Sherlock Gets a Dog

My very talented friend CJ Hooper is a master of improvised poetry. He's been sending me copies of his Urban Horror Fairytales poems as he come up with them. One was about Sherlock Holmes which it inspired me to have a go at a simple poem myself.

Not something that comes easily to me, so unlike CJ coming up with a little gem on the spot, this took me a few hours to get it to rhyme and pom-tiddly-pom properly. And also make sure that it stays true to the source material, which is very important.

Sherlock Gets a Dog

Holmes was at home with an armful of coke

When news of the Baskerville devil-dog broke

Some lordship's been nobbled and drowned in a bog

Chased to his death by a fuck-off great dog

He packed off the doctor on the five forty-eight

"Watson, you got this; I know you'll do great!"

At last, thought the doctor, my own spin-off series

I'll diagnose crimes with my medical theories

Alighting at Dartmoor, the suspects came fast

A butler, a neighbour, a man with a past

And up on a tor, amid tombs dark and damp

Lurked a strange bearded fellow - the Grimpen Mire tramp

The hobo's a were-dog, so did Watson surmise

But no, it was Holmes, in a fucking disguise

 "You got it all wrong, John, you great steaming clot

But I've got it sussed so let's round up the lot"

In a coke-induced rush, Holmes concluded the mystery

A case of inheritance-envy and history

The villain exposed did a bunk 'cross the marsh

But was jobbed by his own dog - ironic but harsh

"And then I shot the hound," said Holmes, back on his sofa

Watson wrote up the notes, another case over

That the poor pooch should die, he thought was a pity

For like Watson himself, Holmes had treated him shitty

Suze's Do - the whole story

Rather than post up Act Three of my Choose Your Own Dinner Party gamebook on its own, here's the whole gamebook from start to finish.

As dessert is served, the party may end very much as you'd expect. Or perhaps not.

Click Pop out on the preview below and then download the PDF so you can make use of the handy go to links at the bottom of each section.

As with all trad gamebooks, you'll need a pencil and paper to keep track of a few numbers and codewords.

Have a go and let me know what you think.

Suze's Do - Act Two

Here's Act Two of my Choose Your Own Dinner Party gamebook (see Act One here), in which sloe gin may or may not be drunk, past lives may or may not be revisited and the Burgess shale shelf may or may not be discussed.

Click Pop out on the preview below and then download the PDF so you can make use of the handy go to links at the bottom of each section.

As with all trad gamebooks, you'll need a pencil and paper to keep track of a few numbers and codewords. Make sure you have played Act One first.

Suze's Do - Act One

Hello. This is the first part of a Choose Your Own Dinner Party that I have written. If you are familiar with Choose Your Own Adventure books, Fighting Fantasy books or any of the other so-called gamebooks that followed them into the 80s and 90s, then the structure will be familiar to you.

Loyal pouchwatchers may also recall my earlier effort The Fright Before Christmas, which I wrote for the 7TV game a few years ago. There's also the thrilling half-orc detective adventure Murder Run which I will endeavour to post to the Pouch shortly.

Unlike traditional gamebooks, Suze's Do draws on a very different genre for its source material, that of the 70s Mike Leigh drama. Classics like Nuts in May and (of course) Abigail's Party. Not an obvious choice for a Choose Your Own I know, but I think it has legs as a play with many branching plotlines, though I pity the drama group that attempts to put it on the stage.

Please do have a go at this first act of the book. Click Pop out on the preview below and then download the PDF so you can make use of the handy go to links at the bottom of each section.

As with all trad gamebooks, you'll need a pencil and paper to keep track of a few numbers and codewords, but it's nothing too onerous. You may be relieved to know that there is no die-rolling in this; I prefer to let players stand or fall according to their own decisions rather than blame the capricious D6.

Disclaimer time: I should probably also mention that the tone is intentionally comic / darkly comic / dark, depending on the choices you make. Themes and subject are meant to homage both the source material and the period in which it is set. The author does not endorse the views of the characters. Apart from the bit about caravanning holidays.

Finally, I had specific actors from the 70s in mind for each of the characters in this story. See if you can work out who's who. One actor is actually the template for two different characters.

Fear not; the rest of the book is written and ready to go. If there is sufficient interest in Act One, we'll see about publishing the entire thing.

Enjoy.

Act Two is here.

The Thing in the Shrubbery

I wrote the following short story for Herself to read out (in abridged form) at the Dark Door: Ghost Stories larp this weekend. This is the full version.

The Thing in the Shrubbery

By DOROTHY VAN TASSEL

Hailing from Raleigh, N.C., Dorothy van Tassel is a regular contributor to WEIRD TALES magazine. Her published work includes ‘The Toads of Zhered-Na’,  ‘Captives of the Space-Kaiser’ and the popular ‘Brick Ridley, Detective Boxer’ series.

IT was early summer when I moved in to the old Belknap place, having taken a position at the prestigious university across town. The post came with a more than ample salary, affording me the opportunity to forego my customary habit of taking rooms in a lodging house in or near to campus. And so, though my possessions were few and my needs simple, I indulged myself by purchasing a property that was far more suitable to a family or at the very least married couple, with space enough for live-in help.

The Belknap place was a sturdy two-story house built in a style typical of the area some hundred or so years ago. Its wooden shutters and roof shingles showed signs of a little rot and were in need of replacing, and the walls were grimed with the decades-long growth of ivy and moss which had taken virulent hold of the building’s exterior, lending it a curiously organic cast, as if the entire structure had grown out of the hill on which it stood.

But the construction itself was sound enough, and the agent from whom I purchased the property assured me that such repairs as were necessary were no more than superficial. And as soon as I could arrange for electricity and mains water to be installed, I would be living like a country squire of old, up on the hill on the edge of town.

If truth be told, it was not the house that attracted me so much as the grounds in which it stood. The gardens had long since run wild with tall grasses, weeds and young trees, but the ghost of what it had once been was still visible to those with an eye to see. And as a keen amateur horticulturist, I could not help but speculate, even fantasize, as to what transformation I could wreak in my spare hours.

True, it would be long and back-breaking work clearing the scrub, re-laying lawns and trimming back the wild ivy that encroached upon the windows on every side, but the result, visible in my mind’s eye as an homage to nineteenth century design, would be more than worth the effort. The arbor and trelliswork would be restored, the ornamental beds replanted, and that thick, dark mass of shrubbery on the north side would be trimmed back to a more manageable and aesthetically pleasing proportion.

There was something about that shady shrubbery, that impenetrable thicket of thorns and tightly packed bushes, which seemed to suck in the light even in the noonday sun. It was tall too, reaching high above a man’s head, and deep enough to cover a barn-sized patch of the property, like a remnant of some antediluvian vegetation when vast forests covered the surface of the Earth long before Man arose to tame and cultivate the land.

Strangely, though the spring had been mild and summer yet to reach its peak, the shrubbery was in somewhat poor health. Even a cursory glance as I inspected my new surroundings showed its outer foliage to be dry, brittle and spotted brown, as if fall had already arrived, or some parasite taken hold. I resolved, when time permitted, to revive that darksome plot of vegetation to its former glory and made a note to test the quality of the soil and drainage.

Had I only known, had I but sensed by some preternatural power that some claim to possess but which has ever eluded me, that the source of the shrubbery’s ill-kempt condition was something far stranger, far more malevolent, than any mundane plant disease.

* * *

WITHIN a couple of weeks I had moved myself in, occupying the more habitable rooms on the second floor while repairs were made downstairs by two local handymen, brothers by the name of Japhet and Gomer Rudge. They were a taciturn, brutish pair, barely speaking to me from the moment they arrived each morning to their departure as the sun set, and no more than grunting at each other in a debased form of English that I had heard spoken by the older families in the area. Still, the Rudges did a decent enough job of working on the old place, though more skilled tasks like running electrical and telephone wires up the hill and replacing the ancient oil lamps that hung on every wall I would need to leave to specialists, as and when the basic structural repairs were completed.

In the meantime I busied myself at work, getting used to the bustle and thrust of university life, and spent the long summer evenings in my new gardens, hoe or fork in hand, hacking at the overgrowth, trimming back climbers, digging up weeds, and steadily amassing a sizable heap of trimmings which I resolved to burn once it had dried out. I relished the opportunity to use my hands, to make those first crucial steps in recapturing the former beauty of the Belknap place.

The work was as much a restoration as it was a simple gardening project. As I trimmed back the grass on one side of the house, I discovered an old patio, long overgrown and covered by a layer of dirt and old vegetation. When cleared, it proved to be a delightful stone veranda laid in alternating pink and white, where a man might entertain friends for a summer soiree, or sit upon a cane chair and survey his land, pipe in one hand and a glass in the other. Elsewhere I unearthed the edges of long-abandoned rose beds, stumps of once great elms and maples and even a small herb garden, now grown wild and chaotic with errant sweet parsley and dogthyme.

As the grounds were gradually cleared and the accumulated greenery of decades of neglect was uprooted, sawn, pruned and ultimately transferred, barrow by laden barrow, to my ever-growing heap, I began to see ever more vividly what the gardens once had been, and could be again. Neat lawns with ornamental beds of rose, stepped terraces and sun traps, shady arbors and dappled trellises. It would take time, years even for some of the plants I had in mind to truly settle in, but it would be worth it.

Fortunately there appeared to be little or no animal infestation on the property, save insects and other small invertebrates. No molehills were to be found, nor the telltale signs of rat, mouse or other vermin in and around the house and gardens. Indeed there was precious little evidence of birds making the most of the ample roosting opportunities either in the eaves of the neglected roof or even in the boughs of the surviving trees. I thanked my stars that I would not have to contend with pests any larger than greenfly as I labored in my grand endeavor.

If I had but thought more deeply on that seemingly innocent stroke of luck. Had I but examined the curious absence of animal life from the Belknap place!

