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Into The Heart Of Darkness

Article by Norman Parker and Photography by Gary Moore

Editior's note: After being released into a changed society with an uncertain future after 24 years in prison for murder, Norman Parker reinvented himself as an author and journalist.
In 2002, Norman Parker visited a Peruvian Shaman in the Colombian Amazon on a quest to free himself of past demons.

Read Norman's Amazon adventure below, or scroll down to view the photo essay. First published by FRONT magazine. London, England. 2002.

MY SPIRIT BEAST.

Although I felt that I had brought the Haiti story to a successful conclusion from a journalistic perspective, from a spiritual one it still left many questions unanswered. The fact that Silva Joseph had told me that I was free from evil spirits was neither here nor there. I was sure that he would have told me whatever it took to get the most money off me. And now that my curiosity was well and truly aroused, I found myself casting about for other ways to test my spiritual well-being.
The answer came from an unexpected source. Since our Colombian adventures together, Dan and I were now good friends. We regularly e-mailed each other and occasionally talked on the phone. During one of the latter conversations, I mentioned in passing the trip to Haiti and the voudou ceremonies, especially the ‘priests’.
“Why don’t you do something on the Colombian shaman?” suggested Dan.
“They’re good at driving out spirits. You can drink the local Jage (hepronounced it yah-hey) too. It’s a special potion. I’ve done it.”
I had heard of the shaman, of course, but mostly in connection with the Red Indians of North America. My research on the inter-net revealed that shamanism is one of the oldest forms of religious consciousness on the planet. In many cultures the shaman has multiple roles, the most important being his mediation between the temporal and spiritual worlds, although he is also important for his healing powers. In his visionary state, under the influence of the powerfully hallucinogenic Jage, many believe him capable of communicating with the spirit world.
Jage is used extensively throughout Central and South America. Depending on the area and the culture, it can also be called ayahuasca, caapi and yaje. The potion is made by boiling the bark of the Banisteriopsis vine.
Because of it’s psychedelic effects it has also been called ‘the vine of the dead’, the visionary vine’ and ‘the vine of souls’. Bearing in mind that, if I did the story, I could end up drinking the stuff, I was curious to know what exactly was in it. I didn’t doubt for one minute that Dan had taken it, but he virtually ran on cocaine in the same way that a car runs on petrol. It had probably been just one more psychedelic experience to go with all the rest. I was a novice where drugs were concerned. It might have an altogether different effect on me, one that I might have difficulty in recovering from.
The answers from my research weren’t reassuring. Jage includes other jungle plants as well the Banisteriopsis vine. On boiling they break down into the powerfully hallucinogenic alkaloids harmine, harmaline, di-tetrahydroharmamine and di-methyltryptamine (DMT). These compounds have effects similar to LSD, mescaline and psilocybin . DMT has been found to occur naturally in mammals, but is usually broken down by the naturally occurring monoamine oxidase (MO). Jage also contains MO inhibitors.
Not surprisingly, the drinking of Jage has several severe effects, not least of them nausea, vomiting, dizziness and diarrhoea. It also leads to euphoric, aggressive or sexually aroused states. The vomiting and diarrhoea are crucial to the purgative process that drives evil spirits and toxic matter out of the body. There are often visions of creatures and plants, even by Europeans who have never seen them before. Occasionally, one sees oneself as the spirit form of whatever jungle creature one is. Some experiences can be beautiful, involving panthers, jaguars and birds. Others, involving snakes, lizards and dragons, can be terrifying.
Quite clearly, any normal person would have to think twice about taking such a potion. And I was a very long way from being a normal person. Despite my proud boast of having turned around my heart and renouncing evil in all it’s forms, my character previously had been, at times, savage. What if I took the potion and saw myself as one of the more terrifying creatures? What if I reverted to my former, savage self?
I accepted that the only damage I could do, deep in the Colombian jungle, would be to Dan and the unfortunate shaman. But the thought of my roaming the rain-forest in some semi-demented state, thinking I was an animal, concentrated my mind wonderfully. As things stood right now, I wasn’t expecting much of an epitaph. In the latter eventuality, even if I were to write it myself, it wasn’t the stuff of great obituaries.
‘Front’ went for the story immediately. Although I emphasised that I was going in search of my spirit beast, their main interest seemed to be this powerfully hallucinogenic sex drug called jage. No doubt their entire readership were regularly drunk, stoned, wrecked and otherwise bombed out on a variety of illegal substances, and aspired to be even more so. The idea of some super-drug that you could get by merely boiling up a bunch of leaves would certainly fire their imagination.
The production company had been pleased with the footage they had got from the Haiti trip and had, in fact, made it into a short film, with me as the presenter. They also wanted to cover the upcoming Colombian shaman trip.
Their intention was to make a five-minute video, incorporating both trips, and take it to one of the TV networks. Once again they funded half the cost of the trip, but this time Gary would be taking photographs for ‘Front’ as well as filming for the production company. Besides being an award winning photographer Gary was a lighting cameraman and had travelled to most parts of the world and just finished working on a series for Animal Planet.
The production company booked and paid for the tickets. It was only when Gary and I got to the airport that we saw that our Bogota flight stopped in Miami to change planes. Having passed successfully through Miami before, I wasn’t so much concerned about not being allowed in. It was the two-hour window between our plane landing in Miami and the Bogota flight taking off that concerned me. Gary said that I was being alarmist and that two hours was plenty of time to make a connection.
We landed in Miami right on time. Then we spent forty minutes out on the runway. When we finally got to the docking gate, there was another forty-minute delay before we could disembark. Then there was a delay in getting our baggage off the carousel. With fifteen minutes left before the
take off of the Bogota flight, we were racing through the airport, trying to reach the boarding gate in time.
We burst through one check-in, with a flight attendant shouting after me that I would have to check my large suitcase into the hold. I ignored her and just made it to the gate. Gary had a small bag and was passed straight through. I was stopped and told in no uncertain terms that my bag was to big for hand luggage and I would have to go back and check it in. This, in effect, condemned me to miss the flight. Realising this, Gary shouted that I should get on the next flight and he would meet me at Bogota airport.
I explained at the airline desk what had happened. They apologised and put me on their next flight. This didn’t take off until the following morning though. I spent a very frustrating night in the airport hotel worrying if I would be able to connect up with Gary again. It was his first time in
Colombia and Dan wasn’t the most reliable person in the world. I had known all along that I would have a problem in stopping Dan and Gary partying all the time.
My worst fears seemed to be realised when I landed at Bogota at about noon on the following day. No one was there to meet me. However, just as I was about to get into a taxi and head for a hotel, another taxi pulled up and Dan and Gary jumped out. It was as I had thought. They had hit it off together and gone out on a bender the night before. In the morning they found that the cheap hotel they stayed in wouldn’t take Gary’s credit card.
So they were delayed whilst they ran around trying to raise the money. It didn’t portend well for the upcoming trip.
