parliament had voted to amend judicial law.’

‘They barely needed any persuasion.’

‘And the summons to the House of Lords?’

‘There’s nothing like losing a sin-eater to focus your mind.’ Antonia sighed, tilting her head to rest on her friend’s shoulder. ‘It’s what I do best, Conchita.’

‘It’s what you do best.’ Conchita laughed. ‘You know most people would have cut their losses and left the country.’

Above their heads, the vaulted ceiling was a magnificence beyond words. Each piece of carved stone was completely unique, and each piece was small enough to fit on the head of a pin. So the foundations of heaven were built. Antonia closed her eyes. ‘Who the hell wants to be most people.’

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_{Copyright © 2025 Jac Forsyth. SIN-EATER is an unfolding work of fiction, and thank goodness it is. Names, characters, business places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination, or used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The next episode of SIN-EATER will be posted on the 30th of December. As a later legacy piece, you can find other episodes HERE. If you find yourself down in the roots and footnotes, and can’t possibly wait until the 30th of December, click the link and have a look at my liminal sci-fi ØRMA: An unlikely hero’s journey into the drifting deserts of Afghanistan and the chocolate chip based desserts of a visitor teashop near Chichester.}

By Sainsbury’s Carpark. December 28th 2025. Day 28 was a crate without oranges. And it came like a stray cat to live with the Tribe of the Houseless Brothers for a while. Aunt Sally Turnip picked her way along the bank of the river, humming happily to herself. They were off to a good start with giving Mary Rose a good old fashioned Christmas. The Tribe had made their own decorations. Dragged a tree into town. Had a carol singsong. Been corralled. Been to A&E. Pauline was the adopted symbol of a people’s revolution. It was a good old fashioned Christmas and no mistake. And while no one loved a get together more than Aunt Sally Turnip, sometimes you just needed a few minutes alone to enjoy the peace and quiet of nature and your own box of mince pies. She found herself a nice little spot tucked out of sight and sheltered enough to feel cosy as the river sighed, giggled, bubbled, steamed and finally boiled into a screaming curtain of ragged ectoplasm that roared like a phantom into her body. Aunt Sally Turnip screamed, scrabbling backwards with her hands held in front of her face, but when she looked again, the ragged curtain of terrifying ectoplasm had returned to just being a tranquil river.

Aunt Sally Turnip peered down at the best before date on the box.

Overhead the sky flickered fluorescent. On. Off. On. Off. The snap of plastic, sharp in the air. Another broken picture show. Another broken streetlight. Aunt Sally Turnip was suddenly catching water in a paper cup. There were three cars parked in a graveyard. Somebody had left all the cupboard doors open again. ‘Where are the signposts in this land?’ a husky voice said. ‘It’s not so bad, not so bad here.’

Aunt Sally Turnip was scrabbling and frantically grabbing at tufts of grass to stop herself from rising in the air, but apparently gravity had its own agenda now.

‘Mr Monday?’ the voice said.

‘It ain’t Mr Monday.’ Aunt Sally Turnip turned a summersault in the air. ‘It’s Mr Sunday afternoon.’

‘Ain’t Mr Monday? Ain’t no one wants the name. Ain’t it your name? Come with me please.’ Aunt Sally Turnip was suddenly in a waiting room sat on a neat little row of 17 green chairs. ‘Do you have anything to declare?’ the voice said.

‘Look here, if you’re a bad mince pie, then that’s my own fault. But if you’ve come here looking for our Mary Rose, then you’d best be making more sense because I’ve already had a naked crack addict octopus from the Gizzards coming at me from out the communal fire, and I can tell you right now, it ain’t gonna get you any quicker up the waiting list.’

The voice sighed like they had the conversation a thousand times already, while Aunt sally Turnip tumbled in the air again and became an old woman clutching a teddy bear close to her chest. ‘I was a person once,’ the rasping voice said. ‘Now you breathe with my lungs. I remember it was sugar, once. Everything was something, once.’

‘Cap!’ Aunt Sally Turnip yelled. ‘Could I bother you for a second.’

‘At your service, my good woman.’ Nothing much changed except the Aunt Sally Turnip clutching a teddy bear was now wearing a ghost powdered wig and breeches. ‘Perhaps you could explain why I have a small bear in my possession?’

‘There’s something got us, Cap. Something that might be a mince pie.’

‘I was a person once,’ the rasping voice said. In an alarming twist, it was the teddy bear that spoke next. ‘I was a person once, now you breathe with my lungs. I had a shoe once. Everything was something, once.’

‘Ah.’ The Captain James Cook version of Aunt Sally Turnip put the teddy bear down carefully. ‘I was rather afraid this might happen.’

Back at the relative safety of the camp fire, Aunt Sally Turnip threw up for the third time. A tall, featureless figure wrapped in strips of white ectoplasm was standing a few yards away. It should have been creepily terrifying, but there was something sad about the way it kept turning in circles and feeling for pockets that might be there. It seemed more lost than anything. ‘Can I have some tea?’ it said.

‘Be with you in a minute, dearie.’ The Butterfly Man leaned in close to Stretch Armstrong. ‘Truth is, I ain’t had many dealings in this sort of situation.’

The featureless figure made the despairing kind of noise people make when a request for tea isn’t immediately fulfilled, but it didn’t pursue the matter.

‘Ahoy!’ Aunt Sally Turnip sat up, brushing a stray ribbon of ectoplasm away with a ghost broadsword. ‘My jolly sailors of the good ship By Sainsbury’s Carpark, I must apologise for the unannounced arrival of my body. I wasn’t expecting it for several more months. Indeed, I had hoped it might have been lost in transit. But rather like a bout of dysentery, it has arrived and we shall have to make the best of it.’

‘Your body?’ Aunt Sally Turnip said, peering at the featureless figure through even more ribbons of ectoplasm. ‘I thought it’d be more…’

‘You sure?’ The Butterfly Man said. ‘It don’t look nothing like you.’

‘How could my body be me, when it is without me?’ Aunt Sally Turnip adjusted her powdered wig, reframing her explanation in the context of effective communication. ‘Ah, I see I must clarify. You speak of my physical appearance, no doubt. However, a disemsouled body might be better described as a cargo crate waiting to be filled. A cargo crate is a cargo crate. It has no identity beyond being a cargo crate until it is filled with a cargo such as oranges. At which time it becomes an orange crate.’

They all looked at the featureless figure, but it was The Butterfly Man who finally managed to speak. ‘So, it’s a Captain Cook crate?’

‘Were I to accept delivery, then yes. However, should I do so, I would be once again trapped within my destiny.’ Aunt Sally Turnip stood up on the third attempt. ‘Unable to repair my sullied name and condemned to hell for all eternity for my simple and posthumous crimes. And so I refuse to take repossession.’

Everyone was still looking at the featureless figure. ‘Does your body know that?

‘We are entwined just as an orange is entwined with the crate it is destined to occupy.’ Aunt Sally turnip tossed her head in merry amusement at their confusion. ‘My body will know no rest nor comfort until we are reunited. So it is, and so it shall remain until my reputation is cleared. But dwell not upon it, my good fellows. A disesouled body cares not for its situation just as an empty crate cares not about its lack of oranges.’

‘Your body will know no rest or comfort?’ Stretch Armstrong glanced at The Butterfly Man. ‘That’s a rather difficult thought to embrace.’

‘Let me demonstrate.’ Aunt Sally Turnip strode over to the featureless figure, passing the ghost broadsword straight through it with a haughty laugh.

‘I’m feeling a strange affinity.’ Aunt Sally Turnip shimmered back into her usual form, patting the featureless figure on what could have been its shoulder. ‘I say you’re welcome to stay with us, Captain Cook’s body. And don’t you pay the rest of me no mind. Weren’t so long ago I got myself persuaded that I was no better than a crate for transporting things too.’

‘£500 for my trouble,’ the featureless figure said. ‘I remember, I was sugar once.’

Aunt Sally Turnip was staring at it. ‘What did you say?’

‘I had a shoe, once,’ the featureless figure rasped, ‘come with me please, miss.’

‘Everything was something else, once.’ Aunt Sally Turnip wiped her sleeve roughly over her face before turning away. ‘I ain’t calling it Captain Cook’s Body, cos that’s feels all weird. How about we call it Prince Rupert?’

‘Prince Rupert.’ Both Stretch Armstrong and The Butterfly Man nodded in agreement. It made no sense, but Aunt Sally Turnip found comfort in it, and that was all that mattered.

‘I am Prince Rupert, once.’ To say the featureless figure of Captain Cook’s body knew exactly why it had been named after the Canadian port would be to assume that all crates were also the same crate, and no one wanted to think about that sort of thing at Christmas.