* * *

BY mid-July, much of the basic garden work had been accomplished, largely by my hand alone. I had on occasion dragooned the terse Rudges into some of the heavier tasks, such as sawing logs, heaving stumps out and holding the ladder steady as I carried out some long overdue lopping of branches, but on the whole they seemed reluctant to spend much time on such outdoor activities, preferring to confine themselves to the immediate environs of the house itself. I put this down to some innate aversion to gardening; perhaps they saw it as woman’s work, or else simply favored laboring on their own rather than mixing with the ‘master of the house’ as I amusingly thought of myself. To be sure, I had noticed they acted ill at ease while assisting me outside, muttering darkly under their breath as they worked and hastening back inside as soon as I had no further need of them.

I also noticed that the brothers trudged up the rutted path to the house with heads held low every morning and fairly hustled back down the selfsame route each evening, though they had been hard at work all day. It was odd that they kept so assiduously to the path, for it wound back and forth several times, the better to accommodate the approach of horse-drawn carriages long since gone. It would have been simpler for them to have cut straight down the north side of the hill to the lane and be on their way home. But for whatever reason, perhaps a respect for the future flower beds and bushes with which I planned to line the slopes, they avoided the more direct route, dominated by the darksome shrub that I had yet to address.

So it was that when the time came to approach the looming shrubbery, shears in hand, I was quite alone. It seemed even taller up close, thick and wiry with years of unrestrained growth. Clearly it had grown far beyond the original owner’s intentions and I resolved to cut it back a good yard or so all round, the better to see in what state the shrubbery as a whole might be, and what could be salvaged from it. I set to work with vigorous intent, pruning carefully at first, then with increasing enthusiasm as I settled into a sort of rhythm, steadily accumulating a great ring of trimmings as I worked around the shrub in a circle. Thorny twigs and stems gathered at my feet, snapping neatly between the shears’ stainless steel blades.

It was a strange plant, one that at first bore a resemblance to some strain of hawthorn or Himalayan cotoneaster, but where one would expect to see tight clusters of small red berries, this instead bore hard, dark brown nutlike pods, as if there hadn’t been enough rain to sufficiently water the plant into fully fruiting.

Yet that could not be the case, for elsewhere in the gardens the weeds grew in lush abundance, there being no shortage of rainfall this year. But here the great shrub seemed, as I had noticed earlier, quite dry and brittle. Even the surrounding earth was hard and cracked, leeched of all moisture. Drainage could have been the culprit, but looking again I saw that the gardens both above and below the shrub were green and well watered. No, there was something else at work. Some yet-to-be identified factor that had sucked the vitality from this sorry patch of land.

Panting with exertion, I stepped back to survey my work, my boots crunching on brittle twigs. The shrub looked neater now, its edges trimmed to a uniform depth, but the revealed growth was if anything less healthy than the outer layer that now lay in heaps on the earth. More twisted, thorny twigs, matted even tighter, and where the outer shoots had a semblance of greenness to them, these had leaves that were more brown than verdant, and bore clusters of those curious nutlike pods that were even more wizened. On closer examination, they caught the sunlight in a such a way as to resemble tiny pea-sized shrunken heads, echoing the savage practices of certain uncivilized tribes of the Amazon. I pocketed a cluster, thinking to show them to a colleague who taught botany at the university. Perhaps he would be able to identify this strange shrub, and could recommend a remedy for whatever ailed it.

I peeled off my thick leather gardening gloves and was about to return to the house for a welcome glass of lemonade when the afternoon sun’s rays shone on the dark thicket. Deep within, far, far out of reach, something caught the light. There was a suggestion of shape, of outline, that did not match the surrounding wiry growth. Something dark and solid. Any more than that I could not tell, even though I leaned in to getter a better look, pushing the stems aside as best I could, unconscious to the tiny pinpricks the thorns were inflicting on my exposed palms.

Pressing into the shrub like this, the sun’s heat diminished almost entirely. I felt a chill along my face and forearms, and my fingers almost prickled with cold even in the height of summer. The shape deep in the heart of the shrub remained an indistinct something far beyond my grasp. I shivered involuntarily, seeing my breath misting before me, and became aware that my hands had gone a little numb. With a heave I righted myself and stepped back out of the shrub, my clothes snagging on the pricks as I withdrew. The lowering sun felt welcome against the exposed skin and I turned gratefully toward it, feeling warmth restore feeling to cheeks and fingers.

I collected the shears and gloves and returned to the house, feeling the icy presence of the shrub at my back, the nape of my neck almost prickling with the chillsome memory.

* * *

I chose to avoid that part of the garden for more than a week, telling myself that I should concentrate on the restoration of the herb garden and rose beds, but in truth the incident had unnerved me more than I cared to admit to myself at the time. Of course I had not shared my experience, not with friends and certainly not with the brutish Rudges, though in hindsight I can believe that they sensed a change in my demeanor; a certain lessening of my enthusiastic zeal for the grand gardening project that even they could not help but notice. I caught them muttering conspiratorially more than once in the days that followed, beetled brows furrowed, thickly muscled necks inclining their heads to that part of the grounds that they so determinedly avoided. I did not think to engage them on the matter, as much a victim of our mutual social gulf as I was reluctant to put into words that which I had experienced, for fear of giving substance to my creeping discomfort.

It was by chance that I wore my old gardening jacket to the university one day, and came across the nut-pods that I had pocketed with a thought to identifying them. My spirits somewhat restored in the intervening period, I sought out my botanist colleague Danvers and showed him the desiccated samples.

“Strange,” he said, squinting at one of the tiny brown pods, his spectacles on his forehead as was his custom, “This appears to be a distant cousin of the hawthorn as you surmised Farley, but these pods are like none I’ve seen growing in these climes. A transplant, no doubt, in all likelihood brought from overseas by the original owners.”

“From where?” I asked my friend, proffering the suggestion that it was some sort of Himalayan strain, perhaps used to higher altitudes and thinner air.

He rubbed his chin, considering, then turned to consult the shelves of botany books behind him. Danvers pulled out a great leather-bound volume from a lower shelf and heaved it onto his desk, scattering term papers. Humming to himself, with me at his shoulder, he quickly leafed back and forth through the old pages, flicking past sketch after sketch of plants, until at length he came across the one he was after.

“There,” he proclaimed, stabbing the page with an ink-stained finger.

I craned closer to look at the drawing of a wiry, thorned stem bearing small nutlike pods, identical to the sample I had showed him. The long-dead artist had even caught the suggestion of shrunken head in those wizened pods, like tiny cartoon faces caught in mid-shriek.

“Crataegus monica, also known as Monk’s Hawthorn, among other names,” began Danvers, reading from the text. “It’s extremely uncommon in this region, though some examples are said to survive in areas where the early colonists settled. Presumably they brought them over for some reason, though it doesn’t say here what for. Clearly it wasn’t for fruit, or any medicinal property that I can see. And it certainly wasn’t for its decorative value!”

He laughed at his own joke, but seeing my troubled face, trailed off awkwardly.

I thanked Danvers for his time and promised to bring him over to the Belknap place, once it was in a fit state to receive guests. He asked to keep the samples that I had brought him, so that he might do a little more digging in some of the university’s older texts as time allowed. I was grateful that my friend had showed interest in the curious plant and yet at the same time, the information he had uncovered only served to raise more questions. Why would anyone bother to bring such an unlovely, seemingly purposeless plant over the ocean? Monk’s Hawthorn, he called it. A strange name.

* * *

BY August the house was in a decent enough state that I could entertain, and I wasted no time in inviting a few select acquaintances to join me in a light supper. With fresh floorboards, newly papered walls, thick rugs and worn but comfortable furniture scavenged from a variety of house sales and antique stores, the refurbished dining room, living room and study were all handsomely fitted out and I felt a quiet pride as I welcomed my fellows from the university into the hallway.

The evening passed most pleasantly, with the good food and illicit brandy serving to loosen all our tongues a little more than normal. Frank opinions on absent colleagues flowed, often followed by raucous laughter, and the atmosphere of comradeship filled me with conviviality.

As night fell, my guests made their farewells and departed, leaving just myself and Danvers, lounging in well-worn armchairs. He brought up the subject of the shrub.

“So where’s that damned strange bush of yours, old man? I’d like to get a look at it with my own two eyes.”

Emboldened by the occasion and not a little brandy, I rose to my feet and led him out onto the north side of the house where, flashlight in hand, I indicated the dark mass of the shrub a little downhill from us. Some trace of hesitance lingered though, and I made no move to venture any closer in the twilight. But Danvers paid this no heed and stepped forward, peering into the gloom.

“Come on and bring the flashlight up. I can hardly see a thing.” He gestured to me without looking over his shoulder as he approached the shrub, cursing once as he stumbled slightly on the uneven ground.

Reluctantly, I followed, the carefree mood of my fellow lending me courage, though I dared not admit the unnameable fear I had begun to feel whenever I drew close to this dreary patch.

In the darkness, the shrub was an indistinct mass, its upper and outer edges trailing off into the night so that it occupied my vision entirely. Slowly, I brought the beam of the flashlight up to illuminate the thicket rearing up mere feet before us. The great curve of its shorn stems, trimmed so enthusiastically by myself not so long before, gave it the impression of a mighty wave, frozen in the instant before it would come crashing down upon our heads.

Oblivious to my disquiet, Danvers began to poke about in the nearest part of the shrub, urging me to bring the light in closer. He had an academic’s natural inclination toward lecturing, and I drew close to him, the better catch his muttered commentary.

“Hm, yes, definitely crataegus monica, as we presumed,” He had twisted off a few twigs and was examining the nut-pods and thorns up close. “It’s a hardy, if unlovely, strain. Doesn’t need much in the way of tending, just the bare minimum of sun and water, and really any sort of soil will do, which is just as well. Look at the earth here!”

He stooped to scratch around at the edge of the growth, scooping up a handful of dry chalky dust which he proceeded to rub between his fingers. “Completely barren, not an ounce of nutrients. This shrub is probably the only thing that could grow here, given the poor conditions. But given the size of it, it must have been planted decades again, certainly last century. Hello, what’s that?”

