Genesis

How did the Dark Inventions series begin?

Imagine a dreary rain-drenched coastal town, somewhere in England. Now imagine a seldom visited back-street. At the end, tucked between an empty warehouse and a funeral directors', is a second-hand bookshop. The place is stuffed to the eaves with volumes that haven’t seen the light of day for hundreds of years. At the rear of the establishment, near the machine that can 'read minds' by the power of television, there's a narrow staircase leading to a damp cellar. It has a bell fitted to each tread, so that as the customer descends the stairs play a strange, unmusical tune. The final step gives a dull thud though, as the clapper misses the bell and collides with a dead mouse.

‘Just to your left,’ the book-seller says. ‘Then on a bit, past the head in a jar. Turn left at the shelf marked ‘The Pixatrix’. When you’ve walked as far as the green-infested wall, turn left. Go along the passage, all the way to the missing brick. If you hear the sound of drums you’ve gone too far. You need to be back a bit from there, where the Pagan and Wicca section is falling into the fish tank. Then you go along the really narrow section, where the books lean in and meet above your head. We call that the 'kissing grotto'. If you haven't fallen through the wet-rot floorboards by that time then you'll be getting near the phrenology head. Whatever you do, don't stare, because it doesn't like it. The bit you need isn't far beyond that, where you can hear the sound of sighing. At least I think it’s sighing - anyway you’ll see a big sign in front of you – it says ‘Enochian’ in six-inch high letters. You might find something of interest in there, if you’re lucky…’

I did find something – it was an ancient, leathery volume called…

A TREW & FAITHFULL RELATION OF WHAT PASSED FOR MANY YEERS BETWEEN DR. JOHN DEE AND SOME SPIRITS…

I still wasn’t sure if I'd been lucky though. The book smelt of bird droppings and rat pee, giving the impression that it had spent most of its life in a damp, outside toilet. A family of stinking weasels had used it as a headboard, so it wasn’t in great condition. But the words of Master Dee were still legible, even after four hundred and twenty years. This was what I had been looking for, but as I began to leaf through the volume, I felt a cold draught of air from behind the bookshelf. A pile of ancient Grimoires fell to the floor as a hand pushed through from the other side. In shock, I began to curse in lost tongues, but was quickly silenced by the sheaf of pages that were thrust into my grasp.

They were hand-drawn and badly distressed - made to look like they’d come from an ancient manuscript. But they were on relatively modern paper, screwed up and stained with cold tea to make them look old. I called to the hidden intruder, asking what he was playing at, but there was no reply – just another draught of air. As the hand withdrew I ran to the other side, only to find that the stranger had disappeared. What really concerned me though was the lack of a door. The owner of the hand had vanished, apparently by magick.

When my heartbeat returned to normal I turned my attention to the tea-stained pages. I was familiar with Dee and his works, so had no difficulty recognising the symbology. Whoever created these pages knew exactly how to attract my attention. They were cram-packed with references to magical ritual, transcripts of conversations with angels and secret details of Enochian Magick, known only to initiates. It was almost as if the pages were trying to tell a story...

I left the bookshop, armed with the newly purchased Dee volume. The mystery papers were hidden inside my coat, in case the owner of the bookshop thought I had stolen them. I was determined to find out who was responsible for their creation, and to my surprise, after a couple of months of amateur detective work, I finally had the answer.

Of course, the question on your lips is this - did I go and visit the mystery benefactor? Actually yes, I did, only to find the house completely gutted. The owner had died in a mysterious fire some weeks earlier, effectively bringing my line of enquiry to a 'dead' end. I gave up the quest there and then, but only because there was no other option. Then, some days later I received an interesting package in the post. It was another tea-stained page, with more text, and some equally bizarre diagrams. Since that day, further pages have turned up at regular intervals, without any form of covering letter or return address. Then, the letters started; and always asking questions...

Had I ever heard of Lucy Blake?

Did I really believe in angels?

What was the true purpose of ritual?

Was there such a thing as magick (note the Enochian spelling) and if there was, how did it manifest itself?

What if the great powers that lay behind magick were at war?

Was the universe truly created, or has it always existed?

I answered these and dozens of similar questions in my own mind, but unfortunately there was no way to return the answer. I was going mad with frustration, and that was why I began writing my responses on giant sheets of cardboard, propping them up in bus-shelters in the hope that someone might see them and understand. The psychiatrists at the institution were most understanding, and provided me with a luxury room where the wallpaper was made out of old mattresses.

I know what you’re thinking – he’s completely stark raving bonkers. Go on, admit it, you are, aren’t you? Fortunately for me, the doctors couldn’t agree whether I was or not, and I was soon let loose on an unsuspecting world. When I got home, the hallway was absolutely filled with letters from the tea-page donor, each asking a new question. There was also another interesting letter written by an old lady called Ethel Grimston. She had seen the bus-stop placards and suggested that I write a book, using the answers I’d written as inspiration for the story.

So I did – and Farperoo is just the beginning of that tale…

Thank you Ethel, wherever you went...

“Incomprehensibilis est in aeternitae tua”

 The Angel Raphael to John Dee

31 March 1583