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Scotus woke up the following morning to some awful news that sent the whole country into a terrible state of shock. A tourbus of Yatsian scholars from America had been attacked beneath the steep slopes of Ben Bulban and County Sligo, within a half mile of Drum Cliff Cemetery, where the great man himself was buried. The murderous fiend that perpetrated the attack was shrouded in mystery, but all victims were marked on the neck. The headline in the tabloid newspapers told the rest of the story. Cast a cold eye on life and on death. There was also an email from the tea shop. It was brief and to the point. What the fuck is going on? Get your bog arse up to Dublin quick. Scotus quickly drove to Sligo General Hospital first to check in on the state of Jack Mulligan. His worst fears were realized when he was informed by the staff that Mr. Mulligan had, for want of a better word, escaped, despite still showing all the worst signs of a deadly fever, including frauding at the mouth, shouting and roaring in his sleep, and groping the young nurses when awake. He was last seen by some locals like a wild man heading for the hills, to the top of Nock Norway, to be precise. Scotus thought of heading up there himself to look for Jack. He had a terrible fear that Jack, while still being the same old Jack, was no longer the same old Jack at all. He was and he wasn't. Scotus had climbed Nock Norae in his youth. A couple of times, actually. On the top, the legendary Queen of Ireland, Queen Mae, was buried in her grave. A great corn of stones was visible for miles around. The whole school had gone there on a trip, and he spent so much time gazing at young Ashling O'Connor's arse as they climbed the steep slopes that he tripped on a bunch of heather, stumbled, and rolled down headfirst. It was a miracle he did not break his neck. He thought better of climbing it now when he received another text message from the tea shop. Where the F are you? O'Reilly from Cavan says the roads are scourged with murderous maniacs. Thanks to you. Scotus drove back to Dublin the long way because it was the start of summer, and his favourite sight in the world was the thrilling display of yellow gorse bushes, the firs, as his father called them, that seemed to set the whole countryside ablaze against the backdrop of beautiful dark bogland. He drove back the Agurchin, Balhadrine, Sheepwalk, French Park, Strokestown, keeping an eye out for any roving streaker hassling the cattle in the fields. He was approaching the town of Tusk in County Rascalan when he suddenly stopped in his tracks. A little light went off in his head, so to speak. At first he was greatly dismayed to see the roadworks ploughing their way through the ancient ruins of Rakrahan, where the aforementioned Queen Maeve once ruled. The fields around here were dotted with ancient ring forts. As Lord Rakul had so aptly noted, these old structures were sacred to an ancient and vengeful race. And even if that race was thought to be a mythological race, farmers had still left them be for thousands of years in fears of acts of reprisals from the good people. But the builders knew no such fear and went about destroying all before them. And they did so with passionate intensity. Scottis remembered a little man at the football match who warned of dire consequences if this road went ahead along the planned controversial route. And that's when he greatly feared for the well-being of Ashley O'Connor. For rather than leaving that big brute McGovern, it was possible she was kidnapped, or perished at thought, taken in an act of revenge. Whether that revenge was carried out by a group of earth lovers or something more sinister was something Scotus did not have the strength to think about right now. But he couldn't deny the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. His head also began to trot. It was as if he had rolled down the slopes of Nochnore all over again, and it was all over the very same woman, and his obsession with her rare ends, her legs, her breasts, her eyes, her golden hair. She had all the assets the fairies loved, and as Scotus loved too. Scotus parked his car by the side of the road and jumped over a stone wall. He shambled his way through the lush green fields in the direction of the M.J. McGarver and bulldozers that were angrily tearing up the land. He was within a hundred feet of the diggers when the biggest one, the mother of all diggers, the one that was doing all the damage to the historic site, suddenly came to a slug and halt. It was an awe-inspiring spectacle to see something so powerful brought to its knees by the land. A great big strong man suddenly jumped out, blowing steam from his nostrils, and launched a tirade of abuse at the machine, spitting out curses alike of which Scotus had never heard before. The big man kicked and thumped the machinery, imploring it to start, or what wouldn't he do? It appeared from his frustration that this was not the first time this prized digger disobeyed his orders today. The big man turned, rubbing the sweat from his brow with his tattered shirt sleeve, and like