Danvers, still squatting down, peered deeper into the thicket as the beam of my flashlight wavered around. He gestured for me to hold it steady and leaned in, his nose almost brushing the brittle foliage, unconsciously mimicking my selfsame actions from my own first encounter with the shrubbery. I made to hold him back, but my hand hesitated inches from his shoulder, and with some embarrassment I shoved my hand into a pocket to keep it from shaking.

“Farley, there’s something deeper in, can you see? Blasted hard to see without more light.” His hand emerged from the thorns and held it out, palm up, in mute request for the flashlight to be passed to him. I complied and now I was left in darkness as fractured illumination waved around inside the hedged growth.

He had his entire head and shoulders deep in the thorny growth now, the mass of entangled stems quivering and rustling as he used his hands to pry them apart, straining for a clearer view. From my vantage point behind, I could see nothing but Danvers’ rear end, protruding almost comically from the wall of vegetation in the blackness.

“Danvers, perhaps –” I began, my inexplicable disquiet overcoming my usual reticence, but my colleague didn’t hear my soft words, such was the thrashing noise he generated in his efforts to crawl in. His body wriggled further in, leaving only the soles of his shoes clear of the shrub, and then even they disappeared.

“Yes, I can definitely make something out. It’s a few more yards in. Must have been swallowed up as the crataegus grew over the decades.” His voice was muffled now, not just by the sound of his own movement, but as if the plant matter itself was soaking up his voice. He sounded much further off than the scant distance he had crawled in, as evidenced by the fragmentary flashlight flickering inside.

“By God it’s chilly,” he muttered, “when did it get so cold?” Despite my nervous state, the August evening air was quite pleasant where I stood, but I recalled my own sense of chill within the shrub and again my agitation grew.

“Danvers, I really think you should come out now. The thorns are quite sharp. Let’s leave this for the morning.”

“Nonsense,” came the reply as if from far away, “I’m almost there now. It’s probably nothing but an old tree stump or –”

His voice cut off as abruptly as the thrashing of the growth caused by his passage. I felt a wave of cold envelope me, as if it were the outbreath of some frosty spirit. I heard Danvers mutter something indistinctly, though it sounded like a question. Then he screamed.

* * *

I remember little of what took place immediately after that. I think perhaps I must have pulled Danvers out, given the many cuts and scratches over my face and hands and my torn clothing. Somehow I must have overcome the atavistic instinct to flee the second he began that terrible screaming, and had instead thrust myself into the shrub in his wake, guided by his shrieks and the madly careening beam of the flashlight. Though this is all surmise, for in truth I recall precious little until I had dragged his poor form out onto the dusty earth and continued to heave his weight all the way up and into the house, where I collapsed panting and drenched in perspiration.

Danvers lay in a terrible condition on the hallway rug. He was covered in blood from long, deep scratches inflicted by the bush’s thorny stems, much as I myself had received, and looked ghastly pale under his wounds. His skin was cold as ice to the touch and his breath came fast and shallow, misting as he exhaled. But worst of all was his face. Eyes that did not blink bulged fit to pop, and his jaw hung agape in a rictus of utmost horror. He would not speak, nor did he respond to me in any way.

Eventually I summoned the strength to lurch over to the newly installed telephone in the study. I summoned help from the faculty’s physician across town and before long help had arrived to spirit the stricken Danvers and myself away to the university hospital for treatment.

When pressed to explain the source of the calamity, I found myself unable to answer with anything but the vaguest of replies. Perhaps I had been afflicted with a degree of the hysterical muteness that had so struck my poor colleague. A natural reaction to the bloody shock of the evening, perhaps. My feeble response that he had ‘fallen downhill into some bushes’ which I had then pulled him out of hardly did justice to the extent of his injuries, nor did it explain the awful state of shell-shock that had been induced in the botanist. But evidently my own muttered replies and haunted expression were enough to suggest that I was in no fit state to answer any further questions this night, and I was duly given a sedative. Before long I slipped into a mercifully dreamless sleep.

* * *

I was declared fit to leave the hospital the next day, superficially battered but nothing that wouldn’t heal in a week or two, or so the doctor assured me. Danvers however was a different matter. His wounds too had been treated and his severe blood loss addressed, but his underlying state of mind was little better come morning. When they allowed me in to see him, the man appeared to have aged ten years overnight. His face was haggard and sunken, his hair thin and starting to gray. It was as if that damn shrubbery had sucked the life out of him, much as it must have done to the very soil on which it grew.

Mercifully though, he had regained some semblance of his wits, though he still did not speak. His eyes, though retaining that wide haunted stare, at least blinked now, and my friend obviously registered my presence at his side. As I looked on him with dismay, his lips began to move.

I could hear nothing, and had to bend in close.

“Book,” he whispered in my ear, little more than a quavering breath, “fetch… book.”

Listening carefully, I extracted from him the name of some old botany text which I promised to have sent over from his rooms. I hoped that returning to the familiar pages of his beloved subject would give him some peace of mind and so speed his recovery. For my own part, I foresaw no restoration of equanimity until I had dealt with that loathsome shrub on the northern slope of the Belknap place. I would not spend another night there with that malevolent growth squatting on the hillside. I would have it expunged down to its roots.

* * *

THEY took some coaxing, but eventually I was able to engage the Rudges to destroy the shrubbery. At first they flat out refused, then, when I pressed them, they suggested a ridiculous estimate for the work; an estimate which I met, heedless of the cost, much to their surprise. Finally, with the additional offer of a sizeable quantity of alcohol, they grudgingly agreed to the work, on the strict understanding that they would be done and away from my property long before sundown. I shook each of their meaty hands gratefully and led them up the hill to begin immediately.

They worked slowly but steadily, urged on by my constant prodding. I dared not leave the brothers to it for fear of them slacking and leaving the job half-done. I shivered inwardly at the thought of being left alone with that darkling shrub come nightfall. I would well be rid of it, and already began sketching out plans in my head to replace it with a pleasant lawn edged with hardy but decorative native flowers.

As the brutish Rudge brothers continued to hack away at the great bush with saw and axe, I carted away the refuse to the heap of trimmings that had been accumulating all summer. By now it was a great mound of dead vegetation, tinderbox-dry and well suited to my plans to dispose of the wicked thicket once and for all. I deposited load after barrow-load on top, piling it high with twigs and stems from the shrub. In the bright daylight, the lengths of thorns and nut-pods looked quite mundane, little more than old brown twigs. One could almost believe there was nothing strange, nothing malevolent at all about this shrub, this Monk’s Hawthorn. Perhaps I had imagined much of what I had felt, the victim of my own fanciful conjurations. The chill could have been just the coolness of the shade after all, those mischievous faces in the nuts a mere trick of the human mind’s ability to give meaning to the random fruits of nature.

But Danvers’ screams, and his face – no, I could not dismiss those memories so easily. Something foul was at work here, and that shrub was the rotten heart of it. Academic I may be, but a deep primitive sense, such as might have guided our forefathers to shun certain remote places and bolt their doors against queer visitors after dark, told me that I was right; evil had bedded down in the gardens of the Belknap place, and if I was to make it truly my home, then it would have to be torn out, and burnt down to the roots.

As midday moved into afternoon, I saw that the Rudges had done well. The shrub had already lost a good portion of its bulk on one side as they hacked and hewed it down. I realized that at this rate we would have the heart of the damn thing cut down well before evening came, and resolved get the bonfire going at once.

* * *

THE heap crackled merrily, blazing with a glad intensity as it consumed the dead off-cuts. Eagerly, I shoveled more into the flames and marveled at how quickly it ignited, yellow tongues of fire fairly racing along the length of each stem, the nut-pods blackening and popping open with tiny pops of air, the thorns resisting longer but inevitably succumbing to the furnace. I stood back and admired the bonfire with satisfaction, then turned to once more urge the Rudges in their work.

To my dismay, I saw that they had stopped work and were sat down some distance from the remaining shrub, which now looked as if some giant had taken a great bite out of it. They mopped perspiration from their heavy brows, and made it clear in simple terms that refreshment would be welcome about now, as agreed. Irritated by this cessation of their work but powerless to budge them until I complied with the terms of our agreement, I went inside to fetch some cheap bottles of beer from the bottom drawer of my desk in the study. When I returned outside, they fairly snatched the drinks from me, cracked lips smacking with thirst. Slugging back mouthfuls of the stuff, Japhet assured me that he and his brother would now certainly be able to get the job done in time, and the two resumed their chopping with gusto.

As I stepped back inside to refresh myself, I started at an abrupt trilling sound from the study. It was the telephone. So caught up was I in the great undertaking at hand, it had taken me quite by surprise. I snatched it up and answered. It was Danvers.

“Farley, listen quickly, I haven’t much time.” His voice was weak but insistent, and I heard much of my friend’s old self in his tone, though he was clearly agitated.

“Are you out of hospital already?” I inquired, “When I saw you this morning I was sure the doctors would have you confined to bed for at least a week.”

“I’m at the university library. The doctors wouldn’t let me leave but I had to find something out.” There was an energy to his voice, an insistence as he rushed through the words. “Listen, that book you had sent over earlier, it was an old compendium of plants and their uses, dating back centuries, as much folklore as botany. I’d never give it much credence before, but the shrub, what I saw…”

He trailed off, and I could hear another noise on the telephone line, thumping and muffled shouts, as if from behind a door. The thumping mirrored the steady chock-chocking of an axe outside, and I glanced out of the study window to see the Rudges deep within the shrub, great swathes of chopped brush piled behind them. Soon they would have the heart of that bleak bush cut out and piled on the still crackling bonfire.

I didn’t ask Danvers what he saw, fearful of what he might say, but instead pressed him about the book.

“Monk’s Hawthorn, that’s just one of its names. It has other, older names, going back to the middle ages. Names like Witchbinder.”

I didn’t understand.

“The book says that Witchbinder is a poor plant, bearing neither fruit nor flower, save for its hard nut-pods that have faces like old men. But it is a long-lived and sturdy shrub, and its densely packed thorns make it ideal as a sort of hedge-enclosure.”