I did pull Gary aside and cautioned him about getting too off his face whilst we were working. He explained that he liked a bit of coke, but it was so expensive in London he could rarely afford it. He saw it as an opportunity to have a bit of fun on the cheap. He swore that it wouldn’t affect his work.
Our flight was to Leticia, the southernmost town in all Colombia and the only one on the Amazon. Dan explained that there had been an agreement between the surrounding countries of Brazil and Peru to give Colombia a town on the great river. The result was the long, thin tongue of land that stretched southwards to meet the Amazon, with Leticia at its point.
Leticia was typical of all Colombian jungle towns, the two-storied shabby buildings separated by dusty, potholed streets. Along these trundled rustingold cars, surrounded by a sea of motorbikes, scooters and cycles, some carrying several passengers.
It was both hot and humid. The temperature had reached 91 degrees and it rained heavily for several hours at a time. The Hotel Anaconda was the best in town, but, once again in Colombia, ‘best’ is a comparative term. There was no hot water and the air con wheezed consumptively. We were the only guests. The civil war has killed the tourist trade in an area known for its Amazon trips.
Ironically, the town was very safe, with regular patrols from the nearby army base. Peru is just across the river, which is patrolled by the Peruvian Navy. Brazil is barely two miles down the road. Smuggling is the name of the game here, drugs for the world’s markets out of Colombia and weapons for the indigenous guerillas coming the other way.
I had already lost a day, so I didn’t want to waste any more time. The following morning Dan introduced us to Jorge, a young guide he knew from a previous trip. We struggled down to the river with our kit and some provisions and climbed into a long canoe powered by an out-board motor. I was fully alert and in work mode now. I knew that the cultural element was going to be supremely important. I needed to see the people, the creatures and the plants, all in their natural environments. Only then would I be able to understand the true import of any visions I might see.
The Amazon was mighty and magnificent. Only a few hundred yards across at Leticia, it widened until it was difficult to see either bank At a shout from the boatman I turned and saw dolphins, both blue and pink, dipping in band out of the water. A myriad fantastically-coloured birds swooped and called all around us. Along the bank grew thick vegetation, unbroken by any sign of human habitation. As an experience it was quite breathtaking.
It started to spot with rain. Moving swiftly, the boatman unrolled a water-proof canopy and headed for the shore. It wasn’t panic, but all his previous movements had been slow and lethargic. I wondered what he was concerned about. I was just about to find out.
Suddenly, the heavens opened. Rain, in very large droplets, poured down in such quantity that we couldn’t see a yard ahead. The surface of the river seemed to boil, churned up by the falling rain. Seconds ago the sky had been clear and the sun was shining brightly. Lesson one was that the weather can change very quickly on the Amazon.
By now though, we were moored in a little tributary. Jorge suggested that it was a good opportunity to eat. We hunkered down in the canoe, eating what the hotel had prepared for us. A wind had sprung up, whipping the thick reeds so that they thrashed against each other. Together with the sound of the rain, the noise was awesome. As the elements warred around us, one could only feel very small and insignificant in the grand scheme of things.
As quickly as it had begun, it was over. Once again the sky was clear and the sun was shining brightly. Steam rose from the land where the freshly fallen rain had pooled. We set off, out into the main stream again. We had been traveling for an hour, Monkey Island was still another three hours away. In Amazonian terms, this is only a short distance.
Dan explained that Monkey Island was a project started by an American 20 years previously. He built long, wooden dormitories for tourists to stay in whilst observing the thousands of monkeys that inhabit the island. Or that’s what he said his intention was. He disappeared when customs found five tons of cocaine in a shipment of wood he was sending back to the US. The place has lain derelict for many years now, occupied only by an Indian family who scrape a precarious living from the very few tourists who visit.
I was eager to get close to the monkeys. I had been doing bits to camera with Gary as we traveled, but the birds and the dolphins have all been so far away. As we glided into the bank, the Indian and his whole family were waiting for us. Soon we were standing in a large clearing, but I couldn’t see any monkeys. “Where are the fucking monkeys then, Dan”, I asked petulantly. Dan gave me his ‘long-suffering’ look, he knew me and my impatience quite well now. “In the fucking trees, Norm”, he replied, pointing in the general direction of the surrounding forest.
Then I saw them. In fact, the monkeys were the trees. There were so many thousands of them in the branches, that the trees seemred to be the same colour as the monkeys’ fur. The grey army sat watching us to see if we were dangerous to them. As the Indian pulled out bunches of bananas they recognised the signs. They swarmed to the ground and ran towards us. They were all quite tiny, none larger than a domestic cat and most the size of kittens. Some were mothers, with mouse-sized young hanging round their necks.
Completely fearless now, they swarmed all over us. They were clinging to my clothes, on my shoulders and one was sitting on my head. I laughed hysterically, all the while peeling bananas as fast as I could, only to have them snatched from my hands by the tiny manikins. Under the circumstances, it took five attempts for me to do a piece to the camera.
Dan explained that our next mission was to photograph me with a young crocodile, but for some as yet unexplained reason this could only be done at night. We had several hours to kill. Dan announced that, in the meantime, we would go fishing. I have been fishing only once before in my entire life and I found it to be extremely boring. You sit about for hours with virtually nothing happening. As I articulated these thoughts, Dan gave me another of his ‘long-suffering’ looks. “You’ll see”, he replied cryptically.
We pulled into another small tributary and climbed out of the canoe and onto the bank. Jorge busied himself breaking off small branches from nearby bushes and a tied a fishing line and hook to each. We now had four ‘fishing rods’ that wouldn’t look out of place in the hands of garden gnomes. It was my turn to have the ‘long-suffering’ look. I turned to Dan, indicating that I am only doing this to humour him. He smiled, but said nothing.
“What are we fishing for?” I asked laconically, as Jorge fixed a small piece of fish flesh to the hook of my ‘rod’. “Pirahna”, replied Dan deadpan.
I pulled my feet back from the water’s edge as I lowered the hook and bait into the water.
For several seconds nothing happened. Then the water seemed to boil as dozens of small, snapping silver fish thrashed about, trying to get the bait. As a reflex action I pulled the hook and bait from the water. Several piranha sailed clear of the water, after it. They were only small, but they seemed to be all sharp, pointed teeth. I suppressed a shudder as I contemplated what would happen if I fell in. At this point, life in the Amazon looked vicious and deadly.
Now it was me who was hooked though. I fished frantically, pulling fish from the water at every attempt. Soon all the bait was gone and it was getting dark. Time to find the crocodile.
Night fell surprisingly quickly on the Amazon. It seemed like, one moment we were fishing in broad daylight, the next it was gloomy and the very next moment darkness was creeping in. We climbed back into the boat and pushed out into mid-stream. At the direction of the boatman, Jorge made his way to the prow and pulled back a tarpaulin. Underneath was a large battery similar to the ones in cars. He fiddled about for a couple of seconds and then a powerful beam of light shot out, lighting up the river in front of us.