‘You stick close to me, Prince Rupert,’ Aunt Sally Turnip said. ‘I’ll make sure Cap don’t forget to remember about you.’

‘I just want to mention.’ The butterfly Man untangled herself from a curtain of spectral cobwebs. ‘That if Prince Rupert wants a spot by the fire, it needs to respect the Tribe rules on keeping the camp tidy. And I’m not mentioning the ectoplasm specifically, but mostly it’s the ectoplasm.’

Stretch Armstrong paused before she spoke. ‘Just let Captain Cook know that if he wants to change his mind on accepting Mary Rose’s help, then he’d better do it quick.’

‘Right.’ Aunt Sally Turnip threw a look over to where Mary Rose had curled against a tree. ‘Is it that bad?’ she asked.

But Stretch Armstrong didn’t need to answer.

‘I have a quick question,’ The Butterfly Man said. ‘It’s about that cup of tea, Prince Rupert. Only we ain’t got no milk at the moment.’

The featureless figure seemed to come into focus then. ‘Everything was something, once,’ it rasped. ‘I remember, I wore blue, once.’

On the river bank opposite, a pair of gulls in little pieces of themselves squabbled and cursed like grandfathers over an empty crisp wrapper. They didn’t notice the Dust Band sin-eater where she crouched, tapping her nail like a velociraptor. She wasn’t interested in the gulls or the river or the Tribe of Houseless Brothers. She was focused on the figure curled up against a tree. On either side of her, two more Dust Bands signalled using hand gestures.

‘Keep him in your sights, but no playing with him.’ The Dust Band smiled like she’d just picked up the end of the world and put it in her pocket. ‘Mr Helsingr wants first contact.’

She left them watching Mary Rose from the far side of the river, and a slight and dappled sun was the only light that dared to shine on such a fearful sight.

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_{Copyright © 2025 Jac Forsyth. SIN-EATER is an unfolding work of fiction, and thank goodness it is. Names, characters, business places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination, or used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The next episode of SIN-EATER will be posted on the 30th of December. As a later legacy piece, you can find other episodes HERE. If you find yourself down in the roots and footnotes, and can’t possibly wait until the 30th of December, click the link and have a look at my liminal sci-fi ØRMA: An unlikely hero’s journey into the drifting deserts of Afghanistan and the chocolate chip based desserts of a visitor teashop near Chichester.}

Arventon Cathedral. December 27th 2025. Day 27 was the finding of the witch. It did its best to be a once in a lifetime public spectacle. A network of cameras transmitted images live for the whole world to enjoy. The cathedral was crammed with row upon row of spectator seating. A mandatory public holiday with the suggestion of street parties, meant anyone and everyone could enjoy the holiday spirit.

Anyone and everyone had also been beaten, arrested, sprayed with tear gas, corralled and generally repressed recently. Aside from the court officials, attendees and a handful of reporters, the cathedral was empty. And while live images streamed to TV sets all over the world, the people of England put on their winter coats and went outside to sit on doorsteps and pavements, holding their left hand up in silence.

Despite insistence from the Lord Protector of England, Antonia Dieudonné had not been drawn through the streets in a straw filled cart, but had in fact been driven to the cathedral in a secure police van. In the dock, her details were confirmed and the charges read out to her. A Not Guilty plea drifted into the slow inevitability of opening statements, and case outlines. Despite the properly followed formality of proceedings, Sir Justice Huxley remained the presiding judge and it all felt hopelessly familiar. This was a witch trial, and no spoken words could whitewash the cruel absurdity of a witch trial in a place of spiritual refuge.

Hidden in the shadows at the rear of the cathedral, Albert Helsingr sat down slowly. The wooden chair was too upright and too hard to offer any comfort beyond the overwhelming relief of sitting down. He’d discharged himself from hospital despite a barrage of protests. They might as well have saved themselves the bother, he knew full well he wasn’t fit enough to leave. He also knew he wasn’t mentally strong enough to stay. In her last act as primary stakeholder, Antonia Dieudonné had recalled all the sin-eaters. She’d also asked him to undo the damage. To mend the fracture in their souls before the board of directors could shut it down. Despite his reputation for not giving a damn about the sin-eaters, an NHS hospital bed was no place to repair the damage done to them.

His reputation. Albert sat through a wave of nausea, leaning on his knees until it faded away. His reputation had always mattered more to other people than it did him. They saw in him what they didn’t want to see in themselves. The cruelty, the inhuman nature of what he did. The moment of the lie. The moment of absolute control. The moment when a human soul fractured. Those precious moments were the only real truth that existed in the world. Heck, he’d built his whole reputation on them. At best he was a wild card. Most of the time he didn’t know what he’d do himself until he got to it. Even walking into Dieudonné Pharmaceuticals, Albert hadn’t known for sure if he was going to do as Antonia had asked.

It came down to a promise. A promise he’d made himself in a dungeon a lifetime ago. That Albert Helsingr wouldn’t add to the darkness. Not any more.

The building was running on minimal staffing because of the national holiday, no one questioned Albert’s reason to be there beyond the obvious state of his physical health. The sin-eaters had been confined to their house dormitories at Dieudonné Pharmaceuticals, waiting on a formal decision from the board regarding the recall. A bunch of innocent kids who’d done nothing wrong other than believing a lie so profoundly, it had turned them into a Pharmaceutical product. They deserved the respect of being told the truth individually, but there was no time for that. Albert had gone to each house in turn, expecting to be torn apart. Except they hadn’t torn him apart. They’d just wept themselves into earth and stone. And while they wept, he’d taken off the bands that chained them. Each house in turn until he got to the Dust Bands.

Albert had hesitated at the door of their dormitory. These sin-eaters weren’t like the others, it was hard to guess if they would even care what he’d done to them. In the end it was a simple enough choice to make. Albert Helsingr needed the Dust Bands more than any promise he’d made to himself in a dungeon.

He could see Antonia on one of the giant screens they’d secured throughout the cathedral. She was standing in the witness box. Her hair cut short like his. Her eyes staring straight ahead. Whoever had done her make-up had used the wrong shade of foundation, trying to hide the beating she’d taken. Counsel for the prosecution claimed Antonia Dieudonné was the only witness they would need to call, but they were just going through the motions. Even the Cathedral cobwebs knew that Sir Justice Huxley had already decided her fate.

‘Ms Dieudonné…’ Meredith Cotton stood up slowly, his arm was wrapped in a burn dressing and secured with a triangular bandage ‘…you’ve pleaded Not Guilty to the charges laid out before you. Before your defence team try to persuade us why that might be, I wonder if you could explain it to me.’

When she spoke, Antonia’s voice was carried over the sound system to every corner of the world. ‘I plead Not Guilty to the charges because I am innocent and have a right to plead Not Guilty. And I will go to my death defending that right. Not only for myself, but for every other innocent woman who has had that right taken from her as a result of torture.’

‘And have you been tortured, Ms Dieudonné?’

Antonia’s voice rang clear above the murmurings. ‘I’ve been dragged from my home in the middle of the night. I’ve had my hair cut off. I’ve been stripped of my clothes. I’ve been beaten and thrown into a dungeon and charged with witchcraft. But no, I have not yet been tortured.’

‘Then your words were designed solely to gain popular sympathy, Ms Dieudonné?’

‘I would certainly hope so.’

Meredith Cotton turned to face the jury. ‘I would put it to the court that this woman pleads Not Guilty because she has amassed her vast power and wealth, not by means of a particular skill or by hard work, but by means of a pact made with Satan. A pact that, by it’s very nature, has no understanding of the word guilt. Ms Dieudonné pleads Not Guilty because she feels no guilt for her heinous crimes. If it pleases the court, the prosecution would like the records to show a Guilty plea submitted on the grounds that we are not proving the guilty charge here, merely disproving it.’

‘Objection on so many levels.’ Conchita Ranald D’Angelo stood up. ‘First and foremost, in English law an accused person is presumed innocent until proven guilty.’

Silas Huxley tapped his gavel on his chin, waiting for his close-up. ‘While I find myself agreeing with the council for the defence, in light of recent changes to the law, I must overrule the objection. On the 23rd of December, parliament unanimously voted in favour of a legal amendment stating that any woman, or man, accused of witchcraft is to be presumed guilty unless proven otherwise. Please continue Mr Cotton.’

‘Your Honour,’ Conchita Ranald D’Angelo was still standing, ‘might I have a brief recess to discuss this with my team?’

‘Overruled. Mr Cotton, do you have any more questions for this witness?’

‘No more questions,’ Meredith Cotton sat down heavily, ‘Your Honour.’

‘Very well.’ Silas Huxley nodded to the defence team. ‘Your witness.’