“For penning livestock, you mean?” I couldn’t see where he was leading with this lecture, but clearly there was a purpose, for he began to speak ever faster. I could hear the banging on the line getting louder, and I was sure I heard voices shouting his name.

“No Farley, you don’t understand. The Witchbinder was planted by folks in the old days to keep out evil. They grew it as a safeguard against… things.” The emphasis on the last word was unmissable, and again I couldn’t help but wonder what it was he had seen last night. “Witches, devils, creatures from the dawn of time – the Witchbinder kept them out. And in some cases…” Again he trailed off with a catch in his voice. I heard something click on the other end of the line. Something metallic, mechanical. “Sometimes they planted it on top of things, Farley, things that couldn’t be killed, only trapped.”

In an instant I understood what Danvers meant. The truth of the shrubbery.

“I worked out the growth rate of the shrub, Farley. They must have planted it over two hundred years ago. Two hundred years it’s been there. The shrub’s not an evil growth, it’s a prison. And the prisoner – it’s been trapped inside all that time – not dead, waiting! Waiting to be freed!”

In horror, I turned my head to look out the study window once again. The Rudges were no longer in view, and the chopping sound had ceased.

“I – I saw it. In there. It looked at me, Farley, looked right at me. My God, what a terrible thing.”

The shouting on the line was a little clearer now. They were calling Danvers’ name, pleading with him to open the door.

“I’m sorry. I can’t keep seeing it in my head. I just can’t,” his voice was so close to the telephone now. “Whatever you do, do not go into that shrub. Leave it alone, leave it alone. Goodbye old man.”

There was a loud crack on the line, followed by a heavy thud. I dropped the receiver.

Stunned, I looked outside. I could see something lying over the great pile of trimmings which had formed the mighty shrub’s bulk, its armor, its shield between the world of men and things that should not be. I realized I was looking at the body of Gomer Rudge. He appeared to be missing his lower half. Of his brother, there was no sign.

Numbly, I saw that the earth by Rudge had been disturbed. It was torn up, as if by something heavy and jagged, and formed a filthy dirt-strewn track or a trail of sorts, leading from the deepest recess of the shrub, across the lawn and over the pink-and-white patio to the house. I let out a shuddering breath. The window pane misted.

There was a scratching at the study door behind me.

END

The Fright Before Christmas

I was commissioned by the splendid Craig Andrews, who runs the Orcs in the Webbe gaming site, to write something for his online 2014 Advent Calendar.

Rather than write a 7TV or a short story, I was inspired by the recent Fighting Fantasy Fest in honour of Steve Jackson and Ian Livingstone, to write my own gamebook, based on a Department X episode from the 7TV Summer Special. 

Needless to say, my initial plan to write an adventure spanning multiple locations across the fictional town of Hoddleston and culminating in a confrontation with the nefarious Dr Argo got somewhat out of hand. The first two locations took up 10,000 words on their own, so I wrapped things up with a suitable end of level boss fight, but left it open for the rest of the adventure, should I get the time and energy to finish it off.

No dice required, just a pencil and paper to keep track of a couple of resources and some wise (or lucky) decisions. Have a go. 

* * *

The Fright Before Christmas

Choose Your Own Adventure

In this game, you are Tweedy Mattison, a brilliant, if eccentric, scientific advisor to the British Department for Extraordinary Affairs, also known as Department X. Your inquisitive mind and flair for solving baffling mysteries is matched only by your ability to get into danger time and again. Fortunately, you are frequently partnered with resourceful police officer May Killan, the perfect person to watch your back in a fight.

You have only one score to keep track of in this game, LIFE. Certain situations will cause you to lose LIFE, such as fights or accidents. You start the game with 6 LIFE. Make a note of your current LIFE at all times. When it drops to zero or below, your adventure is over.

You will be able to call on your friend May Killan to help you in combat ONCE only in the game, using an old-fashioned police whistle. Choose wisely when to call her.

Gadgets

As an agent of Department X, you are equipped with a handful of advanced gadgets which may prove useful in the game. Select any two gadgets from the list below. Each may be used ONCE only.

Air Mask                            
A tiny mouthpiece and oxygen cylinder, enabling you to breathe underwater or withstand poisonous gas.

Climbing Suckers           
Small but powerful suckers which attach to your hands and feet, enabling you to climb sheer surfaces.

Infra-Red Spectacles      
Specially treated goggles which enable you to see in the dark.

Mini Laser                         
A powerful laser the size of a pen, enabling you to cut through solid steel.

Photonic Spanner         
This handy tool is excellent for opening locks and disrupting electronic devices.

Wristwatch Buzzsaw      
A small circular saw built into an innocuous timepiece, enabling you to free yourself from the sturdiest of restraints.

Now read on to begin your adventure...

1

It is Christmas Eve, early afternoon. You are working in your laboratory at Department X headquarters in central London, immersed in your research. Just as you are sure that you're on the brink of a discovery which will turn all of Einstein's stuffy theories on their head, the door to the lab opens. In marches General Gordon, the department's military chief.

"Mattison, I need a word."

His moustache fairly bristles with impatience.

To immediately stop your experiment and respond to the general, go to 69.

To make the general wait until you have completed your experiment, go to 25.

2

Not taking your eyes off the beautiful but deadly advancing Femdroid, you back pedal as fast as you can and fish out your old police whistle. Blowing hard, you hope that your friend May Killan is within earshot. You continue to crash backward through the clothes stands, sending dresses and tops flying everywhere. The Femdroid continues to advance at a horrible menacing pace, its head constantly swivelling to keep you in sight. Then with a thump, you realise you've backed yourself into a changing room, with nowhere to run!

But just then something charges into the Femdroid from one side, sending it clattering into a rack of shoes. It's Constable May Killan, looking a little out of breath.

"Girl trouble again Tweedy?" she jokes.

"Oh you know me, some women can't keep their hands off me."

May turns back to the Femdroid which is beginning to regain its feet amid the pile of shoes. Its pretty but blank face plate has come loose, revealing a pair of glowing eyeballs and an inhuman metallic skull covered in circuitry. The reckless police woman leaps toward the robot, stooping to grab a high heeled shoe in one hand. As the Femdroid swings a steel arm at her, May brings the heel of the shoe down hard into the robot's exposed face, embedding it deep in the skull. With a flash of sparks, the Femdroid goes immediately rigid, the light in its eyeballs dimming to black.

May turns back to you and adjusts her uniform.

"That shoe looked like her size. I hope I can trust you stay out of trouble from now on. So if you'll excuse me, I have to report this to the station."

She goes out onto the street to use her radio.

Go to 27.

3

You clamber to your feet in the darkened storage area in the rear of the department store. A service light on one wall serves to dimly illuminate the high stacks of goods piled in towering rows . You move slowly and cautiously along the ends of the aisles, looking for a way to explore further.

Then you hear something! A thudding, clumping sound getting closer and closer. It's coming from one of the further aisles.

To wait and see what's making the noise, go to 10.

To turn and run the other way, go to 64.

4

If ever there is a time to call for help, now is it! You turn and run out of the grotto, the Santanaut hot on your heels, its eyes crackling with power.

"HO HO HO!"

Ducking round behind a stack of jigsaw puzzles, you fish out your old police whistle and blow hard, hoping that your friend May Killan is within earshot. The Santanaut sends the stack of boxes flying with a single swipe, showering you with small fragments of interlocking pictures.

As you brace for its attack, a figure in black and white streaks past you, driving a truncheon deep into one of the robot's electric eyes, which fizzes and goes dark. Constable May Killan turns to face you, puffing from exertion

"Evening Tweedy. Ah, a killer Santa robot, I see," she declares.

"Excellent deduction, Constable May. If you'd be so kind as to finish him off?"

The Santanaut compensates for its partial blindness and strikes at May with a devastating backhand, which she partially dodges. She replies with a spinning kick to the monster's side which does as much damage to her foot as it does the robot's body. May yelps in pain. You distract the Santanaut as best you can, tangling its arms and head in several springy slinkies, and receive a glancing blow for your trouble.

But your distraction was sufficient for May to rally! Seizing a golf club from a sporting goods rack, she batters the robot about the head several times, raising sparks and roars of indignation. Then finally, she thrusts the steel club deep into the Santanaut's chest, fatally short-circuiting it and getting a nasty electric shock herself.

"Bad Santa," she cries weakly .

May slumps to the floor and passes out.

Lose 1 LIFE.

If your LIFE is still over zero, go to 71.

If not, your adventure ends here.

5

You rest for a while on the gantry, simply lying on your back while you catch your breath. At length, the Argonauts below seem to lose interest and stomp off into the dark recesses of the storage area. Brushing yourself down, you climb to your feet and explore the gantry. There is a door at either end leading into the store proper. One door has a sign saying Sports while the other says Toys.

To open the Sports door, go to 70.

To open the Toys door, go to 37.

6

A flurry of tiny plastic snowflakes fills the air, blinding and choking you.

"HO HO HO!" booms the Santanaut as you struggle for air.

Lose 1 LIFE.

If your LIFE is still over zero, go to 68.

If not, your adventure ends here.

7

You walk over to the radio and turn it up just as the music ends and an advert plays. A woman's voice chirps in a sing-song tone:

What does every kid want for Christmas? Why, their own AutoMate of course! AutoMate - the radio controlled toy from Autolycos Games! It moves! It beeps! It's AutoMate, the electronic pet that's not just for Christmas! Buy yours now!

You turn the radio off, but the woman's voice is irritatingly insistent and lodges in the back of your head as you ponder your next move.

There is a tiny noise behind you.

Go to 63.

8

The boy relaxes a little.

"How'd you know my name? No-one knows I'm in here, except -"

"Except your sister Elizabeth," you finish the boy's sentence, "She asked me to find you. She's really worried, Peter."

Peter beckons you closer and whispers in a conspiratorial voice.

"Course she is, but I had to investigate when that shop assistant got killed, didn't I? I'd seen her sneaking stuff off the shelf and into her bag just last week. And guess where she worked? In the toy department right here," he declares with triumph.