Crouching over the light, Jorge directed it back and forth, first lighting up one bank with its beam, then lighting up the other. In between, the river was revealed to be an unrelievedly black mass.
The effect was quite surreal. Almost like a picture projected on a screen, the lit up section of the bank revealed every detail. “Won’t that frighten everything away?” I whispered to Dan.
“Jorge knows what he’s doing, mate”, he replied. “The idea is that the light paralyses them. It’s a thing with crocodiles. They look into the beam and freeze. You’ll see.”
Up until this point, it had all been something of a jolly outing. I hadn’t felt that I was in much danger, unless, of course, the canoe sank. Suddenly though, during one sweep across the river, two deep yellow lights lit up about 50 yards in front of us. They weren’t as bright as car headlights, but their deep yellow glow had an intensity that you might find in car sidelights.
“What the fuck’s that, Dan?” My tone was curious rather than frightened.
Dan exchanged words with Jorge, who focused the beam right on the center of the river. Once again the two yellow lights lit up the darkness.
Now there was a distinct tone of caution in Dan’s voice. “It’s a crocodile”, he said hoarsely. He paused to exchange a few more words with Jorge. “A big one”, he added, his voice dropping a couple of octaves.
Under power from the outboard motor, we had been flying along at a good rate of knots. Dan had already warned that traveling on the river at night is dangerous, because of the many, partially submerged logs. These are trees felled by loggers and allowed to float downriver. Dan had cautioned that to hit one of these at speed would be disastrous. The canoe would shatter and we would all be thrown into the water. Previously I had only been concerned about having a few chunks bitten out of me by the piranha. Now I would be breast-stroking with a large crocodile.
My thought process was disturbed by a shout from Jorge. Quite involuntarily, I jumped. What could it be now? The beam was fixed on the right-hand bank and Jorge was pointing at something. I followed the direction of his finger and saw, right in the middle of the beam, a baby crocodile, frozen into inaction.
We coasted into the bank. As we neared land, Jorge motioned me towards the front of the canoe. Explaining through Dan, he handed me the light and told me to keep it focused firmly on the baby croc. Whilst it is gazing fixedly into the beam, Jorge will circle round behind it.
As much as I tried to focus my attention on the baby croc, a small part of me was asking where its mother was. Surely this was incredibly dangerous. It must be close by and all animals attack when they think their young are threatened. Knowing what the answer will be, I didn’t bother to ask.
Suddenly, out of the darkness, Jorge could be seen in the beam. The baby croc was oblivious to him. He crept up on it and grabbed it just behind the jaws with one hand, whilst holding its hind quarters with the other. Then he held it up to show us. This croc-in-miniature bared its teeth for Gary’s camera. Now it was my turn.
My thoughts firmly with big, mummy-croc, I gingerly made my way up the bank and into the glare of the beam. I stood and took baby-croc off Jorge.
Partially blinded, I did my piece to camera. “Could my spirit beast be that of the crocodile?” I posed the question, whilst fervently hoping that the answer was ‘no’. After that, the rest of the journey home was something of an anti-climax.
The following morning I discovered that there was a make-shift zoo barely half a mile from the hotel. All the animals were kept in wooden-fenced pens or rough pits in the ground. It’s a whole lot easier to see them here than
it is to chase all over the Amazon on the off-chance of seeing one. And a whole lot safer. However, there wasn’t much of a selection.
The crocodiles lay, three-quarters submerged, in the mud of their large pool. They seemed as if they were asleep but, in fact, were ever watchful.
As you moved near the fence surrounding the pool you could see their eyes following you.
An Indian threw a chicken onto the bank. It fluffed its feathers and pecked at the ground, oblivious to the danger. Silently, without a ripple to give it away, the crocodile slid in close to the bank. Then, it came out of the water accompanied by a spray of droplets, its jaws snapping on the hapless chicken and it slid back under the surface, all in one swift, smooth movement. There was something inherently evil in this merciless creature.
Once again I prayed that it wasn’t my spirit beast.
In a pen nearby were several tapirs. They seemed to be a cross between a furry pig and an elephant. The size and shape of the body was definitely pig, but the elongated snout belongs to the elephant. It was friendly though and, as I massaged its neck, it closed its eyes in ecstasy. Suddenly it brayed, flinging the snout upwards to reveal long, curved teeth. It looked absolutely ridiculous, like an animal cobbled together out of the parts of several others. It better not be my spirit beast. Rather be a crocodile and feared than a tapir and laughed at.
In a murky pool lay two anacondas. Because of the mud it was difficult to see how big they were. An Indian keeper in his street clothes reached into the pool and grasped one anaconda around the head and neck. With his other hand supporting its middle he lifted the creature clear of the pool. It was still partially curled up so it was difficult to determine how long it was, but it seemed to be well over nine feet. In places, it was as thick as a man’s leg.
The Indian beckoned me closer. I didn’t have any phobias about snakes and anyway, the creature looked quite docile. With a swing of his arms, the Indian draped the anaconda around my neck. Whilst still keeping hold of the head, he motioned me to put one hand just below his and my other to hold the body of the snake. More than anything, I was conscious of the green slime from the pool running down my neck.
Gary filmed away whilst I did my bit to camera. If one had to be an Amazonian animal one could do worse than to be an anaconda, I was thinking.
Growing more confident now, I was aware that, although the Indian was out of shot, you would still be able to see his hand, just above mine, holding the snake’s head. I gripped the head tightly and motioned for him to let go.
He shook his head determinedly. I was sure I’d got the hang of this and I motioned for him to let go again. He adamantly refused and, if anything, gripped tighter.
Dan was watching the whole episode and shook his head, a rueful smile on his face. “You do make me laugh, Norm”, he said afterwards. “You come over here thinking you can do anything the natives can do. See that Indian. He’s grown up around anacondas. He’s been handling them all his life. He wasn’t just holding its head. He had two fingers pressed against certain muscles in its neck that paralyses it. If he’d let go it would have bit half your head off. Its jaws open incredibly wide and it has very long, sharp fangs. If the bite didn’t kill you, then the poison from its fangs surely would.”
I took this all in and told myself that perhaps I should slow down a bit.
Dan was right, of course, but I was so into being the intrepid explorer I was ignoring many of the dangers. Anyway, I consoled myself with the fact that I did a good piece to camera with the anaconda round my neck.
That evening we looked through the footage we shot on the day. I smiled with satisfaction when we reach the anaconda sequence, then gaped in amazement. Half-way through, the anaconda disappeared and there I was,stroking the ridiculous tapir. It was the legacy of Dan’s little tin. I had
thought that Gary looked a bit off his face during the day’s shooting. Quite obviously, he taped over the anaconda sequence by mistake.
He dropped his head as I went into a spontaneous rant. I shouted that we’ve come thousands of miles to get that sequence and others like it and we won’t get another chance. So would he kindly shape up and stay straight until we’ve finished filming. Dan sat in a corner, quietly, knowing that it was as much his fault for giving Gary the stuff.
It was now the morning of the day. I woke early and lay there thinking about what I have committed myself to. The dangers from the various Amazonian animals seem as nothing compared to the upcoming experience with the jage. From my research and from what others have told me I know just how powerful a potion it is.