Conchita Ranald D’Angelo was conferring with her team, seemingly stalling for as much time as she could. ‘Your Honour,’ she said eventually, ‘the law now demands defence counsel to prove Ms Dieudonné’s innocence. A task that I myself may not be entirely qualified for. If the court would allow it, I will step down as counsel for the defence.’

‘Order. Order.’ Silas Huxley tapped his gavel to silence the spectators. ‘Ms Conchita Ranald D’Angelo, would you care to explain to this court why you are not qualified to prove your client’s innocence of the charges read out in the courtroom today?’

‘I would not.’

‘You would not?’ Silas Huxley shook his head sternly. ‘Then by admission, the court must assume that even the defence counsel does not believe Antonia Dieudonné to be innocent of these charges.’

For the first time since the trial started, Conchita looked at Antonia. ‘I’ve known Antonia Dieudonné for 50 years. I have always considered her my dearest friend. And because of that, I was compelled to go to the Lord Protector of England and betray her.’

‘Compelled.’ Silas Huxley frowned darkly. ‘And the reason you were so compelled, Ms Conchita Ranald D’Angelo?’

‘A spell.’

Silas Huxley slammed his gavel down dramatically for the cameras, calling for order like the whole cathedral had erupted into chaos. ‘Ms Conchita Ranald D’Angelo, you will explain what you mean by a spell.’

‘A terrible and powerful spell that has been cast on—‘

‘Stop!’ Antonia Dieudonné raised her hand. ‘Don’t speak of this, Conchita.’

‘Don’t speak of it? But I think we must.’ Silas Huxley rocked back in his chair, waiting on a studio laugh track. ‘A spell cast by whom, Ms Conchita Ranald D’Angelo?’

‘A high witch.’

‘Ah, and there we have it!’ Silas Huxley stood up, leaning forward on his bench. ‘Ms Conchita Ranald D’Angelo, has this terrible and powerful spell been cast upon others as well as yourself?’

Antonia laughed loudly. ‘Oh you have no idea.’

‘Politicians. World leaders. Perhaps even the ordinary man.’ Silas Huxley turned to look straight into the camera. ‘Little wonder then, that this great nation of ours has so recently been brought low by unforgivable sin. Our beloved people, cruelly bewitched into acts of sedition by means of a powerful spell cast by the high witch Antonia Dieudonné.’

‘By me?’ Antonia laughed again. ‘I’m sorry, you thought this was about me?’

‘You have trapped yourself within your own arrogance, Ms Dieudonné. This courtroom has heard an admission of witchcraft from your own lips. All that remains now is to establish just how far into the corridors of power your diabolical spells have reached.’

‘Your Honour.’ Conchita Ranald D’Angelo cleared her throat. ‘If I might, Ms Dieudonné is correct. The spell I myself, and perhaps every citizen in this country has been placed under was cast by a very powerful witch, this much is true. However, Ms Dieudonné is a shrewd businesswoman who has built her career from the ground up. The evidence is clearly documented. She may be ruthlessly persistent when it comes to fighting her way to the top, but she’s certainly not a witch.’

Silas Huxley could feel the ground slipping from underneath him. ‘And yet only moments ago the court heard you admit that you believe her to be guilty.’

‘For the record, Your Honour, I didn’t say I believed it.’ Conchita Ranald D’Angelo smiled. ‘I said that I had been compelled to go to the Lord Protector of England and betray my oldest friend.’

‘This seems like an opportune moment to take a break.’ Silas Huxley gathered his papers. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but an adjournment would re-establish his authority and give him time to establish exactly what twisted little game Conchita Ranald D’Angelo thought she was playing. ‘Court adjourned until 2pm. Ms Conchita Ranald D’Angelo, my chambers please.’

Unfortunately for Huxley, an adjournment would have to wait. ‘The court recognises the authority of Sir Justice Rankin.’

‘You have been summoned to the House of Lords, Mr Huxley.’ Sir Justice Rankin’s feet may have been a wheelchair with his feet bound in plaster, but he could still manage to loom over Silas Huxley like a letter from HMRC. ‘I’ll take over the case from here. Please continue with your witness, Ms Conchita Ranald D’Angelo.’

Conchita nodded respectfully. ‘Ms Dieudonné, is the high witch that cast this terrible and powerful spell currently in this courtroom?’

‘Yes.’

‘And would you care to point out this witch for us, Ms Dieudonné.’

Antonia looked around the cathedral, finally raising her arm to point at an austere figure currently gathering up his papers from the judge’s bench. ‘There. He’s right there.’

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_{Copyright © 2025 Jac Forsyth. SIN-EATER is an unfolding work of fiction, and thank goodness it is. Names, characters, business places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination, or used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The next episode of SIN-EATER will be posted on the 28th of December. As a later legacy piece, you can find other episodes HERE. If you find yourself down in the roots and footnotes, and can’t possibly wait until the 28th of December, click the link and have a look at my liminal sci-fi ØRMA: An unlikely hero’s journey into the drifting deserts of Afghanistan and the chocolate chip based desserts of a visitor teashop near Chichester.}

Arventon Cathedral. December 26th 2025. Day 26 came in boxes. A series of needlessly bureaucratic tick boxes that kept growing and growing until the Lord Protector of England had eaten a small peppermint out of sheer frustration. It was pitch dark in the cathedral, silent and eerie with it, as if even the careful light of December didn’t dare to disturb the woeful nature of this long awaited dawn. The 26th of December had been heralded as the glorious opening day of a witch trial that would uproot a satanic plot that reached deep into the temples of money and power. The day that the world came to see the sin-eaters for what they were, a satanic tool of most fiendish and devious means. Of course Dieudonné Pharmaceuticals had recalled them all, the seat of the high witch was scrabbling to hide its tracks.

And Silas Huxley had done it all by the woke book. Every box ticked. Every form filled. Every step of legal procedure meticulously adhered to. Even Antonia Dieudonné’s interrogation had been a sedate series of passive questions read out by a passive police officer. With legal representation present. The dreadful witch had been washed, given ridiculously luxurious clothes to wear, and held in nothing short of a deluxe detention cell. She’d been positively encouraged to take advantage of all the unnecessary comforts that the law demanded. They’d even offered her counselling for her ordeal. And despite her continued refusal to answer any questions, there wasn’t even a single mention of torture. As for the presence of Conchita Ranald D’Angelo, it irked him like a canker to have her near him. But she’d proved a valuable insight into the satanic plot and the high witch still considered her defence attorney to be spellbound. In throwing herself on his mercy, Conchita Ranald D’Angelo had shown some courage as well as fear. She had also shown a wilful resistance to the powerful spells of a high witch. They could always burn her afterwards.

In the darkness, Silas Huxley struck a match, holding it to the rose scented candle Meredith Cotton had placed on the judicial bench from the House of the Lord Protector of England’s library. It looked smaller in the grandiosity of the setting, modest before the rows and rows of spectator seating. The grand wings for the jury, the gilded counsel tables, even the dock where they’d put the high witch were more stately than this simple bench of judgment. A bench befitting a simple man of God.

All those legal hoops, all those frustrating tick boxes, they would have all been worth it just to see the face of the high witch Antonia Dieudonné when she realised that she’d been outsmarted by the Lord Protector of England. Except no one could see anyone’s face. The trial had been postponed, apparently not even Arventon Cathedral could put on a trial without electricity.

Silas Huxley took a slow, deliberate walk to the alter, head bowed, holding up the candle to the simple cross that hung there. Yesterday, unholy singing had been heard on the streets of Arventon. A pagan tree had been put up in the market square. Some twisting pagan symbol of a pagan midwinter festival had been curled around it. Had the troops of the New New Model Army not arrived when they did, the holiest town of Arventon would have born witness to pagan naked dancing and probably pagan human sacrifice. And despite the mass arrests, today, the very day when a high witch was to be publicly exposed, electricity workers had staged a peaceful sit down protest. And it wasn’t just them, all over the city, citizens were actively involved in acts of non-cooperation. Satan really had pulled out all the stops to protect his favourite.

In the flickering candlelight, the cross that rose above Silas Huxley was a straight line.

‘Begging your pardon, Lord Protector.’ Meredith Cotton fumbled his way to the alter. ‘Seeing as the trial is postponed until tomorrow, your second-in-command Lieutenant General of the New New Model Army requests a private word.’

‘What business has my second-in-command Lieutenant General of the New New Model Army with me on this darkest day of December?’