"I thought maybe she was killed for stealing, but once I sneaked in here I saw robots all over the place! I think it's an android invasion! I've been keeping still and hoping none of them find me until I can leg it."

You show Peter a safe route out and tell him to find his sister outside. Reluctantly he allows you to take over the investigation. As he leaves, he gives you some parting advice.

"Look out for Santa's breath!"

If you are prompted later to follow Peter's advice, add 10 to the section you are at and go there.

With some trepidation, you make for the toy department.

Go to 37.

9

You shuffle backward quickly as the Robominion crawls out toward you, and fish out your old police whistle. Blowing hard, you hope that your friend May Killan is within earshot. You pull down boxes of toys before you, trying to keep the horrid dead robot man away from your feet. It numbly clambers over every object you throw down and you find yourself in the middle of an aisle with nothing more in reach.

But just then a foot wearing a sturdy policewoman's shoe delivers a mighty kick to the AutoMate toy clamped to the Robominion's face, dislodging it and sending it straight to the back of a child-size football net across the aisle. It's Constable May Killan, just in the nick of time.

"One-Nil to me!" she grins, and gives you a hand up.

"An excellent second half substitution, if I do say so myself," you reply.

Freed from the AutoMate control, the dead man has collapsed where it is. May turns to the AutoMate itself as it struggles to free itself from the tangled netting. She casually walks over and bashes the robot several times on the head until something inside it cracks.

"What a nasty looking thing. I hope there aren’t any more of them about. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to report this to the station."

She goes out onto the street to use her radio.

Go to 17.

10

You straighten up and prepare to meet whatever is making the thumping sound. As it gets closer you can tell it sounds like heavy footsteps, as if made by someone wearing heavy, metal-tipped boots.

A large figure rounds the corner of the next row, pauses, and then turns to face you. It is a bulky humanoid made entirely of metal in the shape of an ancient warrior with a crested helmet and electric eyes. An ARGONAUT!

Just as you begin to form a plan, the Argonaut strikes out with one steel fist and delivers a crushing blow to your all-too human frame. You collapse to the floor, cursing your over-confidence. As you lose consciousness, you see the Argonaut reaching down for you…

Your adventure ends here.

11

You bound up the powered-off escalator and reach the first floor of the department store, which is dimly lit by a moonlight sparkling through a skylight above.

To the left is the sports department. You can see racks of football kit, bicycles and other equipment. To the right is the toy department. You can see shelves of games, dolls, magic tricks and puzzles.

To explore the sports department, go to 70.

To explore the toy department, go to 37.

12

"Sorry, little fellow, 'He who turns and runs away' and all that."

You spin smartly around and rush for the door, hoping to put some distance between yourself and the Roborodent. The high-pitched whine behind you abruptly changes in pitch again as you vault the counter and reach for the door knob. There is a sudden impact on your back and you stumble slightly. You can feel dozens of tiny metal feet digging into your jacket, clamping themselves securely to you.

As you reach up to brush the Roborodent, you feel a sudden sharp jab in your neck, followed instantly by a burning sensation. You fall to the floor crushing the horrible thing beneath you, immobilising it with your own body weight. As consciousness departs, you can only hope that your friend May will find you in time…

Your adventure ends here.

13

"Always worth checking all the angles before barging in through the front," you remind yourself.

Some way down the high street, a side road leads round to a loading bay at the rear of the department store. Large tire tracks through the slush show where delivery lorries have been loading and unloading goods all day. Massive bay doors are even more securely locked than the front doors though.

There is a sound, like something briefly moving, behind some big rubbish bins in the shadows of the loading bay.

To investigate the sound by the bins, go to 45.

To use the infra-red spectacles if you have them, go to 65.

To think better of investigating the sound and return to the high street, go to 67.

14

Santa's Grotto resembles a tiny ice cave made of plastic sheeting and polystyrene ice sculptures. Tiny Christmas lights flicker on and off, and drifts of artificial snow cover the floor and every flat surface. At the back of the grotto, seated on a large wooden chair, is a life-size dummy of Santa Claus, his face frozen in a jolly expression. One arm extends round the back of a small stool next to him.

"The skinflints couldn't even afford a real Santa," you muse, "But I bet that stool's had a few hundred children sitting on it all the same."

Heaped around the seats are dozens and dozens of identical cardboard boxes. The printed picture on the front of each shows a colourful AutoMate toy robot with big friendly eyes, bearing the legend It beeps! It moves! For kids of all ages! (batteries not included).

"That's an awful lot of AutoMates. But I wonder how many more have already been sold?"

To warily search the grotto for clues, go to 55.

To follow Peter's advice, add the special number to this section number and go there.

15

Eventually arriving in Hoddleston, you make your way through snowy streets bustling with people heading home after work, to the Department X field office which also doubles as the local post office. As is to be expected at this hour on Christmas Eve, the shop is closed up, but you have your special Department X key with you, and you open the front door with a cheery tinkle of the bell.

The post office is deserted of course, but you can hear a radio playing in the back room. You call out for the agent but there is no reply.

Walking round the counter and into the back room, you find the agent, slumped on the floor! A drying pool of blood and a strange puncture wound on the back of his neck tell you that he has been dead for at least an hour. And not just dead, murdered.

Go to 30.

16

Not taking your eyes off the quivering Roborodent before you, you fish out your old police whistle and blow hard, hoping that your friend May Killan is within earshot. The sound seems to distract the Roborodent for a second or two, affording you the chance to scramble backward toward the door of the post office.

But the creature seems to recover its electronic wits and streaks forward at speed, its dozens of tiny metallic feet propelling it across the floor. As you brace for its attack, the door behind you bursts open, the bell tinkling manically. Constable May Killan bursts in, truncheon in hand, almost colliding with you.

"Oh hello May, nice of you to call by. Need some stamps?" you quip.

May rolls her eyes.

"What trouble are you in now, you - oh!"

She sees the Roborodent winding up to attack, and shoves you to one side. The creature seems to have assessed that she is the greater threat, and focuses it camera-eyes on her. With a high-pitched squeal it springs forward, syringe-like proboscis glistening wickedly.

But May is quicker still and lets her martial arts training take over. She spins neatly on one heel, bringing her truncheon up like a rounders bat. As the Roborodent launches itself at where she was just a moment before, May comes around behind it and delivers a sturdy crack across its head section with her police-issue baton. The creature's head shatters like an old alarm clock, spilling gears and electronics across the floor. It is quite dead.

May dusts herself down and helps you to your feet.

"No, that's fine, don't thank me. I just hope that the worst of it's over. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to report this to the station."

She goes out onto the street to use her radio.

Go to 39.

17

You stoop down to examine the remains of the murderous AutoMate toy. As you suspected, its construction is based on the Roborodent you encountered before, but the design has been adapted to enable the creature not just to attack people, but to latch onto a human being and transform them into a Robominion - a half human, half robot puppet!

"And this has been sold to thousands of children as a Christmas present!" you realise with horror, "But who would do such a thing?"

You locate a small receiver/transmitter buried within the AutoMate's head section and make a few simple adjustments.

"If there's anything else using the same frequency nearby, I should get a ping… ah!"

You can hear a short chorus of muffled beeps from somewhere inside the nearby Santa's Grotto.

Go to 14.

18

You take a step back to give the girl somewhere to run and she takes the chance. Scrambling past you, she stamps on your foot and turns to blow an impudent raspberry.

Lose 1 LIFE.

Then she runs off round the side of the department store screaming again. You can make out her calling for someone called Peter as she disappears into the snowy night.

There is nothing for it but to return to the front doors on the high street.

Go to 67.

19

Of course! This is just the job for the mini laser. With some effort, you fish the laser out of a pocket, even though that means having to release the Roborodent, which drops to the floor and quickly rights itself. In the moments it takes to refocus its camera-eyes, you have sighted the pen-sized device on the robotic assassin. The Roborodent squeals and tenses to attack once more.

But with a flip of a button, you activate the laser! A bright, ruby-red ray of coherent light immediately strikes the creature, scoring a deep groove in its metallic carapace. A hiss of evaporating hydraulic fluid leaks out and the Roborodent flips onto its side, spinning around and whining. Eventually it runs out of power and falls still. You give it a cautious nudge with your foot. It is quite dead.

Cross the mini laser off from your list of gadgets.

Go to 39.

20

"That ain't my name! I'm scarpering!"

The boy starts to run, skirting past you as he makes for the escalator.

He disappears downstairs, leaving you with nowhere left to explore but the toy department.

Go to 37.

21

You make a thorough exploration of the clothing department, as best you can in the darkness. There is little more to discover here.

"Apart from some truly amazing Christmas cardigans. Look at this one - it's got bobbly snowmen on it!"

However, you do examine a customer information desk by the tills. On the board behind the desk is a display proclaiming Meet the Staff! accompanied by photos of each shop assistant grouped by department. You notice that there is a gap where a picture should be in the toy section.

"Did someone leave recently... or did they have a nasty accident?"

You decide to venture upstairs to the sport and toy departments.

Go to 11.

22

You instinctively slide backward on your bottom as the Robominion crawls on its hands and feet towards you, its dead eyes hidden behind the AutoMate clamped to its face. With one foot you kick at it but the robotic corpse fixes itself on your foot and begins to claw at your shoe leather. You shake your foot violently but it has latched onto you firmly.

With nothing else to do, you hop upright with your free foot and stamp down hard, smashing the Robominion into the floor even as it crawls up your leg, grasping up at you. At last, something inside the animated body breaks, and it relaxes its grip. It drops off your foot and lies quite still on the floor.

Lose 2 LIFE.

If your LIFE is still over zero, go to 17.

If not, your adventure ends here.

23

You confidently walk over to where the boy is pretending to be a dummy, convinced that there is no threat here. But the moment you approach him unannounced, he lets out a gasp of breath and starts to run, bashing into you as he makes for the escalator.

"You ain't going to catch me, you robominion!"