I’ve never been much of a drugs person. I’ve ‘puffed’ cannabis occasionally and, on several occasions in the mid-seventies, I took LSD.
From the latter I’ve got experience of hallucinogenics. But that was something called ‘California Sunshine’ and, as its name implies, was all warmth and light. Even so, people still had bad ‘trips’ on it. So much so that some had ended up in mental hospitals. For myself, it brought about a
major personality change. So I am in no doubt about the effects and the dangers.
Jage however, is something else entirely and has another order of magnitude of strength. Again I kept coming back to the fact that I am far from being a normal person. Some of my experiences have been pure horror; some of my previous states of mind pure purgatory.
I had been advised not to fight the jage, but to go with it passively.
But what if the visions of my personal demons send me crazy? What if I run screaming into the jungle and get lost? What if the near-death experience is so real that it brings on a heart attack?
However, I m nothing if not a realist. I always assess a situation and, if it can’t be avoided, I deal with it. It got me through the 24 years of incarceration. I realised that I am committed to take the jage now. It is far too late to back out. So I put all the fears out of my mind and told myself that I will just have to deal with it.
Once I was up and moving I felt much better. Food interacts with the jage, colouring the visions and increasing the vomiting, so it was necessary for me to fast for most of the day. I ate just a light breakfast of scrambled eggs. By the time I took the jage that night, my stomach should be empty.
Jorge was waiting outside the hotel with a driver and his four-wheel-drive jeep. Once we hit the outskirts of Leticia all the roads disappeared, leaving only rough tracks. The jeep navigated across water-filled holes and around fallen trees. A normal vehicle wouldn’t last five minutes in this terrain.
We drove for about half an hour then stopped in a clearing at the edge of what seemed to be impenetrable forest. Quite clearly, even the jeep can go no further. The rest of the journey will have to be made on foot. But how?
All I could see was thick jungle vegetation surrounded by viscous muddy swamp.
Jorge walked to a fallen tree and climbed onto it. Dan followed. I wondered what the Hell they were up to, but followed in their footsteps. We all walked along the trunk of this massive fallen tree. To my surprise, at its end was another massive fallen tree. And after that, another. It was a
log ‘road’, made out of fallen trees.
Walking was very difficult though, the surface of the trees was covered with slime. Dan called out to be careful. The shaman’s wife fell and broke both wrists recently and the shaman himself often falls. So saying, Dan skidded on the slippery bark, over-balanced and had to jump into the swamp.
He stood there, up to his knees in mud, and we all laughed.
Then it was my turn. The surface was absolutely treacherous. One foot slipped and I over-balanced. Next minute I too was standing, knee-deep, in the swamp. Although we laughed, I was aware that it was very dangerous. A bad fall could result in broken bones, and the Amazonian jungle is no place to break a leg! I focused my full attention on the act of walking.
I couldn’t help but remark on how expertly the log ‘road’ had been made.
The end of each log virtually touched the start of the next. Yet it would be impossible to get heavy equipment in here to move the trees once they have fallen. Clearly, they had been cut exactly right so that they have fallen in these positions. I marveled at the skill and knowledge that this must have involved.
Half an hour and several falls later, we emerged into a wide clearing.
Right in the middle was a large hut made out of trees. It was perfectly circular, each straight, upright tree trunk closely abutting the next. About ten feet above ground level the sloping, conical roof started. It had been thatched with great care. Dan told me that this hut is called a ‘miloca’ and that it served as a meeting place for the local community.
The shaman walked out to greet us. Wilder was 46 years old, but was bald and his face was prematurely aged. He looked twenty years older. Life in the jungle must be hard. He was very friendly though and welcomed us whilst shaking our hands vigourously.
He invited us into the hut and introduced us to his wife. She looked up and nodded to us, her hands full with the meal she was preparing. I noticed some unfamiliar vegetables and, nearby, a dead monkey, its fur all blackened and singed. Quite obviously, it’s monkey for dinner. I was thankful that I had to fast for the jage ceremony.
The interior of the hut was rudimentary in the extreme. Carefully crafted timbers supported the roof and wall, but the floor was just earth. Various pots and pans stood on make-shift shelves. When asked, Wilder explains that it took him ten months to build the hut. And the log ‘road’? He said it took 25 years!
We walked back outside with him and, growing close by, he showed us the vine we will be using. He cut a portion off and beat it to a pulp before putting it into a pot of boiling water with other plants he had cut earlier.
It was left on the fire to cook. Wilder explained that he prepared the jage that we would be using tonight in the same way yesterday. It was better to let it stand for a day.
Back outside, Wilder pointed out other plants, telling us which leaf cured which illness and which plant used in conjunction with which bark could cure another. Although he had no formal education, he was an absolute fount of knowledge. He explained that he is from the Huitoto tribe, who have no written records. Knowledge is handed down from father to son over generations. Wilder said that he has been learning now for 46 years, yet there is still much to learn.
He went on to explain that the jage ceremony I was about to experience is millennia old and descends from the Incas. He emphasised that it isn’t himself who is powerful, but God. It is God’s power, passing through wilder that cures people.
He pointed to two small bowls on the floor in front of him. One contained a thick, viscous liquid he said was pure nicotine extract. He dipped his finger in and licked it. The other was dried, powdered coca leaves. He took a pinch and put it in his mouth. According to the lore, both are sacred to God and the Huitotos. They make the hut powerful, attracting divine power down into it, which wilder then channels. Fortunately for me, the ingesting of either aren’t necessary for the ceremony. I passed on Wilder’s offer.
It was quite dark now but still there was an hour or so until the ceremony. Wilder went off to prepare. I noticed Dan and Gary standing over by the shaman’s wife. Both were giggling over something. I walked over and saw that the wife was about to cut the dead monkey’s willy off. I supposed it was funny, but not that funny. I guessed they were both off their faces again. I felt like a school teacher on a school outing.
I called them both over to me. I looked at their now-serous faces and suddenly it was I who felt guilty. “Look fellas”, I sid, trying to sound as reasonable as possible, “ I don’t really give a fuck if you get off your faces. But do me one big favour. Keep an eye on me tonight. If I go into one and try to run out of the hut, grab hold of me. I don’t want to run off and
get lost in the jungle, okay?”
I guess the latter image of Norman running loose in the rain-forest was too much for them. Both burst into laughter and couldn’t stop. I realised I was wasting my time and would have to hope for the best.
I wandered outside to try to mentally prepare myself. Despite the effects of the jage I wanted to stay focused. This wasn’t just a hedonistic experience, I would try to write a definitive account of it. I was well aware that, with some drugs, you forgot all about the experience once you had come down.
It was pitch black outside. There was no moon, but even if there was it’s light wouldn’t have penetrated the canopy of leaves. There were jungle sounds, but the overall impression was one of stillness. I stood, legs apart, eyes closed and face tilted slightly upwards. I felt the power of the forest all around me. I’m not one for melodrama, but I found myself raising my arms towards the heavens. I was sure I felt the power run into me.
