Secret Diary, Wednesday 18th November Part 2

Dear Diary,

It took two hours of trudging across the moors before I lighted upon the dark mill sitting at the bottom of a valley which, if it was possible, was even darker than the rest of this forsaken place. I scouted around the mill which looked to be uninhabited - no lights shone from within - so I approached with caution and climbed in through a hole by the edge of a boarded up window. Once inside I could hear the faint sound of tapping, lots of tapping, punctuated by the occasional scream. I switched on my torch and crept around, looking for a source of the noise. Suddenly I heard a creak from behind me and I stopped, frozen to the spot and remained there for what seemed like an age, cold sweat running down the side of my neck as I waited to hear if someone else was in here with me. After five minutes there were no other sounds and I moved on, more slowly this time.

I eventually found a hatch in the floor which I opened and climbed into, lowering myself down a ladder into a gloomy tunnel rank with foetid air and the sound of water dripping into the puddle which lined the floor. I made my way carefully along the tunnel, being careful not to make a sound when the floor gave way beneath me and I crashed, howling into a darkened room, my fall being broken by damp cardboard boxes full of files. I kept as still as possible hoping that my racket hadn't alerted anyone to my presence. I could hear the tapping sound more clearly now and still those awful screams. I scrambled for my torch, found it and turned it towards the boxes. They were full of press cuttings, all of them negative stories about Rangers, the Orange Order or the Church of Scotland. There were opinion pieces, press releases, football stories and hysterical gutter press headlines. Then there were shipping ledgers and invoices and finally hordes of CDs of music by James McMillan. I was just beginning to ponder what this could all mean when I was hit across the back of the head and dragged from the room into the light of a great workshop.

My head was spinning from the blow and I struggled to keep my eyes open but I could see below me row upon row of ragged children sitting in front of typewriters, clacking away at the keys with Bridget McConnell standing over them, naked to the waist and wielding a whip to any who slowed down. The children, a mix of black and white, made a low moaning sound while in the background was the pandemonium of one of McMillan's awful pieces which together with the great din of the typewriters, added to the nightmare of noise emanating from this hellish place.
'Spiers, I should have known' came a voice from above me. I looked up, it was Jack McConnell. He ordered me to be taken downstairs and I was manhandled by my unknown assailant behind me and taken into the depths of the workshop and thrown in front of the rows of children where a man in a grey suit and monstrous steel claws for hands stood with his back to me.

John Reid turned and struck me with one of his steel claws and I felt a tooth go and blood well up in my mouth. 'Spiers, what are we to do with you?' said Reid in a steely monotone. 'Lawwell assured me he had you back on the leash and now here you are poking your moronic nose where it doesn't belong.' He struck me again with one of his claws and then I passed out.