He disappears downstairs, leaving you with nowhere left to explore but the toy department.

Lose 1 LIFE.

If your LIFE is still over zero, go to 37.

If not, your adventure ends here.

24

Recalling Peter's advice to beware Santa's breath, you choose to ignore the tempting pile of AutoMates and fixate on the silent Santa model sitting before you.

"Hmm, you seem quiet enough, old chap," you ponder, "But what happens if I do… this?"

To test a theory, you snatch up a polystyrene ice sculpture and place it on the small stool next to the model. There is a sudden whirring sound as Santa powers up. With crushing inevitability, you realise that the Santa dummy is more than a simple model - it is a robotic SANTANAUT! The creature's eyes light up and it rises to its feet with surprising speed for something so solid.

"HAVE YOU BEEN… A GOOD BOY?" its recorded voice booms.

Rather than respond with one of your usual quips, you take a deep breath and stay silent.

The Santanaut fixes you with a blazing robotic stare.

"NO! YOU HAVE NOT!"

And with that, the robot's great chest expands and contracts as it breathes out, expelling a choking blizzard of artificial snow! You congratulate yourself for taking the precaution to hold your breath, without which you would surely have choked on the thick flurry of flakes.

Go to 68.

25

Gesturing to the general to wait, you turn back to your experiment, adjusting dials and flicking switches, making notes and tapping your nose thoughtfully with a pencil. The general huffs with increasing impatience.

"Damn it man, your blasted tinkering can wait! This is important."

You complete your experiment and place your goggles up on your forehead.

"Sorry, General," you try to mollify the red-faced soldier, "I was on the verge of isolating the frequency of a theoretical dimension vibrating at right-angles to our own. The implications are simply…"

You trail off at the cold look of indifference on General Gordon's face. He gets down to business.

"Pay attention man. One of our field agents has been investigating a spate of inexplicable accidents in the Hoddleston area and has requested scientific assistance. Ordinarily I'd send Dr Solomon - he is our best man after all - but as he's already investigating those reports of alien activity off the coast of Scotland, I'm looking to you to do the best you can in his place. Think you can handle it?"

"Anything old Solomon can do, I can do twice as well in half the time, General. Just let me grab my equipment and I'll be on my way."

"Good. I've already alerted your police contact, Constable Killan. She'll be in the area to provide assistance should you run into any trouble. Now get going. Your train leaves in thirty minutes."

And with that, you board a lumbering train to the sleepy town of Hoddleston, as the wintry snow drifts to earth in the late afternoon light.

Go to 15.

26

"Let's have a look under here and see if anything's fallen down."

You get right down on the floor to investigate the space under the bottom-most empty shelf. It's too dark for you to see anything in there. You might just have to stick your hand in and feel about.

To use the infra-red spectacles if you have them, go to 43.

To stick your hand into the darkness under the shelf, go to 58.

27

Surveying the carnage of the clothing department, you shudder to think what other horrors might lurk here. First that Roborodent at the post office and now the Femdroid!

"There's some unfriendly technology loose in this town tonight. Don’t they know it's Christmas?"

The Femdroid bears similar hallmarks of construction to the Roborodent that killed the agent. Clearly the work of the same hand. But to what purpose?

"What didn't someone want the agent to find, and what don't they want me uncovering here?"

To finish your exploration of the clothing department, go to 21.

To head upstairs to the sport and toy departments before you bump into any other Femdroids, go to 11.

28

The air mask, of course! You quickly fish it out and slip the stripped-down breathing apparatus over your mouth and nose, drawing in gulps of much needed oxygen.

"HO HO HO!" booms the Santanaut.

Cross the air mask off from your list of gadgets.

Go to 68.

29

You move through the racks and stands of the clothing department. In the darkness, it feels more like a maze than a shop floor, and you struggle to keep your bearings.

"How in the blazes am I supposed to find a crucial clue like this?" you mutter.

Rounding a tall stack of dresses, you come face to face with someone! With a start, you can't help but let out a small yelp.

The face before you is female and quite pretty. But she does not move.

"Of course, it's just a mannequin!" you chuckle, finally noticing the model's blank plastic face and lifeless glass eyes. "Still, just to be on the safe side…"

To give the mannequin an experimental tap on its hollow head, go to 52.

To move quickly past the mannequin and continue to explore, go to 21.

30

The body of the murdered Department X agent lies at your feet. His work desk is covered in newspaper clippings and police reports, while a radio plays softly on a nearby filing cabinet.

To search the dead agent's body, go to 57.

To examine the papers on the work desk, go to 44.

To turn up the radio and listen, go to 7.

31

Of course! This is just the job for the mini laser. Not taking your eyes off the crawling Robominion, you back pedal as fast as you can and fish the pen-sized laser out of a pocket. The dead body with the AutoMate face makes a crude lunge for you, and you manage to roll to one side as it crashes into a dolls house.

But with a flip of a button, you activate the laser! A bright, ruby-red ray of coherent light immediately strikes the AutoMate itself, cutting it completely in half and dropping off the dead man's face. For a few seconds the top half of the toy robot drags itself toward you while the back half lurches about. At length, both halves of the menace lose power and go dead.

Cross the mini laser off from your list of gadgets.

Go to 17.

32

"Hey, toro," you taunt the strange little creature as you slip off your jacket and use it as a matador would against a bull. A tiny mechanical bull. The high-pitched whine behind you abruptly changes in pitch again and the Roborodent springs up from the floor toward you. But you manage to block its leap with the sturdy tweed fabric of the jacket and bundle it up tightly.

It struggles and scratches incessantly as you wrestle with the thing. The wicked proboscis tipped with toxin jabs up through the jacket just inches from your face and then retracts, like a scorpion's sting. This thing is small and weak, but deadly!

To finish it off with brute force, go to 53.

To use the mini laser if you have it, go to 19.

To use the wristwatch buzzsaw if you have it, go to 60.

33

Desperately, you fling yourself up a pile of crates, boxes and worryingly loose shelving, trying to gain some altitude. A metal gauntlet snakes out from below and barely misses your foot as you haul yourself up higher. You take a moment to look down and see the Argonauts directly below you. Unable to climb themselves, they paw at the air with snapping, hydraulic hands.

You are safe for the moment, but the climb has taken its toll on your aching muscles and you struggle to hang on and avoid falling into the robotic hands of the Argonauts…

Lose 1 LIFE.

If your LIFE is still over zero, go to 61.

If not, your adventure ends here.

34

"No point in wasting time and valuable equipment on this one," you declare, and apply a sharp elbow to one of the glassed doors of the department store. With a crash and a shower of shards it smashes, tearing your arm slightly.

Lose 1 LIFE.

You reach in and open the door easily, and slip inside before the few remaining people on the street at this hour notice you.

Go to 59.

35

With shock, you realise that the Santa dummy is more than a simple model - it is a robotic SANTANAUT! The creature's eyes light up and it rises to its feet with surprising speed for something so solid.

"HAVE YOU BEEN… A GOOD BOY?" its recorded voice booms.

"Me? Oh I should say so. No complaints on that score," you blather, considering your options.

The Santanaut fixes you with a blazing robotic stare.

"NO! YOU HAVE NOT!"

And with that, the robot's great chest expands and contracts as it breathes out, expelling a choking blizzard of artificial snow!

To use the air mask if you have it, go to 28.

Otherwise go to 6.

36

Arriving in Hoddleston in good time, you make your way through snowy streets bustling with last-minute Christmas shoppers, to the Department X field office which also doubles as the local post office. As is to be expected at this hour on Christmas Eve, the shop is closed up, but you have your special Department X key with you, and you open the front door with a cheery tinkle of the bell.

The post office is deserted of course, but you can hear a radio playing in the back room. You call out for the agent but there is no reply.

Walking round the counter and into the back room, you find the agent, slumped on the floor! A spreading pool of blood and a strange puncture wound on the back of his neck tell you that he doesn't have long to live. You kneel close to the man and make him as comfortable as you can. Weakly, he whispers something to you.

"It was too fast… Don't… try to…run."

And with that, he slips away.

Go to 30.

37

The toy department is as quiet as the grave. Piles of teddy bears and dollies cover the shelves, and board games and colouring books lie in neat stacks everywhere.

"Nobody's buying the old favourites this year, it seems. So what are kids getting instead?"

The answer may lie in a set of completely empty shelves near a Santa's Grotto. Bright futuristic signs proclaim that the sold-out is toy is AutoMate! Your automatic mate! It's a toy, it's a pet, it's your new best friend! It's AutoMate!

"They must have a pretty amazing advertising campaign. Pity there aren't any left for me to examine. Maybe if I have a little look around..?"

To get down on your hands and knees and look under the shelves, go to 26.

To poke your head inside Santa's Grotto, go to 14.

38

The girl is clearly terrified. She doesn't know who you are or what you want, so you take a step back and plaster on your best 'harmless substitute teacher' expression.

"It's alright! My name is Tweedy - I'm a scientific advisor for the Department for Extraordinary Affairs. Look, here's my identity card."

The girl relaxes a little and doesn't look like she's going to run or scream again just yet. She says her name is Elizabeth and she's really worried about her older brother Peter.

"He heard about that shop assistant from Hamilton's being killed and thinks it's got something to with the department store itself. He reckons he's a boy detective, so he sneaked in after closing." she snorts.

"How did Peter get inside, Elizabeth?"

She grins and takes you over to where a pile of cardboard boxes conceals a ventilation hatch. The grill is easily removed, revealing a small aperture just large enough for a boy or a skinny scientific advisor.

"You will make sure Peter's safe, won't you?" asks Elizabeth.

"Course I will!" you reassure her with a winning grin. Then you duck down and squeeze through the hatch and into the department store.

Go to 3.

39

With the threat of the Roborodent over, you bend down to examine the remains. Its construction is extremely advanced, beyond conventional micro-electronics. The device's small but efficient computerised brain has been designed to carry out simple instructions which can be transmitted over radio waves.