Suddenly I was aware that I am completely at ease here and fear nothing in the jungle. A small voice whispered that, whatever spirit I am, I’m a powerful one. Another voice warned that perhaps this should concern me.
The ceremony was about to start. I went inside and Wilder introduced me to Ernesto, a young Colombian guy who was also to take part in drinking the jage. Wilder was wearing a blue tunic-type top and his head was covered by a white cloth. There was a raised, wooden platform in the corner of the hut, which is holy ground. Only the shaman and the celebrants sit on this.
Ernesto and I squatted cross-legged opposite Wilder while he prayed over a small urn containing the jage brew.
Wilder warned us that, when we want to go outside to vomit or use the toilet, we must ask his permission. He emphasised again that this is holy ground. Jorge will then guide us through the darkness. He crawled across and tied a piece of white cloth around Ernesto’s forehead as well as around mine, explaining that this is to protect against evil spirits. Then he summoned each of us in turn to drink the jage.
The urn was blackened with age, its top encrusted with old, dried jage.
The brew itself had an indescribable smell, one that was distinctly unpleasant. Although the taste was foul, there was no residual flavour in the mouth, only a warm feeling at the back of the throat.
This was now the holy phase of the ceremony and all light must be extinguished. Wilder stressed that light is our enemy and will distort the effects of the jage for the worse, He consoled us by saying that we will ‘see’ more in the dark anyway. I reflected that, with no light, there will be nothing for Gary to film. I further reflected that Dan’s little tin will get a right hammering. I resigned myself to the fact that I am on my own now.
I sat in the pitch blackness, waiting for the effects of the jage to kick in. A few feet away, but invisible to me, Wilder chanted, sang, talked and whistled a strange, breathy, un-shrill whistle. Time passed, but I had no way of telling how much. I was fully conscious of all that was happening. It occurred to me that sitting in absolute darkness isn’t the most stimulating environment for the mind. I became incredibly bored and realised that it will be a very long night.
Suddenly I was aware that the speed of my thought processes had accelerated phenomenally. Ideas zoomed in and out of my mind like bullets.
There were some flashes of light, but no colours and no visions of anything Amazonian.
My breathing slowed, then slowed again. I realised that this was the start of the near-death experience. The knowledge did nothing to lessen the horror of the effect. Everything was ultra-real and I was able to think forward to the next step, then the next. I actually began to experience the process of suffocating to death. I couldn’t imagine a more painful, terrifying end. I knew that I had several more hours of this and cursed my self for ever taking the jage.
I breathed normally again and, all at once, my mind was a computer screen.
Schematics of my personal relationships popped up for me to examine. I was super-sensitive to emotion. Marsha and I had been having some problems lately, but the schematic glowed with warmth and light. I can see that she loved me dearly, and I her.
Another schematic was of an old friend I hadn’t seen for a while. There was warmth in it and I resolved to contact him again. Another schematic was cold and dark. Someone I had considered to be a good friend cares nothing for me. I won’t contact him again.
Underneath all this, something was gnawing at my consciousness. I focus on it and realised that I want to be sick. “Permessos Wilder”, I cried out and heard his mumbled reply. On unsteady legs, I stumbled out into the darkness with Jorge holding my arm. But it was a false alarm.
Back on holy ground, I was terminally bored. Then I discovered sex. I had been thinking of Marsha and we had started to make love. But it was ultra-real and exciting and as if for the first time. A succession of erotic episodes flashed through my mind like ultra-real porno movies. The thinking of it seemed as pleasurable as the real thing. Suddenly I remembered being told that the shaman could see what I am seeing. I reflected that I was certainly brightening up the old guy’s life tonight.
My bowels intruded. I stumbled through the darkness and rain and into the filthiest toilet I had ever encountered. I squated over a roughly-hewn wooden toilet bowl and the diarrhoea poured out of me. The sounds, the smells, the whole experience were all ultra-real. I looked up and was
reassured that Gary and Dan had both come outside with me. Then I noticed the camera and realised that Gary was filming the sequence. It was hard to look dignified, sitting on the toilet with one’s trousers round one’s ankles. But I was beyond caring.
The sex scenes were not so enjoyable now, because I was closely monitoring my stomach, which was bubbling audibly. I rushed to the toilet again, pulling my trousers down as I went. In my haste, I crapped all over the back of the seat. Trying to clean up the mess with tissues was probably the worst experience of my life. I guessed that most celebrants did this. The thought that I have been sitting in the shit of hundreds of others did nothing for my composure.
Back inside it was just a question of fighting the boredom now. Visual or aural stimulation might have triggered something, but the darkness and silence seemed to deaden even thought. I reflected that jage would never catch on back in London. Sex with your partner might be interesting, but it would have to be in a place with two toilets.
Finally, after what seems like an age, Wilder said it was over. He took the cloth from my head and lead me to a hammock. I climbed in and he covered it with a mosquito net. I was very comfortable, but my mind was still racing at a thousand miles an hour. I’d have had more chance of falling asleep running up stairs.
Morning finally arrived and I had counted every second. A cockerel crowed and light filtered through the doorway. When I stood, my legs were still unsteady. As I moved my arms, their outline seemed to lag behind like dark thread. I was tired, I badly needed a shower and I longed for food.
I went to wish Wilder ‘goodbye’, but, strangely, his eyes wouldn’t meet mine. He shook my hand and wished me ‘goodbye’, but looked at the floor. I felt too uncomfortable to care and perhaps I was misreading things through the effects of the jage.
It did bother me though and gnawed at me all the way back to the hotel.
Previously he had been a man of impeccable manners. What could I have done to upset him? For the more I thought about it the clearer it was that he wouldn‘t look me in the eye.
A warm shower and clean clothes worked wonders. I felt more like my old self as I joined Dan at the breakfast table. Straight away I asked if Wilder had said anything to him about last night and told him about Wilder not meeting my gaze. Dan looked ill at ease, guilty even and busied himself with his breakfast.
My suspicions were fully aroused now. “Oi Dan”, I said chidingly, “you’re supposed to be my mate. If something was said you’re entitled to tell me about it. I’d do it for you.”
“Norm, I was going to tell you” said Dan , and paused. It couldn’t have been for effect. Taking a deep breath he continued, “Wilder said that it was extremely unusual for you not to vomit. It’s always part of the jage process. Everybody does it.”
“And?” I questioned. “That can’t be all of it. What’s his explanation?”
Now it was Dan who can’t meet my eyes. He took another deep breath and continued, “Wilder doesn’t know for sure, but he thinks that the evil spirits inside you are so strong that you need to keep what you might vomit inside you just to control them.” You could have heard the proverbial pin drop. Dan and I finished our breakfast in complete silence. Later, I reflected that, from a spiritual perspective, it was the worst news I could have heard.
Back at ‘Front’ though, all was joy and light. For them, the spiritual perspective was something you drank with tonic. They exulted over the photos of me with the anaconda and baby crocodile. They laughed at the ridiculous tapir and it’s long trunk. The photo of me sitting on the toilet brought the house down. They were all to be included in the article. I laughed along with them, but inside I was far from amused. Wilder’s words still haunted me.
Visit: www.digitalvillageproductions.com for a video clip on Norman's adventures.