Meredith Cotton hadn’t had much experience with being the second-in-command Lieutenant General of the New New Model Army, but he figured it was probably like being the deputy manager at a greengrocer shop. Mostly it involved keeping the staff happy and taking the blame for things that weren’t your fault. ‘Just to bring you up to speed on the overnight situation regarding the carol singing. We’ve successfully taken down the Christmas tree. The crowds we corralled during the night are currently having a nice hot cup of tea and some fresh baked bread for breakfast. Of the mass arrests, we’ve cautioned 907 people with the unforgivable sin of carol singing, 456 with merrymaking, and 2 young rascals with inciting laughter by means of helium balloons. I’ve let them all go with a stern warning, and that should be the end of it.’

Silas Huxley leered over the candle ‘You’ve let them all go?’

‘With it being their first year without Christmas and all.’

‘Their first year without Christmas?’ Silas Huxley went a good five minutes without speaking. ‘Mr Cotton, when I made you my second-in-command Lieutenant General of the New New Model Army, I intended for you to anticipate what I myself might have done, had I been confronted with a similar situation. Now, think carefully. Would I have fed the traitorous resisters of God’s divine direction a nice breakfast and let them all go with a stern warning?’

‘I like to think so, Lord Protector.’

‘You credit me with tolerance?’

Meredith Cotton could feel the icy stare more than see it. ‘Remember when we were children, Lord Protector. And your dad said you had to have a beating with a baseball bat because your mum didn’t have no biscuits left for his afternoon tea. And Aunty Constance persuaded him into not beating you by quickly popping around with one of her lemon meringue pies. Me and you, we had a chat. About tolerance. And you said how some people can’t tolerate things that don’t make much sense to other people. And I said how some people tolerate things that they shouldn’t never have to tolerate just because it’s their dad.’ Meredith Cotton took a deep breath, taking a quick glance at Silas Huxley before he carried on. ‘All those people out on the streets yesterday, I don’t think they could tolerate a day of not singing carols, Lord Protector. And my men in the New New Model Army, they couldn’t tolerate having to shoot them for it. So I figured that if you’d been in a similar situation, Lord Protector, you’d have been a bit tolerant about it.’

‘We are not children now, cousin. We have put away such childish things as tolerance. Feeding the traitorous and unholy resistance of God’s divine direction a nice breakfast and letting them all go with a stern warning is folding to the will of Satan, Mr Cotton.’ Silas Huxley took a step towards Meredith Cotton. ‘Answer me this, shall we have less traitorous and unholy resistance because of your show of tolerance, or shall we have more?’

‘It’s hard to say, Lord Protector.’

‘I think not. I think it is very easy to say.’ Silas Huxley stepped close to Meredith Cotton, holding the candle to set alight his cousin’s robes. He left Meredith Cotton frantically patting at the flames as he fetched several vials of holy water. Laying his hand on Meredith Cotton’s shoulder affectionately and calmly putting out the fire. ‘And then again, perhaps I am mistaken. Perhaps this is the end of it, as you say. Only time will tell.’

Meredith Cotton was breathing heavily, his right arm burned and raw with pain. ‘If it pleases you, Lord Protector, may I be excused.’

‘No, you may not.’ Silas Huxley peered down at the burn on his cousins arm. ‘By order of the Lord Protector of England, this city is now under 24 hour curfew. Anyone caught on the streets without a legitimate reason is to be shot on sight.’

‘Lord Protector,’ Meredith Cotton cradled his arm as best he could, ‘just to clarify, we check their legitimate reason before we shoot them on sight?’

‘Mr Cotton, micromanaging is a sin. Before. After. Ask yourself, does it really make a difference?’ Silas Huxley picked up one of the empty vials and held it in the flame of the candle, watching the glass blacken for a while. When he looked up, it was like his face too had been blackened by the flames. ‘As my second-in-command Lieutenant General of the New New Model Army, I want you to assemble a team of elite soldiers. Soldiers with permission to arrest and question any citizen they suspect of being sympathetic to Satan’s influence. An English Inquisition, if you will. Give them a special uniform too, something eye catching. Red, perhaps. For they are charged with rooting out devilish witches and traitorous resistance alike, and all who see them should question their own sinful part in yesterday’s travesty.’

‘I might pop by the A&E first, Lord Protector.’

‘If you must, Mr Cotton. But do not tarry there. As servants of God, we are led by love. And love must be pure in action as well as intent.’

‘I’ll see if the hospital have any bloody rags while I’m there, shall I?’ Meredith Cotton spoke through gritted teeth, cynical enough for sedition, or maybe it was just the pain in his arm. ‘I that red enough for your English Inquisition?’

Huxley blew out the candle. ‘Try not to trip on your way out, Mr Cotton.’

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_{Copyright © 2025 Jac Forsyth. SIN-EATER is an unfolding work of fiction, and thank goodness it is. Names, characters, business places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination, or used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The next episode of SIN-EATER will be posted on the 27th of December. As a later legacy piece, you can find other episodes HERE. If you find yourself down in the roots and footnotes, and can’t possibly wait until the 27th of December, click the link and have a look at my liminal sci-fi ØRMA: An unlikely hero’s journey into the drifting deserts of Afghanistan and the chocolate chip based desserts of a visitor teashop near Chichester.}

By Sainsbury’s Carpark. December 25^th 2025. Day 25 remembered that it was Christmas Day. Even the stars came out to meet it. The Butterfly Man steadied an upturned shopping trolley, watching anxiously as Corgi secured a paperchain between two beech trees. It was minutes before dawn on Christmas Day, and Mary Rose had slept through the hushed comings and goings of a Tribe that wanted everything to be perfect for when he woke up. They’d even hung a makeshift stocking in the tree next to where he slept. An orange, a few walnuts and a pair of second-hand socks that had musical notes on them. One of the pure soul demons had managed to find a striped candy cane from somewhere. The sight of it cheered everyone, even the waiting list of the damned.

Aunt Sally Turnip was in her ghost of Captain James Cook form as he seemed to have a flair for Christmas decorations. ‘Left a bit. Up a bit. That’s it, splendid.’

‘I do declare, Cap.’ The Butterfly Man stood back with her hands on her hips, surveying the garden centre overwhelm of Christmas decorations the Tribe had managed to pull together at the last minute. ‘That platted loo roll makes a fine fake snow, and no mistake.’

‘And can be quickly reclaimed should the moment take a person.’ Aunt Sally Turnip had moved on, walking the full length of a scots pine several members of the Tribe had borrowed from a council managed woodland. The 16ft tree was lying on its side, taking up most of the path between the carpark and the river. ‘One always underestimates these things.’

‘Maybe we could decorate it as it is.’

‘Indeed, it may come to that.’ Aunt Sally Turnip walked the length of the tree again. ‘Or could we perhaps trim it down?’

‘Seems a shame, though.’

Stretch Armstrong broke their pondering with her cheerful arrival. ‘That’s Christmas lunch sorted. The Salivation Army said we can all go there. The McDonald’s crew are bringing anything they have in the freezers. It should be quite a feast.’

The Butterfly Man clapped her hands together in horror. ‘Oh no, no, no, not in the middle of town like that. The New New Model Army soldiers will shoot us for the unforgivable sin of heresy. And it’ll spoil Mary Rose’s Christmas if we all get shot for the unforgivable sin of heresy.’

‘Oi, keep the noise down.’ Aunt Sally Turnip shimmered back into her natural form. ‘And Butter’s right, Stretch. The soldiers choose to leave us alone on account of Genghis Khan, but you seen what’s happening out there in the city since martial law. We make too much of a stir and they’ll shoot us right where we stand. We have to find another way.’

‘Mission accepted.’ Stretch Armstrong smiled softly. ‘Leave it with me.’

Aunt Sally Turnip glanced at The butterfly Man. ‘Stretch, I need to tell you something. Something I been meaning to tell you since we moved from Carrion Viaduct. It’s about our Pauline.’

Ten minutes and quite a few tears later, Stretch Armstrong cradled the charred remains in her lap. Pauline was still recognisable as a mannequin hand, but most of her fingers had melted and twisted away into black stumps. Miraculously her middle finger had survived intact. Defiant and undefeatable. ‘Get me a jar,’ Stretch Armstrong said. ‘A big one.’

Mary Rose woke up to see a ragged looking sock hanging above his head. There was a striped candy cane poking out of the top of it. It was almost 11am, and the Tribe had let him sleep on as long as their excitement could bear it. He could hear them singing carols, sat together around a fallen tree. There were Christmas decorations hanging everywhere. Newspaper snowflakes. Magazine paperchains. Someone had made a snowman sailor out of toilet rolls. Sparks from the communal fire glowed and twinkled in the air. He hadn’t felt anything in his heart since he was 6 years old, but there was a memory there that he could find if he held the sound of the carols in his mind. A memory of magic, and of family. A time before Albert Helsingr had given him the word.

Mary Rose came to join the Tribe with the candy cane in his mouth. And they laughed with joy to see him look so young.