an angry bull spotted Scotus further down the field. It was MJ McGarvron himself, and the stare sent a shiver up the young politician's spine. When MJ started to tear down the plains of Tulsk towards him, spitting on the palms of his hands, banging one fist into the other, Scotus felt his bowels loosen, and though the voice of wisdom in his head said run, he found his feet stuck to the fields as if he'd stepped on a sinister pile of magical cow muck. You get off this land now before I break your miserable skull, Olin. Again, Scotus, frozen to the ground, found himself unable to move, though his imagination suffered no such restraint. Indeed, it was in free flow, for he had visions of his helpless skull hopping off every ring for it in County Ruscommon before eventually being found by some archaeologists from UCD who'd take it back to the university to study as part of their thesis on ritual head sarcrifices in the west of Ireland. Within seconds, MJ had him bite a scruff of the neck, and strangely enough, the big builder had very little trouble in dislodging his legs from the magic cow muck. He lifted poor Scotus high up into the air, and a distress now moved from his arse to his windpipe. His legs shook frantically as he choked and gasped for air. Are you here to claw it all in? roared MJ. As he growled, Scotus felt the spits hitting him full force on the face. One horrid little bit of salivatised trapnell from MJ's mouth. Even darted right under his eyelid. It nearly knocked the eye out of his head. You always wanted to covet your neighbor's wife, didn't you? You little boy Llocks. Are you happy now she's gone? Let me tell you something, you little skitter of a shit. You scummy little scumbag. Achtling wouldn't wipe the fucking floor with you, you little chite. Scotus wanted to say something, but his lungs were ready to burst, and he had lost the power of speech. It didn't help that MJ had his big builder's hands, his shovels clasped around his throat, and was squeezing for all he was worth as he took every little piece of frustration out on the unfortunate minister. The loss of his girl, his dolled road works, and his broken-down machinery. Scotus, right now, was in no man's land. MJ then unleashed a mighty grunt and hurled Scotus to the ground over yonder as if he was competing in a Wellington-thrown competition. The unfortunate minister landed a good fifteen feet away with an awful thud before skidding along the grass another few yards. The big crust of mud burned and sandpapered the skin of his arse in the process. MJ was about to follow up with a good kick into the politician's guts with his big hobnailed boots when Scotus held his hand in a gesture of defeat. I don't think she ran away, gasped Scotus. She was taken. Taken? Yes. She was stolen. Stolen, said Scotus, trying to draw his breath and crawl to safety, lest MJ swing his foot at him again. Who? said MJ, a dark, angry look descending on his cloudy face. Who stole my curl? I don't know who they are, but I aim to find out. They were unhappy with the roadworks going through the historic sights. They took her in revenge. That's all I know. Who are they? The Greens, was it? The travellers? The hairy fucking students. I don't know. MJ. I don't know. Those bastard and Hollywood actors wasn't. I don't know. The government is looking into it. Well that gives me great confidence. Great fucking confidence, said MJ, warming up his hob nailed boots again. You must give us time, and we'll get Ashtling back. You tell those bastards that nothing, fucking nothing will stop MJ McGaver and build his highways. I am a real estate developer, and I'm a creator, not a destroyer. I build, I get things done. I'm a doer, not a dreamer. You you see that bulldozer on that hill? Do you see it? The big one. I see it, says Goddess. You tell those dirty rotten shower of cuts, you tell those fuckers, I'll drive right through them, right through the scuttering lot of them, and I'll beckin' flattened a lot of them and pinch them into the earth. I'll back over them to make double sure I flatten them and I'll pummel the steel blade right through them and I'll half them, and when I'm finished halving them, I'll quarter them. They'll die roarin' by the time MJ McGovern is finished with them, and you all in, if you don't find her, I'll bury you. I'll bury you not in the deepest, blackest baghole, but in a strong concrete mix, and after I spinge you up good in the cement mixer, I'll bury you into one of my roads where no one will ever find your miserable, cowardly fucking pus again. The rest of the drive to Dublin was a pleasant one for Scottis Olain, as he rolled down his windshield and breathed in the fresh country air, all the time marvelling at the beauty of the gorse bushes, the meandering mysteries of the great river Shannon, the dying art of the farmer footing the turf, and the cattle gazing on the magnificent central plains of Ireland. It would have been a wonderful summer's drive, only that his body ached, black and blue all over, and his poor old arse, oh his poor old rear end, was awful, awful sore. And something very bad might have happened to Ashton O'Connor.