Dangerous People, Dangerous Places. By Norman Parker.



CONTENTS



1) ‘NORMAN THE WRITER’ 2

2) LUCERO, GUERILLA QUEEN 5

3) THE CURSE OF DRIVER MILLS 23

4) ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS 30

5) FOR A COUNTRY FIT FOR DOGS TO LIVE IN 34

6) REBEL WITHOUT A PAUSE 42

7) THE COCAINE FACTORY 53

8) THE NUMBER OF THE BEAST 70

9) BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR 78

10) SEE AND BLIND, HEAR AND DEAF 90

11) THE DAY THE MUSIC DIED 105

12) THE HIT MAN 109

13) DAVE THE RAVE 111

14) TIGERS 141

15) THE DAY OF THE DEAD 150

16) MY SPIRIT BEAST 162

17) PARKER OF THE EXPRESS 174

18) JEW-BOY 189


‘NORMAN THE WRITER’

In 1994 I was released from prison after 24 continuous years. Lest anyone should think that the appropriate reaction was to perform cartwheels down the street and party ‘til dawn, I should add that I had spent the previous nine months partially free on a prison hostel and for three years prior to that been in Ford open prison. So rather than being a major, individual act of being released, it was more a succession of minor degrees of increasing freedom.
With each increasing degree came the greater realization that, whatever novelty I found in my new surroundings and whichever problems I had in coming to terms with them, there was one inescapable reality that I would have to deal with sooner rather than later. I would have to find a way to earn a living.
My immediate prospects were not particularly good. I had passed a Bachelor of Arts, Honours degree in prison, but had no actual work experience of anything. Coupled with the facts that I was now 50 years old and had a conviction for murder, it made for a CV that was anything but attractive to a prospective employer.
However, I had started to write in my last months at Ford. ‘Parkhurst Tales’ was a collection of short stories, factually based on incidents that had happened in various jails. My incarceration notwithstanding, I had managed to accumulate a wide circle of friends and acquaintances over the years. Now I used them to ‘network’ my way to a book deal.
My work came to the attention of Frank Delaney, the writer and TV presenter. He was impressed, agreed to write a foreword and set out to get me a two-book deal with Random Century. At the same time, Mike Mansfield, the music impresario, had visited me at Ford with a view to pitching a TV series to the networks based on ‘Parkhurst Tales’.
It had been all too easy really. But I was soon to come face to face with the reality of the false promises and let-downs of the media world. Frank Delaney suddenly got the job of presenting ‘The Book Program’ on Sky and backed away from any involvement with me. After a series of meetings, the TV project also came to nothing.
I still managed to get a book deal with a £3,000 advance though. ‘Parkhurst Tales’ was duly released and promptly became a best-seller, selling over 20,000 copies in hardback. I did the rounds of the many TV chat shows and found that it was a medium I handled quite well. I had realised by now that to be a successful author, one who actually makes a living out of writing, one also had to be an ardent and resourceful self-publicist.
My second book, ‘The Goldfish Bowl’, was a full length story set in Kingston Prison, Europe’s only prison exclusively for lifers. The book launch was long on location, but short on timing. ‘Grouchos’ might have been something of a media cliché, but it still had plenty of potential for publicity. However, the Dunblane shooting massacre was all over the media. The main question the, mostly female, journalists asked was, “Why should they write anything positive about somebody who had also killed by shooting?”
For me, trying to establish myself as a serious writer, it was a major, if not unexpected, disappointment. I had discovered very early on that, for many people, I would always be ‘Norman the Murderer’ rather than ‘Norman the Writer’. It wasn’t something I agonised over or railed against the unfairness of the world about, but in my heart I knew that I would never escape the shadow of my convictions.
For that reason I had always kept one foot in the, for want for a better term, underworld, a milieu where my criminal convictions were never held against me. To the contrary, in fact. I was widely known, trusted and respected, useful qualities for someone trying to make a living by crime.
But I was well aware of the high percentage of people fresh out of prison who had gone back in again. Further, my long-suffering and ever-loyal mother was doting on the fact that, at long last, she had me living with her again. I was ever mindful of the fact that I could easily break her heart.
Tragedy though, was but a heartbeat away. Whether I was ill-starred, or actively sought misfortune out by my choice of equally ill-starred and self-destructive companions, I couldn’t discern. When it came, everybody was agreed that I hadn’t had much luck in life.
I had met Janice through an old prison pal down on his luck. She was a petite, pretty, 23-year-old, mixed-race girl, with a serious drug problem that she funded through shop-lifting. She used Ian’s run-down flat as a base for her shop-lifting forays.
It was a tempestuous relationship from the start. My character, fired in the furnace of the institution, was hard, unyielding, uncompromising and totally focused. It wasn’t so much that I was selfish, rather just completely self-oriented from having to care only for myself for so long. At times it must have seemed to Janice that I was inconsiderate.
For her part, she was also moulded by the institution, courtesy of the various sentences she had served. This was further compounded by having to live by the chaotic and fratricidal rules of ‘the street’. If her paranoia wasn’t a clearly defined clinical condition, then its practical effects still served to make her distrustful of everyone. If it was a ‘marriage’ made in heaven, then the Great Creator must have been smiling whilst in the process of creation.
Before long we were deeply in love. That our characters and lifestyles were mutually self-destructive didn’t seem to matter. And even if it had there was nothing we could do about it. Our love for each other was an addiction in itself. Both of us, in our own ways, were very strong. Together, when in unison, we were indestructible. Friends often commented on the fact that, at times, we seemed to ‘shine’ together.
Janice died in front of a train. Afterwards, the police told me that she had been the victim of a ‘suicide-pact, serial killer’ (see my ‘Life After Life’). I was too devastated to consider the facts logically. Secretly I blamed myself for not being there for her. It coloured every aspect of my existence.
It served to drive me even further into the arms of the ‘underworld’. By a cruel irony, shortly afterwards I came into a lot of money. But without Janice to spend it with, it meant nothing to me. Her death had irrevocably darkened my world.
My one remaining positive passion was to gain recognition as a serious writer. Painful though it was, I embarked on writing my fourth book (number three, ‘Parkhurst Tales 2’ had been published a short time earlier). ‘Life After Life’ was to be an account of all that had happened to me since my last months at Ford. If I had thought that it would exorcise the ghosts, then I was to be disappointed.
