'I
f you are a famous-enough author long presumed dead and you keep sending notes to your Publisher through some far-off precocious teenage girl who says she's never heard of you – and the frightening predictions in those notes keep coming true — then you can't be dead. Can you?

For one, the mother of Jimmy Massey knew nothing of you walking into the sea off southern Sri Lanka, or your predictions of the murders of all sorts of priests across Asia and Australasia – nor a thing about the woman-child making them. Nor did she have a clue as to why her little Jimmy, a simple taxi-driver, got slaughtered along with the priest in Cairns Cathedral that Easter. But she did know Dr Valentino Sebastian kept coming and literally sniffing around her tribe people's little chapel, even if she couldn't know what he could do with birthings, seemingly at will.

The mother of Jimmy Massey knew that, no matter how much sniffing around her and hers went on, or what all the police and all the nosey-parkers in the world might say, she could see in her mind that-there black shore your notes kept going on about. She could hear the nearing howling. She sensed the coming. But not one thing ever was going to come anywhere near what she held enclosed unto herself as dearly as life itself. Nuh huh. You and all the others can take your prophecies and predictions and shove them all.