You spot something wedged in between two plates of its shell. Carefully prying apart the metalwork, you find that it is a wedge of paper, chewed and tattered, but still salvageable. It's a map of the town! Smoothing it out, you recognise the dead agent's handwriting covering the map, with an area under investigation circled in red ink. Hamilton's, a large department store on the high street, is marked alongside the words 'shop assistant'.

It is dark outside, and the snow continues to fall. You resolve to investigate the department store.

Go to 67.

40

Before the Femdroid can lay a beautifully formed hand on you, you close in, seizing each of its wrists, halting its advance. You can hear its hydraulics straining as its hidden servo motors match your muscles. Locked in a deadly struggle you and the Femdroid crash into racks of clothing, spilling piles of underwear across the floor. The Femdroid slips on some slips and it stumbles forward, catching you off balance. The two of you fall to the ground with a thump.

The impact has broken your hold on the Femdroid's arms, and she clambers on top of you, fixing a powerful robotic hand around your throat and cutting off your air! As you fight for breath you see the pedestal of a clothing stand to one side, its stubby steel pole jutting straight up. As your vision begins to fade, you just manage to bring your knees up under the looming Femdroid and then heave your legs out, propelling the robot backward!

With a terrible thunk, it falls back onto the steel pedestal pole, impaling it through the chest! The Femdroid struggles violently for some seconds, then slowly winds down, the light behind its eyes going black.

Lose 3 LIFE.

If your LIFE is still over zero, go to 27.

If not, your adventure ends here.

41

Quietly, so as not to alert the sports models, you fish out the infra-red spectacles and put them on. Where the dummies were dark, indistinct shapes, now you can see quite clearly, albeit in black and red.

Looking over at the two larger models, they appear to be exactly as they appear - inanimate blank-faced humanoid dummies which are no threat to anyone. But appearances can be deceiving, as you have learnt.

The smaller model is a different matter though. Now that you can see under the parka hood, you can see the features of boy, a real living boy. He is looking back at you and trying hard not to move.

Cross the infra-red spectacles off from your list of gadgets.

To approach the boy, go 23.

To softly call to the boy, go to 54.

42

The Santanaut hits you with the force of a compact car, sending you flying out the grotto and sprawling into a pile of teddy bears. You scramble to your feet as the berserk robot stomps forward, its eyes crackling with power.

"HO HO HO!"

Reflexively, you fling an armful of teddies at the Santanaut, distracting it. One teddy lodges in the robot's great bearded mouth and is instantly chewed to fluffy pieces by chomping metal jaws. You reach up to a shelf and grab a small colourful wooden box, just as the Santanaut clamps its arms around you in a crushing bearhug. You feel several ribs crack.

Desperately fighting for breath, you wait until the robot opens its mouth to speak once more, and then cram the small box down its artificial throat. From somewhere inside its mechanical chest, you can just make out the tinny sound of a recorded voice: Half a Pound of tuppenny rice, half a pound of treacle…

Just as you think the Santanaut is about to break your back, something goes sproing deep inside the robot, and its vicelike grip relaxes. Its eyes go dim and its mouth sags open. You slip awkwardly from its embrace.

"Pop goes the weasel, old chap."

Lose 4 LIFE.

If your LIFE is still over zero, go to 71.

If not, your adventure ends here.

43

You fish out the infra-red spectacles and put them on. Looking under the shelf you can see everything underneath quite clearly, albeit in black and red.

Apart from dust and old price stickers, there's a cardboard box. It is an AutoMate box, torn open at one end. The printed picture on the front shows a colourful toy robot with big friendly eyes, bearing the legend It beeps! It moves! For kids of all ages! (batteries not included).

And wedged behind the box is the body of a human being! It looks like a night watchman for the department store. He is not moving. Perhaps he crawled under the shelves looking for something and got stuck.

"Or maybe he was hiding from someone or something - hey!"

Clamped to the man's face is the AutoMate toy itself. It looks like it's dug into his head. As you watch it seems to sense your presence and comes to life with a series of small clicking sounds, like gears shifting into place. The dead body responds to the AutoMate's direction, stirring from its resting place. With a horrid jerky motion, the ROBOMINION crawls out from under the shelf toward you, the horrid toy robot still affixed firmly to its face!

Cross the infra-red spectacles off from your list of gadgets.

Go to 49.

44

The papers on the work desk are a variety of cuttings from local newspapers and copies of police reports. Some mention that the number of homeless people on the streets of Hoddleston has dropped dramatically lately, which the council puts down to the onset of winter and people drifting to warmer climes.

Other reports mention several unusual deaths in the area over the last month, ranging from a lorry driver found dead in his cabin to a shop assistant who died at home. The post mortems state that the deaths were all caused by a puncture wound somewhere on the body which introduced a highly toxic compound into the victim's bloodstreams, causing death within a matter of minutes.

Tattered scraps of a local map litter the desk top, but it is clear that only fragments remain. The central portion of the Hoddleston map is missing.

There is a movement at the corner of your eye.

Go to 63.

45

Cautiously, wary of danger, you creep over to the bins in the shadows of the loading bay. Your eyes and ears strain to catch a sign of what's hiding in the darkness. Closer, closer, you pick your way as quietly as possible through the discarded cardboard boxes and litter until you round the side of the bins and leap out on whatever it is with a load "Ha!"

Your exclamation is met by a piercing scream! A young girl cowers back from you, looking nervously left and right as if for an escape route.

To reassure the girl, go to 38.

To let her run off, go to 18.

46

Determined to find that elusive AutoMate, you stick your hand into the space under the shelf once more and sweep from left to right. At first you find nothing, but then, stretching in further so your head brushes against the bottom shelf, your fingers brush something smooth and cool.

"There you go, my little friend! Come to Tweedy - hey!"

The object suddenly twists and moves of its own accord with a series of small clicking sounds, like gears shifting into place. Then there is a sharp stab in the back of your hand following by a burning sensation. As you lose consciousness, you reach feebly for your old police whistle…

Your adventure ends here.

47

"I don't know you! I'm off!"

The boy starts to run, skirting past you as he makes for the escalator.

He disappears downstairs, leaving you with nowhere left to explore but the toy department.

Go to 37.

48

Ah, the trusty old photonic spanner! Ideal for deactivating menacing metal models! Not taking your eyes off the beautiful but deadly advancing Femdroid, you back pedal as fast as you can and fish the spanner out of a pocket. The Femdroid swings a steel fist at your head, but you just about dodge the blow, which pulverizes a rack of bowties.

But with a twist of your fingers you transmit the spanner's jamming signal! A low sonic hum pulses through the clothing department, immediately affecting the robot which begins to shudder and move erratically. Its head jerks spasmodically from left and right as each glowing eye moves independently of the other. The Femdroid reaches both hands up to its own neck, and with a heave and a shower of sparks, tears its head right off. The body rocks for a moment and then goes still.

Cross the photonic spanner off from your list of gadgets.

Go to 27.

49

To fight the Robominion yourself, go to 22.

To call for May if you have not already done so, go to 9.

To use the mini laser if you have it, go to 31.

50

You pray that the mini laser will be enough to halt the Santanaut. You turn and run out of the grotto, the rampaging robot hot on your heels, its eyes crackling with power. As you fish the pen-sized laser out of a pocket, the Santanaut drives a fist into your back, sending you sprawling into a bin full of footballs.

"HO HO HO!"

But with a flip of a button, you activate the laser! A bright, ruby-red ray of coherent light immediately strikes the Santanaut's face, igniting its cotton wool beard and slicing the jolly plastic face right off the steel skull beneath. The robot brings a huge hand up to pat the smouldering flames and soon its entire hand is wreathed in flames.

You tumble unceremoniously out of the football bin and scramble backwards as the burning robot lumbers on, shedding melting polyester clothing as it does so. At length, something vital inside the Santanaut melts, and with a shudder the flaming body crashes to the floor.

Cross the mini laser off from your list of gadgets.

Lose 1 LIFE.

If your LIFE is still over zero, go to 71.

If not, your adventure ends here.

51

Ah, the trusty old photonic spanner! Ideal for springing uncooperative locks! You fish the spanner out of a pocket and make the necessary adjustments. With a low sonic hum, the handy electronic tool triggers the department store's door lock, which gives a small click as it releases.

You open the door and slip inside before the few remaining people on the street at this hour notice you.

Cross the photonic spanner off from your list of gadgets.

Go to 59.

52

You can't resist rapping a knuckle against the mannequin's plastic head.

"Knock-knock, anyone at home?" you chuckle, thinking how much the dummy reminds you of an old girlfriend.

Suddenly, the mannequin's head swivels round to face you! Its glassy eyes blink once, then glow with inner power! It is a robotic FEMDROID! The Femdroid's arms and legs move in a swift but jerky motion as it attacks!

To try to wrestle with the manic model, go to 40.

To call for May if you have not already done so, go to 2.

To use the photonic spanner if you have it, go to 48.

53

The Roborodent struggles free of its confines, but with some effort you manage to hold it at arm's length as its body bucks back and forth with powerful jerking motions, its multiple feet scratching tiny gashes in your arms.

Lose 2 LIFE.

Then, with as much force as you can muster, you swing it by its rear section around and around, finally smashing it against a wall. With a tinkling of broken gears and a squeal of protest, it goes limp and then silent. You drop the broken creature to the floor and give it a cautious nudge with your foot. It is quite dead.

Go to 39.

54

Rather than walk up to him and spook the boy, you call out to him softly from a short distance away.

What do you call out?

To say Hey kid, go to 47.

To say Hey Paul, go to 20.

To say Hey Peter, go to 8.

55

With great caution, given the nasty surprises you've already encountered tonight, you approach the pile of AutoMate toy boxes. They seem to be exactly as they appear - toy robots that move, make sounds and can be radio controlled. So far, so innocent, but you'd have to open one up to make a full and proper examination of any threat.

You take one out of its box and start to lever the back panel open. But as you do so, there is a sudden whirring sound from very nearby, as something powers up.

Go to 35.