Fearful that my latest literary effort might be ignored when finished, I set out to raise my public profile. Shortly after ‘Parkhurst Tales’ was published I found out that, as a published author, I was entitled to apply for a journalist’s card. I had done so at the time with no journalistic intent whatsoever.
Even though free from jail, in truth I had only been released on ‘life license’ and was forever under threat of being recalled to prison by the Home Office for any infraction of that license. One of the restrictions I was under was that I couldn’t travel abroad without Home Office permission. Received wisdom was that this was very difficult to get.
I reasoned that, as an accredited journalist, the Home Office would be reluctant to put me back in jail just for traveling abroad without permission. I knew that the European Court didn’t even accept the legality of the ‘life license’, so even if the H.O. did ‘recall’ me I would have a good case at ‘Europe’.
Now, just before the publication of my latest book, I thought I would use my journalist’s card to get some articles published. But where should I start? Would the national press even consider someone with a criminal record like mine? And even if they did, what would I write about?
As part of the round of launching my books, mostly in the media watering holes of Soho, I had met and become friendly with some of the young men who worked and wrote for the ‘Lad’s magazines’. These had recently become something of a publishing phenomenon. Initially I dismissed the medium, mostly because of the ‘tits and bums’ format.. However, it was explained to me that the readership included many ‘city boys’, young men who worked for City banks and other financial institutions and had large, disposable incomes. They were looking for a light-hearted and irreverent read to take their minds off the serious business of dealing in money. As a result these magazine had become very fashionable.
The market leaders amongst the ‘Lad’s mags’ were ‘Maxim’, ‘Loaded’ and ‘Front’, with fluctuating circulation figures per month of 500,000, 300,000 and 250,000 respectively. It was further explained to me that, on average, two people read every copy bought. So the prospect of reaching a readership of up to a million suddenly became very attractive to me.
One of the guys I had become friendly with was Bill Borrows, features editor at ‘Loaded’. A highly talented writer himself, he asked me to write for the magazine. He said that, if I could come up with a project, he would back it up by recommending me to the editor. I immediately began searching for a suitable subject.
I had always been interested in politics and was well-informed about most of the ongoing conflicts in the world. I reasoned that I could hardly compete with most of the established journalists, who, through the power of their organisations, would have things largely sown up. That ruled out many of the most easily accessible places. It left only the most dangerous and inaccessible places.
Fortunately, my political viewpoint was decidedly left wing, so I would have little difficulty in sympathizing with many of the guerilla movements. Whether this provided me with any sort of ‘in’ with them was another matter entirely. In jail, through the natural comradeship that springs up in shared, oppressive situations, I had become friendly with several leading IRA men. One in particular, Gerry Kelley, was now a senior figure in Sinn Fein, the political wing of the IRA. I rung him and asked if he could recommend me to any guerilla groups and provide an introduction.
Gerry baulked at the idea. He explained that, as a party, Sinn Fein just didn’t do things like that. He went on to say that there had been cases in the past where they had recommended someone and things had gone badly wrong. So I was back to square one.
Reading through some old newspaper articles that I had saved I came upon one about Colombia. There had been a guerilla war going on for almost 40 years. The article focused on the fact that the Government had ceded a large area of land to the main guerilla organization, the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC.), where the latter had set up an unofficial ‘capital’ of their armed struggle. It was generally referred to as ‘Farcland’. Government forces stayed out of the area. I had my idea for a story. I would go to Colombia and do a story on ‘Farcland’.
The next problem was for me to convince ‘Loaded’ that I had some way of getting the story, that is, that I had some special access. The newspaper article had mentioned that FARC had a website and gave it’s address. I immediately e-mailed them, explaining that I was a journalist who generally sympathized with left wing revolutions and asked permission to come to their ‘capital’ and do a story on them.
Their reply two days later was as disappointing as it was unhelpful. Firstly, it was in Spanish, a language I didn’t speak at all With the translation came the second disappointment. They asked me to submit my request in Spanish.
However, I was confident that, once in Colombia, I could make contact with the guerillas. As dangerous as the place was I was savvy enough to know that modern-day guerilla movements tried to avoid harming or killing journalists, because that only brought down a storm of criticism from journalists of every persuasion. Anyway, Parkhurst prison had been a pretty dangerous place and I had survived that. So Colombia held no fears for me.
As non-committal as the reply from FARC had been, at least I could now say that I had been in contact with them. It was just a short step to saying that they were expecting me. With the encouragement of Bill Borrows it was enough to sway ‘Loaded’. Perhaps they figured that if I got myself killed there would be a story for them in that!
A meeting was duly convened at ‘Loaded’s offices where they introduced me to my photographer for the trip. ‘Loaded’ is 90% a visual magazine, so that part of the story had concerned me. Now, with my own professional photographer, that was taken care of.
I had met several photographers during my Soho jaunts and, in general, I hadn’t been impressed. I found them mostly to be narcissistic and obsessed by social status. Despite a thoroughly working class accent, my photographer, wasn’t to disappoint.
Trent was a sharp-featured, anxious-looking guy in his early thirties. Stylish, well-pressed clothes fitted snugly to his slim figure and he hadn’t a hair out of place. The word ‘fastidious’ immediately sprang to mind. The first twenty minutes of the conversation was all about him and his work. Then he touched briefly on all the celebrities he knew, segueing neatly at the end into a story about him and his close friend, a famous DJ.
This was my first assignment. I wasn’t about to grovel, but I would try to get on with everyone. In ‘underworld’ mode I would have been readying myself to give this Trent a strong put-down. Instead I focused on the promising things, namely his East End upbringing and his support for West Ham. I walked out of ‘Loaded’s offices with an air ticket to Colombia, £1,200 in expenses and my first journalistic assignment.