‘It’s a fine thing, what we’re doing here.’ Aunt Sally Turnip squished a place next to Stretch Armstrong, breathing with the smoke of the fire. ‘Our Mary Rose had a right giggle at the walnuts in his stocking, did us all the world of good to see that. For Christmas lunch, I reckon we can make do with a proper plate of baked beans on toast. Stick a nice bit of holly on it. No one can say that ain’t festive.’

‘We’re not having baked beans on toast for Christmas lunch.’ Stretch Armstrong secured the base of the jar to the end of a broom handle with gaffer tape, standing slowly and raising it above her head. High up inside her glass coffin Pauline was lit by battery operated fairy lights. She looked like a holy relic. ‘Gather the troops, Aunt Sally. We’re going to the Salvation Army kitchen for Christmas lunch.’

‘Stretch, I know what they did to our Pauline, I know how angry you are. But we really can’t go down there. Not if it means being shot for the unforgivable sin of heresy. Pauline would understand.’

‘We leave in 5 minutes.’ Stretch Armstrong tested the broom handle to see if it would hold. ‘Bring the tree.’

And that was how they walked. Stretch Armstrong holding Pauline aloft as she led the Tribe of the Houseless Brothers into Arventon city centre. By the time they reached the market square, they’d become quite a carnival. People swarmed out of their office blocks and houses, called by the sweet sound of carols and a seasonal camaraderie that bypassed even the fear of doing the wrong thing. In the heart of the city the Tribe raised the scots pine tree on the same spot a Christmas tree had stood every year since Victorian times. There were no baubles or tinsel or twinkling lights to decorate it with, but The Butterfly Man handed out the multi coloured scarves and ties that she wore, and they made a string of rainbow ribbon between them.

And Mary Rose in his motheaten wool coat, sang carols back into legend as the New New Model Army soldiers came for them. The Christmas crowds of them, and as hundreds of ordinary people became thousands, beaten back, blinded by pepper spray, and driven into corrals by the water canons, they still sang.

Most of the Tribe made it home by midnight. Aunt Sally Turnip straightened the sling on her left arm, holding it into her body as she tested the temperature of a mince that had been warming on a tray by the communal fire. ‘I declare, I ain’t had such a fun day out since Greenham Common.’

‘Our Mary Rose fell asleep still singing.’ The Butterfly Man had a green pressure bandage over one eye, without all her bright colours she looked like she was emerging from a cocoon stage. ‘Oh Aunt Sally, he does seem better for it, don’t you think?’

‘I reckon he’d have us keep it going till twelfth night.’

‘We can do that for him, can’t we Aunt Sally?’

‘Aye, I reckon.’ Aunt Sally Turnip picked up the mince pie and sat back to rest against a tree stump, wincing with the pain in her left arm. ‘I heard it from some people down the A&E that Dieudonné Pharmaceuticals did a mass recall on all their sin-eaters. Toffs ain’t gonna be much happy about that. Imagine the horror of being held accountable for your own sin.’

‘What, they have to just take them back?’ The Butterfly Man shook her head. ‘Not likely.’

‘They ain’t got much choice. Them wristbands the sin-eaters wear all went off screeching like attack alarms.’ Aunt Sally Turnip took a bite of the mince pie, burping slightly as she went. ‘I suppose that means our Mary Rose has one of them wristbands, he might be going off at any moment.’

‘Aye.’ The Butterfly Man shoved her hands in her pockets to keep warm. ‘Except our Mary Rose’s alarm would probably be more like one of them musical doorbells.’

‘No doubt.’ Aunt Sally Turnip was thoughtful for a while, finally speaking through a mouthful of mince pie. ‘It were nice to see all them people came out for the carol singing, what with us doing the unforgivable sin of heresy.’

‘Aye, and our Pauline right in the middle of it all. Them crowds was holding her aloft, singing carols, wassailing, calling for immediate constitutional change through peaceful protest and radical acts of non-cooperation. What would she have made of it all, Aunt Sally.’

Aunt Sally Turnip burped again, sizing up the mince pie for another bite. ‘I suppose when you’re a mannequin hand you get used to being part of something bigger.’

‘She was in a bin.’ Stretch Armstrong sat down carefully, accepting a warm mince pie with a tentative grin. An angry looking cut that ran from her temple to her cheek had been fixed it up with superglue. Her eyes were still raw from the pepper spray. ‘I came back from war to find my husband had picked up with someone else. I didn’t even have a house to live in. I wandered the streets for a bit, sleeping rough. Drinking. Begging for smokes like a dog. I didn’t even know how bad it had got until I woke up in a bin. A disgusting, restaurant bin. I must have climbed in looking for scraps. And laying there in all the food waste, I was thinking, this can’t be all that bad, because the things I saw in Afghanistan, they were so much worse than this.’ Stretch Armstrong leaned on the strength of the Tribe as they gathered close to her. ‘On some level I knew that I’d fallen into a survival mindset, but I just didn’t know how to get out of it. That’s when Pauline reached out and took my hand.’

‘Well there’s a thing.’ The Butterfly Man frowned. ‘They put a plastic item in the food waste bin?’

Aunt Sally Turnip hushed her with a look. ‘Our Pauline was right where she needed to be. Just like she was today.’

‘She were a miracle, Stretch, that’s what she were.’ The Butterfly Man snuggled carefully under Stretch Armstrong’s coat. ‘Talking of Christmas and miracles. All them ordinary people risking their eternal souls doing the unforgivable sin of carol singing with us today. Something old is stirring in this merry land, I reckon.’

And The Butterfly Man was right. Something old was stirring in the merry land of England, and it wasn’t the leftover custard.

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_{Copyright © 2025 Jac Forsyth. SIN-EATER is an unfolding work of fiction, and thank goodness it is. Names, characters, business places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination, or used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The next episode of SIN-EATER will be posted on Boxing Day. As a later legacy piece, you can find other episodes HERE. If you find yourself down in the roots and footnotes, and can’t possibly wait until Boxing Day, click the link and have a look at my liminal sci-fi ØRMA: An unlikely hero’s journey into the drifting deserts of Afghanistan and the chocolate chip based desserts of a visitor teashop near Chichester.}

By Sainsbury’s Carpark. December 24^th 2025. Day 24 was Christmas Eve. At least it should have been. Now it was just another damp, miserable day in the middle of winter. The Tribe of the Houseless Brothers had taken the unprecedented decision to move their lifelong home from Carrion Viaduct to a patch of ragged ground between the river and Sainsbury’s carpark. The move was a unanimous Tribe choice, influenced in the main by the picturesque location, local amenities and a brutal night raid from the police of the New New Model Army. Under martial law, the bright lights and city streets of Arventon were no longer a safe place for anyone without ID, let alone anyone without a house to live in. The Tribe had been hosed down, thrown into a small overnight cell, and come back to find the home they’d lived in for 30 years burned back to dust. The worst of it was Pauline. Aunt Sally Turnip had wrapped her charred remains in a silk cloth and carried them to the new home with her, but she hadn’t had the heart to tell Stretch Armstrong.

And amid it all, the Tribe played their music, doing their best to make whatever was happening to Mary Rose feel like it could somehow have a positive outcome.

He was hardly recognisable now. Everything about him, his skin, his hair, his eyes, even his movements, had been dulled down to the same pitiful grey of his motheaten wool coat as if there was no other colour left in the world to choose from. No other colour except a red fire that seemed to flicker inside of him when he was at his most tired. He didn’t speak much, but he would still sing, and the Tribe took comfort in that. They needed comfort too, because there was an unnatural heat that radiated from Mary Rose now, a heat that overwhelmed even the burning flames of their communal fire.

And despite the fact that no one could stay close to him because of it, he couldn’t seem to get warm. Stretch Armstrong had given him her hat and gloves, and had asked around for blankets he could wear over his coat. The Tribe knew that no amount of extra layers would fix whatever was happening to Mary Rose, but they brought them to him all the same. And he wore them, layers of grey blankets, until it seemed to the Tribe that perhaps he’d only ever been a dishevelled blanket that an overnight storm had gifted to them on the 1st day of December.

Aunt Sally Turnip poked the communal fire with a long stick, sending a shower of golden sparks up into the night air. ‘I reckon we should have some fairy lights at least on Christmas Eve,’ she said.

‘It’s Christmas Eve?’ Stretch Armstrong lay back on the grass bank of the river and laughed softly. ‘Nice that Santa gets a day off this year.’

‘How’s our little sin-eater doing?’ Aunt Sally Turnip threw half a glance towards the sheltered inlet of the river where Mary Rose went to sleep sometimes.

‘I don’t know what to tell you.’