56

This is just the job for the climbing suckers, you realise, and quickly slip them on, even as the Argonauts bear down on you, their trapped prey. With seconds to spare, you slap your palms onto the sheer wall of the storage area and place your feet likewise. Hand over hand, foot by foot, you clamber up the wall, narrowly avoiding the hydraulic gauntlets of the Argonauts from dragging you down to certain doom.

"See you, suckers!" you crow at the robots below, as you reach the safety of the gantry.

Cross the climbing suckers off from your list of gadgets.

Go to 5.

57

As the radio continues to chirp away in the background, you carefully search the unfortunate agent's body. You find his Department X identity card and his pistol. It has not been fired. Whatever killed him did so before he could get a shot off.

The nasty puncture wound on the back of his neck suggests that the attack was from behind, and instantly rendered him incapable of fighting back. A blackish discolouration around the wound may have been caused by some sort of toxin, but without a full post-mortem it's hard to tell.

There is a movement at the corner of your eye.

Go to 63.

58

You feel around the dark space, encountering dust and old price stickers. Then your hand brushes up against something lightweight and made of cardboard. A small box of some sort. You drag it out and blow the dust off the package. It is an AutoMate box, torn open at one end. The printed picture on the front shows a colourful toy robot with big friendly eyes, bearing the legend It beeps! It moves! For kids of all ages! (batteries not included).

"But it's empty. Maybe it fell out under there."

To keep rooting around under the shelf, go to 46.

To think better of it and have a look in Santa's Grotto, go to 14.

59

You are in the darkened cosmetics department at the front of the store. Beyond the counters and displays of perfume and make-up you can see mannequins wearing the latest fashions, which must be the clothing department. Over to one side of the shop is an escalator leading up to the first floor, alongside a sign stating Sporting Goods and Toys.

To investigate the clothing department, go to 29.

To investigate the sport and toy departments, go to 11.

60

Ah, your stylish wristwatch buzzsaw! Just the thing cutting hostile robotic assassins down to size! With some effort, you use one free hand to activate the watch's hidden mechanism, while the Roborodent continues to struggle in your grip, making a nasty mess of your tweed jacket and barely missing your exposed arm.

But with a flick of the wrist you bring the wristwatch buzzsaw down on the creature's metallic carapace! Sparks fly and the air is filled with the teeth-rattling shrill of metal grinding on metal. The Roborodent struggles but within seconds you have cut deeply into its shell, severing a power coupling. The vicious robot goes limp.  It is quite dead.

Cross the wristwatch buzzsaw off from your list of gadgets.

Go to 39.

61

Managing to cling on, you realise that you have reached the level of the gantry on the nearby wall. With a heave of your legs you launch yourself into space and hit the metalwork hard, clinging on to the gantry with all your might to prevent you from falling to your death…

Lose 1 LIFE.

If your LIFE is still over zero, go to 5.

If not, your adventure ends here.

62

Your trusty photonic spanner, ideal for disrupting cybernetic Santas! You turn and run out of the grotto, the rampaging robot hot on your heels, its eyes crackling with power. As you fish the spanner out of a pocket the Santanaut catches your trailing foot, flipping you into the air. You land painfully in a pile of building blocks

"HO HO HO!"

But with a twist of your fingers you transmit the spanner's jamming signal! A low sonic hum pulses through the toy department, immediately affecting the Santanaut which begins to spin its head round in a full circle, as if sighting multiple targets.

"BAD BOY. BAD BOY. BAD BOY." it spouts incessantly as it strikes at thin air, ignoring you completely. Careening wildly about the toy department, the berserk Santanaut stumbles closer and closer to the balcony overlooking the ground floor until it topples over! There is a terrible, heavy crash from downstairs.

Cross the photonic spanner off from your list of gadgets.

Lose 1 LIFE.

If your LIFE is still over zero, go to 71.

If not, your adventure ends here.

63

You turn to see a strange creature scuttling out from behind a stack of parcels on the floor. No, not a creature - some sort of mechanical device! It is shaped a bit like an elongated beetle or maybe a silverfish, but one the size of a dog! Its rounded silvery shell is made up of several jointed sections and it moves on a myriad tiny feet, like a millipede.

As you stare in fascination, you can see that its eyes are a pair of swivelling lenses that open and close like camera shutters. It emits a high pitched whine as it moves across the floor toward you. The whine increases in pitch suddenly as the thing begins to quiver, like a tiny model car revving up. Futuristic writing printed on its shell reveals that this curious creature is a ROBORODENT, and a wicked syringe-like probe jutting from its head section suggests that you have found the agent's killer!

To turn and run for the door, go to 12.

To brace yourself for its attack, go to 32.

To call for May if you have not already done so, go to 16.

64

Choosing not to face the peril, you turn about and run directly away from whatever is making the thumping sound. You make for the far end of the storage area, glancing over your shoulder briefly to catch a glimpse of a large figure emerging some distance behind you. At this range all you can make out is its bulky frame and what appear to be glowing eyes.

With a start, you realise you can hear a similar noise coming toward you from this end as well! It sounds like heavy footsteps, as if made by someone wearing heavy, metal-tipped boots. You skid to a halt, just as another figure emerges from an aisle in front of you. It pauses and then turns to face you. It is a bulky humanoid made entirely of metal in the shape of an ancient warrior with a crested helmet and electric eyes. An ARGONAUT!

Robots in front of you, robots behind you! You take the only avenue left and run down the aisle between the two Argonauts, hoping that there will be some way to escape them at this end of the storage area. But it terminates in a dead end, a sheer wall in front of you leading to a gantry high above, and rickety stacks of goods on either side. Behind you, you can hear twin sets of metallic feet stomping closer.

To try to climb a stack of goods to safety, go to 33.

To use the climbing suckers if you have them, go to 56.

65

Quietly, so as not to alert whatever is lurking in the shadows, you fish out the infra-red spectacles and put them on. Where the loading bay was nothing but shadows and indistinct shapes, now you can see quite clearly, albeit in black and red.

Looking over at the bins, at first you can see nothing but piles of rubbish and discarded packing boxes. Then you can make out something trying to stay still. It's the head and shoulders of a young girl, hiding behind the bins. It is hard to make out her features at this distance and with the strange colouring of the spectacles, but you can tell she is looking straight at you. She is shaking.

Cross the infra-red spectacles off from your list of gadgets.

Go to 38.

66

You warily approach the three sports models, hoping that your instincts are correct. As you get nearer, it seems clear that the two larger models are nothing but dummies. But the moment you get close, the smaller model lets out a gasp of breath and starts to run - it's a boy! He bashes into you as he makes for the escalator.

"Hands off bot-brain, I'm legging it!"

He disappears downstairs, leaving you with nowhere left to explore but the toy department.

Lose 1 LIFE.

If your LIFE is still over zero, go to 37.

If not, your adventure ends here.

67

Although the department store is now closed, cheery Christmas lights and themed window displays sparkle with festive charm. The name Hamilton's stands out in green and gold above the glassed shop doors. The street is all but deserted now, with most people at home.

You try the front doors to the shop, but they are firmly locked. There may be another way in though, perhaps round the back.

To simply smash a glassed door and let yourself in, go to 34.

To use the photonic spanner if you have it, go to 51.

To try round the back of the department store if you have not already done so, go to 13.

68

The flurry of snow eventually dies down and the last few flakes drift down to settle on the Santanaut's big red chest.

"BAD BOY!" it roars and raises its steel arms with a whoosh of powerful hydraulics.

It attacks!

To fight the Santanaut yourself, go to 42.

To call for May if you have not already done so, go to 4.

To use the mini laser if you have it, go to 50.

To use the photonic spanner if you have it, go to 62.

69
Sighing ever so slightly, you halt your experiment and place your goggles up on your forehead.

"Yes, General? What can I do for you? Need a hand wrapping presents for all the good agents?"

The general ignores your sarcasm and gets straight down to business.

"Pay attention man. One of our field agents has been investigating a spate of inexplicable accidents in the Hoddleston area and has requested scientific assistance. Ordinarily I'd send Dr Solomon - he is our best man after all - but as he's already investigating those reports of alien activity off the coast of Scotland, I'm looking to you to do the best you can in his place. Think you can handle it?"

"Anything old Solomon can do, I can do twice as well in half the time, General. Just let me grab my equipment and I'll be on my way."

"Capital. I've already alerted your police contact, Constable Killan. She'll be in the area to provide assistance should you run into any trouble. Now get going. You can take an X-Mobile to get you there in double time."

And with that, you take a sleek departmental X-Mobile to the sleepy town of Hoddleston, as the wintry snow drifts to earth in the afternoon light.

Go to 36.

70

The sports department is dark and still, lit only by the skylight above. Racks of golf clubs, tennis clubs and football boots line the aisles.

"This is the closest I've been to a pair of football boots since school sports day, and even then I had a note from my parents. Faked of course."

Up ahead in the gloom stands a group of shop dummies. At this distance it's hard to make out details, but the two larger models seem to be wearing shorts and sports shirts, while the much smaller model is wearing a bulky parka jacket and jeans. Its face is hidden by the hood.

To think better of confronting the sports models and try the toy department instead, go to 37.

To approach the sports models, go to 66.

To use the infra-red spectacles if you have them, go to 41.

71

As you recover from the terrible battle with the Santanaut, a strange three-legged robot scuttles out of Santa's grotto. With horror, you suspect that it has transformed from the child's stool next to Santa's chair. Too exhausted to do anything, you watch as the robot draws up before you, a televiewer screen unfolding from its 'head'.

An image of a wild haired man wearing goggles appears on the screen, accompanied by a crackly audio transmission.

This is Dr Ulysses Argo, supreme architect of robotics! Your meddling may have disrupted this part of my operation Mattison, but my clever little AutoMates are even now sitting in Christmas stockings the length and breadth of the country. Hundreds, thousands of automated terrors, just waiting for all the little children to open them up! And when they do, the world will know true fear!

His voice drips with malevolence and the screen goes black.

Can you stop Argo's mad scheme before the AutoMates attack on Christmas morning?

The End!