LUCERO, GUERILLA QUEEN
Now that I had my assignment, I set about doing some serious preparation. My first stop was the British Airways travel clinic in Regent Street. I was aware that I needed vaccinations against various diseases before I would be allowed to travel. What I didn’t realize was just how many. Not only was Colombia one of the most dangerous countries from the political violence aspect, it seemed that the very environment was inimical to human life.
Next I considered what I should wear. No doubt professional journos in the field wore safari suits and other tropical kit. However, I didn’t want to advertise my assignment to the Colombian Government, because there might be restrictions on foreign journalists traveling to guerilla-held territory. Jeans and t-shirts should be sufficient to allow me to blend in with the natives.
Finally, I read up on the current political situation to try to determine who the main players were. FARC were thoroughly Marxist-inspired. Their political agenda called for agrarian reform, protection of natural resources from multi-national corporations and democratisation. With up to 20,000 men and women under arms they were the biggest force in the field, apart from the Colombian army. So successful had their military campaign been that the previous year the Government had granted them a demilitarized zone the size of Switzerland in southern Colombia. This was where I was headed. FARC responded with an attack that reached the outskirts of the capital, Bogota.
The National Liberation Army or ELN were inspired by the Cuban revolution and had up to 5,000 men and women under arms. Although mostly fighting against the Government, at different times and in different provinces, they had been known to fight with FARC.
No South American revolution would be complete without it’s right wing death squads, and this function was enthusiastically performed by the Autodefensas Unidas de Colombia or AUC. An illegal paramilitary army, they numbered up to 5,000 men and were the sworn enemies of FARC and ELN. Although supposedly independent, informed sources said that they were merely an extension of the Colombian military and had close links with the drugs cartels. Guilty of many human rights abuses, they were widely known as the ‘head-cutters’ for their habit of decapitating victims after torturing them to death.
The Colombian Army was largely comprised of under-trained and unmotivated young men on national service. Regularly outfought and outgunned by FARC, they too had been accused of human rights abuses by, amongst others, Washington’s ‘Human Rights Watch’.
If every South American revolution is incomplete without its death squads, then it is similarly incomplete without the US. Sure enough there was ongoing, heavy US financial and military involvement. Under ‘Plan Colombia’ they were in the process of giving 1.6 billion dollars in aid, 75% of it in military assistance. They were currently training and equipping two elite Colombian anti-narcotics battalions.
All this added up to a very dangerous country indeed. The previous year 5,000 people were killed in political violence, out of a total annual toll of 30,000 violent deaths. Journalists were not immune to this violence either. Forty-six had been killed in the last ten years and all sides regularly took journalists hostage. I assumed that I wouldn’t be bumping into too many other foreign journalists in the field.
The air ticket provided by ‘Loaded’ allowed me 12 days for the trip. However, it would take a day to get to Colombia and another day to get back. Once in Bogota, it would take a further day to get down to FARC’s jungle capital and another day to get back. Then there was the fact that Trent would be arriving from another assignment a day after I arrived. So if everything went absolutely like clockwork I would have a maximum of five, maybe six, days with the guerillas, not a lot of time to do a detailed piece.
Other than the above, I had two other tight schedules to meet. I was still on life licence which, amongst other things, entailed my reporting to Henry, my probation officer, every two weeks. I could just fit the trip in and be back two days before my next appointment. Needless to say, I hadn’t told Henry about the trip. He would have had to tell the Home Office which, in effect, would mean my asking for permission to go. Henry had once given me permission to go on a short holiday to Spain not long after my release and been given a terrible rollocking by the Home Office. They would have undoubtedly said no to Colombia.
An extra problem was that Henry lived in the same tower block where I lived with my mother, only two floors above us. We often met in the lift. Just another of those little quirks of fate that seemed to plague my existence. So I would have to hope that Henry didn’t miss all my normal comings and goings and ask about it on our next appointed meeting.
The other tight schedule was entirely more threatening of dire consequences. Marsha was a tall, stunningly-beautiful, 28-year-old blonde with a figure to die for.