‘I was thinking, we should do him a Christmas tomorrow,’ Aunt Sally Turnip said. ‘A real old fashioned Christmas with a carols and decorations, and crackers and hats and turkey. Hang some socks. Get in a few naff presents to open. Tell Butter to sort us a nice tree. Make his last…’

Stretch Armstrong sat up. ‘We only have a few hours.’

‘Yep.’ Aunt Sally Turnip patted her hands on her lap. ‘Rally the troops, Stretch. Get some of them pure soul demons on it, see if they can muster up a few presents. We ain’t short of holly and ivy, down here. There’s newspaper and magazines in the paper bank, that’ll do for trimmings, paper hats and stuff. The Salvation Army kitchen might have some spare grub, get them McDonald’s gang on that.’

‘I’ll have a word with the waiting list too,’ Stretch Armstrong said. ‘See if I can get him the day off.’

‘Have Genghis Kahn take them out to play with the New New Model Army soldiers for a bit, it is Christmas after all.’ Aunt Sally Turnip paused. ‘Stretch, I need to tell you something about Pauline.’

‘Tell me later.’ Stretch Armstrong was already on her feet. ‘It’s going to be tight to have this all ready by tomorrow as it is.’

Aunt Sally Turnip watched her go. ‘I will tell her, Pauline. I will.’

She poked the fire with the longs stick again, but this time it was more than a shower of golden sparks that filled the night air. The demon’s snarl was audacious, almost luminous. It shook, disjointing its jaw and flicking a foul-smelling glob of something worse than the patch of ragged ground between the river and Sainsbury’s carpark had seen since that dodgy weekend during covid. ‘Hu-mannn. You will tell me where it lingers.’

‘Hang on.’ Aunt Sally Turnip rummaged by her feet, picking up her field binoculars. ‘I recognise that voice.’

‘WHERE DOES IT LINGER!’ the terrible creature roared.

‘You’re that naked crack addict from the Gizzards what’s after me binoculars.’

The mighty Qwer’ty IV rethought the demonic approach, attempting a friendly smile with teeth that could cut the lustre from diamonds. ‘I come to see the Glass Band sin-eater, tell me where it ling…is.’

‘You’re looking for our Mary Rose?’ Aunt Sally Turnip shook her head sternly. ‘There’s a waiting list, mind. And he’s got a day off tomorrow.’

Qwer’ty IV rolled the name around for a bit before attempting it. ‘Maryrose. Yes. Where might I find Maryrose on this night that has once been the Eve of Christmas?’

‘If I may.’ Aunt Sally Turnip shimmered into a powdered wig and breeches. ‘As captain of the good ship By Sainsbury’s Carpark, I am determined to clear my sullied name by noble deed as well as word. And I shall begin with you my naked fellow. Good sir, young Mary Rose is currently sleeping down by yonder river inlet. Now, as a decent sort of chap, you’ll understand that a man’s rest must not be disturbed for anything less than pirates, mutiny or sea monsters. Are you any of these things?’

The mighty Qwer’ty IV bulged, cracked, and eventually blossomed a set of sucker-heavy octopus tentacles. ‘Will this do?’

Mary Rose didn’t hear the warning. It wouldn’t have made much difference anyway. Warrior class demons walked between the isolated moments of existence like time was a beaded curtain. ‘Come home, Maryrose,’ Qwer’ty IV whispered, leaning in so close the words could have been in Mary Rose’s own mind. ‘This place of sin grows too cold for you. Come home to the fire, Maryrose.’

And although he looked like he was still sleeping, Mary Rose stepped out of time to meet the demon. ‘I can help you.’

‘Help me?’ Qwer’ty IV laughed a cliché demonic laugh. ‘It is I who was sent to help you, Maryrose.’

‘You don’t have to go back to hell.’

‘Back to?’ This time Qwer’ty IV laughed with a gusto that hadn’t seen the light of day since the dawn of time. ‘I never left hell, Maryrose. I just came up to Zero.’

‘Zero?’

‘The escape from hell, the breach, was via the 1st circle. But 1 is not the birthplace of numbers, Maryrose.’ Qwer’ty IV even drew a diagram in the mists of time to clarify things. ‘Zero. The circle on the ground from which all other circles of hell descend. This Earthly existence. The unbearable suffering. The chronic unfairness. The social media. Why do you think life here is so hard?’

‘No, you’re lying to me. We have a choice here,’ Mary Rose said. ‘We can find salvation here.’

‘By all that’s unholy, Maryrose, you can find salvation in any circle of hell. All you need is one single moment of unconditional compassion. Hence why hell is so full.’ Qwer’ty IV put a cloven claw on Mary Rose’s shoulder. ‘It makes more sense once you get to the lower levels.’

Mary Rose looked over to where Aunt Sally Turnip was frozen in her warning. ‘Give me until the end of the year.’

‘7 days?’ Qwer’ty IV ran a forked tongue over his terrible and overly mentioned teeth. ‘You are dying, you can feel it. You carry within you so much sin, and you know the fate that awaits you. Ah, but I am here to tell you that it is not eternal torment that waits for you, Maryrose. The sin you already carry is more than enough to turn your own soul to ash. And when those whose soul has turned to ash die, they are abandoned by love. They become a demon. And you, you will be the first of human decent since the flood. Oh, I can grant you 7 more days of this long goodbye. But be warned, the more sin you carry with you into death, the crueller and more terrible your demonic form will be.’ Qwer’ty IV picked up the tattered hem of Mary Rose’s coat. ‘It would do more good to come home with me now, Maryrose. Come home to the fire. Come home and get warm. Your soul is ash. You are abandoned by love. There is nothing left for you in this circle of hell.’

‘Love abandoned me a long time ago.’ Mary Rose stepped away, back into time, back into the curled sleep that Sally Turnip would wake him from with her shouting. ‘But whatever I become, I will never abandon love.’

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_{Copyright © 2025 Jac Forsyth. SIN-EATER is an unfolding work of fiction, and thank goodness it is. Names, characters, business places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination, or used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The next episode of SIN-EATER will be posted on Christmas Day. As a later legacy piece, you can find other episodes HERE. If you find yourself down in the roots and footnotes, and can’t possibly wait until Christmas Day, click the link and have a look at my liminal sci-fi ØRMA: An unlikely hero’s journey into the drifting deserts of Afghanistan and the chocolate chip based desserts of a visitor teashop near Chichester.}

The House of the Lord Protector of England. December 23^rd 2025. Day 23 wasn’t naturally a monster. A year ago, it would have been perilously close to Christmas, now it was just perilously close to the most perilous day of Antonia Dieudonné’s life. The soldiers of the New New Model Army broke down her front door at 3am, hoping to catch her asleep and disorientated by their arrival, but she was waiting for them. The soldiers took her by extreme force, dragging her from her beautiful penthouse apartment, witnessed only by the cold and delicate light of a waning moon, and a man walking a rottweiler.

Antonia didn’t resist, not even when the soldiers cut her hair off, took away her designer clothes and gave her a rough sack dress to wear. She just did as she was told in a detached silence that offered no reason for the continued brutality of her treatment beyond the dreadful unease on the faces of her captors. In front of the Lord Protector of England, she was officially read her rights and the full extent of the charges were laid out before her. Being a witch in service to Satan. Making a pact with the devil to obtain unnatural power. Conniving to corrupt innocent souls. Practicing acts of witchcraft by means of verbal incantations and malevolent magic. In the mottled reflection of a 17^th century mirror, Antonia Dieudonné even looked like a witch.

Silas Huxley plumped a red velvet cushion and sat back on his throne. It was the throne of a king. King Henry V himself, if the Royal Shakespeare Company were to be believed. He’d chosen the vast expanse of the Great Hall because the severity of the occasion warranted it, and Ted Grunt the carpenter had found woodworm in his study. ‘I do not rest easy on a throne such as this, but of late I find myself unnaturally weak of limb, and beset by the gnawing of insects. Maleficium, Ms Dieudonné. It is the maleficium of witches.’ 

Antonia didn’t reply. Occasionally she seemed to come into focus, but mostly she scanned the wall behind the throne, whispering something under her breath until one of the soldiers hit her with a truncheon and tied a gag over her mouth.

‘Of all charges, malevolent magic is the most vile,’ Huxley said. ‘For it is by such foul magic that witches beguile others to do their demonic bidding. Indeed, it was through your most despicable and conniving incantations, that God’s most holy work in convicting the witch Albert Helsingr fell into travesty. We shall not be caught wanting a second time, Ms Dieudonné.’

Antonia tilted her head slightly, sighing like she was waiting on a download via public wi-fi.

Huxley signalled to the New New Model Army soldiers. ‘Heed my words, all those who bear witness to this 23rd day of December. I warn you now, Ms Antonia Dieudonné is a witch. Yet here stands before us a frail and helpless woman. By a woman’s very nature she is weak of body, mind and handsomeness. She does not have the natural courage of men, nor the fortitude to withstand even the slight discomfort of childbirth without complaint. Some here might feel pity for such a frail and harmless creature, but pity is a doorway to witches. Any who are found to show kindness regarding her captivity must consider themselves bewitched by malevolent magic and make note of it to their Lord Protector.’ Huxley nodded curtly. ‘Now take the witch from my sight. I shall not look upon her again less I be seated to pass judgement upon her.’

Antonia expected a dungeon. It was probably the same one Albert Helsingr and Sir Justice Rankin had been held in. Sunlight threw itself at a high window, but it was a watered-down sort of sunlight that crawled down the walls like a damp mould. She’d expected to be manhandled. To be gagged. To have her hair cut off. Still, every part of her body ached. The sack dress they’d forced over her head barely covered her knees, and even with a generous amount of fresh straw, the cold of the dungeon had already cut deep into her bones.

But she’d survived the initial arrest. Wherever Conchita Ranald D’Angelo was, she hadn’t been there for the charges to be read. It was impossible to say if that was a good sign or a bad sign, so it didn’t seem worth thinking about. On the floor next to her was a little white bowl of brussel sprouts. The rats had eaten the roast potatoes and all the trimmings that went with it, but there’d been a meal left for her. After Huxley’s warning, she hadn’t expected kindness. Despite everything, Antonia leant forward and sobbed at the sight of it.

Meredith Cotton came down to the dungeon a few minutes later. He was whistling cheerily, his Witchfinder General robes swishing on the stone floor as he walked. ‘Good morning, Ms Dieudonné. Just to bring you up to speed. The Lord Protector is addressing parliament today, so don’t you go worrying about any torture. We’ll start afresh tomorrow. You just rest up for now.’ Meredith Cotton paused before he spoke. ‘The New New Model Army soldiers are all a bit busy with their martial law, but I’ll have one of the kitchen girls unchain you and take you to use their bathroom if you don’t want to use the bucket. Meanwhile, I’ll bring you down a nice cup of tea and a warm blanket. You have a think about what you’d like for your last meal at lunchtime. I’ve got some fresh red peppers in, I could do you some nice roast halloumi with them, how does that sound?’

Antonia was still bound and gagged, but it felt like fair a question, so she shrugged.

‘It’s no bother, Ms Dieudonné. Everyone needs a nice cup of tea when they’ve had a shock.’

He even left the dungeon unlocked. Antonia laughed despite herself. What Meredith Cotton had done to Albert was nothing short of monstrous, but here he was, being kind to her despite the severity of Silas Huxley’s warning. Most people weren’t naturally monsters. They just did what they were told because it was much easier than not doing it. She’d known Conchita Ranald D’Angelo for twice longer than she hadn’t known her. They were as close to being friends as two catastrophically independent women could tolerate. If Antonia had told her the whole plan, Conchita would have found the loophole, she would have found the one unsurmountable reason why it could never work. But Antonia hadn’t told her, and now Conchita was right up to her neck in Plan B, doing what she was told because it was easier than not doing it.

Meredith Cotton came back ten minutes later with a fluffy pink blanket and a mug of tea. He removed Antonia’s gag, and even took the trouble to loosen the ropes and tuck the blanket around her. ‘With Mr Helsingr, I didn’t get the hang of it straight away, so we were a day in before we really started. But I reckon if we start off with just the questions tomorrow, see how we go from there.’ Meredith Cotton stood back, brushing straw from his black Witchfinder General robes. ‘And don’t you worry, Ms Dieudonné, I’ll explain everything before we start. And I’ll have one of the kitchen girls to sit with you, so you don’t feel threatened.’

‘No comment.’

‘Fair enough.’ Meredith Cotton looked down at his feet. ‘In truth, I’m having some trouble resolving my discomfort about all this torture, Ms Dieudonné. But Mr Helsingr, he was always so encouraging about everything, and I suppose I figured that torture was a bit like cleaning the mouldy fruit and veg trays. It wasn’t ever a job I would have chosen to do, but if I didn’t do it, someone else would have to.’

‘No comment.’

‘The Lord Protector’s not all bad, you know.’ Meredith said softly. ‘Not when you know him like I do. He used to come round our house after school to keep out of his Dad’s way. I don’t think he really grew up much from there.’

Back in the Great Hall of the House of the Lord Protector of England, Silas Huxley plumped the red velvet cushion again, but he didn’t sit down. ‘What say you to the sight of our most wicked guest, Ms Conchita Ranald D’Angelo?’

Conchita emerged from behind a heavy curtain. Wringing her hands into the grey woollen robes she’d been given by someone dressed as a medieval serving wench. ‘My blood runs cold, Lord Protector.’

‘It is quite draughty by the window for the frailty of women.’ Silas Huxley paced through a long intake of breath. ‘A man would withstand it, of course. No, I was talking of your sight of the high witch Antonia Dieudonné.’

‘When I think of what that evil, despicable, ungodly woman made me…’ Conchita turned away in pure frustrated anger, a tear falling down her cheek. ‘If I wasn’t so frail and cold from the draft, why I might have cried out at the sight of her.’

‘You mock me, Ms Conchita Ranald D’Angelo.’

‘I don’t understand the delay.’ Conchita brushed the tear away. ‘She’s a high witch. You saw what she was like when they beat her, whispering her incantations. Satan himself protects her from feeling any pain, she’ll never confess to anything. Put her in the dock, find her guilty and have done with it by nightfall. Good riddance, I say.’

‘I have sympathy for your feelings, but we must consider the bigger picture here. In your testimony, you say that it was not you alone who is held under a powerful spell. That this high witch has used her foul and infernal influence to bring forth the diabolical science of sin-eaters in order to corrupt our world authority at its highest levels.’ Huxley rocked back and forth on his toes. ‘This is no mere localised coven, who knows how far or how deep this diabolical plot may reach. To put such a high witch as this to death as if sweeping dust under a rug, is the act of a fearful man. And I am not a fearful man, Ms Conchita Ranald D’Angelo.’

‘Lord Protector, with respect, you don’t know what she’s capable of. If she knew for one second that I’d been unbound from her spell…’

‘And there you have it. The witch does not know. She no doubt cackles in her dungeon thinking that you yourself will once again use your persuasive dark arts in defence of a guilty witch. And who are we to disappoint her, Ms Conchita Ranald D’Angelo. For we shall have ourselves a witch trial the like of which has not been seen in this land before.’ Huxley tapped the side of his nose knowingly. ‘Ah, and in accordance with the law so none can claim otherwise. No library this time. We shall have the glorious magnificence of Arventon Cathedral. And she shall be drawn through the streets by cart. Let the bells proclaim it, the Lord Protector of England grants a national holiday to mark the occasion. Gather ye close, people of this fair land, and bear witness to the galling and most terrible trial of the high witch Antonia Dieudonné.’

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_{Copyright © 2025 Jac Forsyth. SIN-EATER is an unfolding work of fiction, and thank goodness it is. Names, characters, business places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination, or used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The next episode of SIN-EATER will be posted on Christmas Eve. As a later legacy piece, you can find other episodes HERE. If you find yourself down in the roots and footnotes, and can’t possibly wait until Christmas Eve, click the link and have a look at my liminal sci-fi ØRMA: An unlikely hero’s journey into the drifting deserts of Afghanistan and the chocolate chip based desserts of a visitor teashop near Chichester.}

Dieudonné Pharma Ltd. December 22nd 2025. Day 22 was back in the office. And the Monday morning traffic had been so sedate, it had felt like a state funeral. Antonia Dieudonné ran her fingers along the outline of fresh caulk on the mirrored glass of the lift. There were still traces of Albert Helsingr blood on the natural oak flooring if you knew what you were looking for. His outburst of uncontrolled rage had shocked their corporate life a few days ago, now it felt positively tame by comparison. The board of Dieudonné Pharmaceuticals would find out about the recall of the sin-eaters at the morning briefing. By all rights, they would call a vote of no confidence, disqualify her from any future role within the company and slap her with a massive injunction for personal liability. She’d have done the same thing, a few days ago.

But it wasn’t a few days ago, it was now. After the hospital visit, Antonia had intended to go back to the office and get her affairs in order, but the short walk back to her car had been intersected by a New New Model Army soldier. She’d been asked why she wasn’t at church and searched for evidence of discovering for herself the joy of prayer and the divine refuge of church. Only the battered bible from Albert’s hospital room and a plausible story about reading it to a very sick friend had saved her from arrest. As it was, she was lovingly marched to the nearest church and held at gunpoint while the vicar lovingly explained why the only loving way to spend a Sunday was in church discovering the immaculate joy of worship and prayer for herself.

When hell had emerged from the Kola Superdeep Borehole, a feeling of confusion and panic had gripped everyone. There’d been a few pockets of unrest, but mostly the country had ground to an emotional standstill. The appointment of Silas Huxley as Lord Protector of England was a radical move, but it had stabilised society. Overnight that stabilised society had descended into a state of martial law under the authority of the Lord Protector of England. There was a severe curfew in place and the streets were very visibly patrolled by soldiers of the New New Model Army. Beyond that, Huxley had taken control of all civic authorities, and all enforcement and critical service agencies had been placed under military command. The army, the police, the fire brigade, even the ambulance services, were all now conscripted into the New New Model Army.

Religion and life were one. And while everyone had been busy watching the windows for witch trials, an apocalypse had snuck in the back door.

Antonia Dieudonné counted to ten before she walked out of the lift. Steadying her mind, keeping her focus on the next step. Conchita Ranald D’Angelo had agreed to meet her for half an hour, and by the sound of her voice, it was half an hour more than the attorney could afford. The server room at Dieudonné Pharmaceuticals was a huge gridded box room cooled by subterranean fans and wall fans and overhead fans that kept the temperature balance ratio of the tall blocks of flashing computers resting neatly between optimal performance and bursting into flames. As a specialised area where the servers, network equipment and critical IT structures were stored, it was the one place in Dieudonné Pharmaceuticals that would be safe to meet in. No one was remotely interested in what went on in a server room.

‘I don’t have time for niceties.’ Conchita crossed her arms. ‘And don’t even ask how I’m doing.’

‘I saw Albert,’ Antonia said.

‘Albert Helsingr can look after himself.’

‘No, it’s not that.’ Antonia leant forward, beneath her feet a giant fan circled. ‘Remember that plan we talked about?’

‘I mean no disrespect, but a plan to get Dieudonné Pharmaceuticals back on track is looking pretty irrelevant now. No one cares what we do here, and that’s just fine by me.’ Conchita looked at her watch. ‘If that was all you wanted to talk about, I have far more pressing matters on my mind.’

‘I was never talking about Dieudonné Pharmaceuticals.’

Conchita sighed heavily. ‘What is this, Antonia?’

‘When everything is in darkness, shadows are clearer than the things that cast them.’ Antonia picked up the battered bible from the metal grid floor. ‘The moral austerity. The torture. Burning people alive. Now some twisted version of martial law. That’s what we see in the darkness. But they’re just shadows, Conchita. Shadows cast by the same thing.’

‘Silas Huxley.’

‘Huxley talks about being made in God’s image. But he’s wrong. Silas Huxley’s God is made in Silas Huxley’s image.’ Antonia ran her fingers over the bible. ‘My plan was to use the Glass Band on him.’

‘To purify his soul?’ Conchita laughed. ‘Does he even have a soul?’

‘It would have either got things back on track, or made things so much worse the world would have wished I’d never done it.’ Antonia closed her eyes and let the droning hum of the air conditioning soothe her mind. ‘Oh, you should have seen what that bastard did to Albert before he released him, Conchita. And I’ll be damned if I let him escape the repercussions of that. Plan B. Silas Huxley is going to burn in hell even if I have to drag him down there myself.’

‘As an attorney…’ Conchita chose her words carefully ‘…and as a very old friend, I have to warn you that if Plan B involves unaliving Silas Huxley, then I’m totally on board with that.’

Antonia laughed then, but she was gripping the bible with both hands. ‘God, I want to unalive that bastard, I want that so badly it boils in my blood. But we both know how these things work. He’d be a damn martyr, and nothing would change. We have to be smarter than that.’

‘Stop. You need to stop.’ Conchita patted the tag secured around her ankle. ‘Let’s get real here. Tonight, tomorrow, somewhen really soon, I’m going to be arrested. I’ve been charged with the use of dark arts to pervert the course of justice. That means a witch trial. My witch trial. I’m going to be found guilty and I’m going to be burned alive.’ Conchita paused, fighting to keep her voice steady. ‘I made my peace with that at Albert’s trial. But Huxley is going to torture me, Antonia. And I honestly don’t know if I can be as strong as Albert was. So don’t you dare tell me anything else, because I swear—’

‘Oh my darling.’ Antonia reached out to hug the attorney. ‘It’s okay, it won’t come to that, I promise you. I won’t let it come to that. I’m not having Silas Huxley torture another member of my staff.’

‘I really want to believe you.’ Conchita rubbed her hands over her face roughly. ‘Even if it’s just here in the server room, I want to believe you.’

‘We’re backed into a corner, Conchita.’ Antonia brushed a stray tear from Conchita’s cheek. ‘And when you’re backed into a corner, what’s the only way out?’

‘If you’re talking about a sudden, destructive, unpredictable action, I honestly don’t know if I’ve got one left in me.’

‘Plan B. See it as a case if you like.’ Antonia stepped back. ‘I want you to turn yourself in.’

‘Plan B is that I turn myself in, are you insane?’

‘How long since you’ve slept?’

‘What!’

‘Me, I stopped sleeping the day Silas Huxley became Lord Protector of England. We’ve been running from this for too long, Conchita. Yet another generation of women cowering in fear of a witch trial. No more running, we take the fight to Huxley.’ Antonia kept her eyes fixed on the attorney. ‘I want you to go to the House of the Lord Protector of England and surrender to his authority. Tell Huxley that I’ve had you under a powerful spell. Albert too. Tell him that I’m a high-witch answerable only to Satan himself. Tell him I’ve used the sin-eaters to corrupt world authority to its highest levels. Say whatever you need to say. Build your case. Convince Huxley that he’s rooted out something far bigger than a localised witch coven.’

‘No, no, no…’ Conchita was shaking her head, gripping her hands into her sides ‘…if this is about trying to save me.’

‘Saving you is Plan B. The start of it, at least.’ Antonia smiled softly at her friend, turning away and walking the length of the narrow stack of computers. ‘There’s no reason to tell you the rest. Huxley has to be convinced that this is really huge, it’s your case to argue, Conchita.’

‘No. No attorney will take a case if it isn’t in the best interests of their client.’

‘It is in my best interests,’ Antonia said. ‘I assure you.’

‘Look, this is my fault, I’ve been talking like my conviction is a done deal. It’s not a done deal, my legal team are the best in the world. And I have you, Antonia Dieudonné. Once I’m arrested, you put as much external pressure on Huxley as you can muster. Human Rights, the Dalai Lama, whatever. Do your thing, do what you do best, bribe, manipulate and shamelessly blackmail people behind the scenes. You’re far more use to me out here than locked up in Huxley’s dungeon.’

‘Not this time.’

‘He’ll kill us both, Antonia. Huxley will torture us into the most dreadful confessions, and then he’ll kill us both.’

‘Not if we play this right. You have to convince him that as a powerful high-witch, I’m protected by Satan. I’ll never confess under torture. But an insider corporate attorney might be able to trick me into admitting the global extent of my diabolical pact with the devil in a public courtroom. A very public courtroom.’ Antonia tapped the battered bible on Conchita’s shoulder as she walked past. ‘He’ll be declared a saint for sure. Plan B. Asset stripping is second nature to you. Use Huxley’s own strategies against him, get him to do all the work. Play this right and our Lord Protector of England won’t lift a finger to harm either of us until the trial. He’ll want us kept so safe, he’ll probably put us up in a health spa.’

‘You’re really serious about this?’

‘Take the case, Conchita. Please.’

Conchita sighed heavily. ‘Huxley is a power-hungry madman with a fragile ego. He’ll think it was all his idea.’

‘So you’ll do it?’

‘I almost feel sorry for him.’

Antonia frowned. ‘Don’t. Not for one second.’

‘We take the fight to him,’ Conchita said. ‘For better or for worse. And if it all goes down in the most spectacular flames the world has ever seen, then at least this generation of women went out fighting.’

‘That’s my girl.’ Antonia tapped her knuckles on the battered bible. ‘God, I even sound like Albert now.’

‘Then I guess I’ll see you in hell.’ Conchita straightened herself out as best she could. ‘Bonne chance, mon amie. And if you dare tell anyone I cried, I’ll unalive you.’

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_{Copyright © 2025 Jac Forsyth. SIN-EATER is an unfolding work of fiction, and thank goodness it is. Names, characters, business places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination, or used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The next episode of SIN-EATER will be posted on the 23rd of December. As a later legacy piece, you can find other episodes HERE. If you find yourself down in the roots and footnotes, and can’t possibly wait until the 23rd of December, click the link and have a look at my liminal sci-fi ØRMA: An unlikely hero’s journey into the drifting deserts of Afghanistan and the chocolate chip based desserts of a visitor teashop near Chichester.}