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those of a giant bat. In one hand she holds a scythe and in the other an hourglass. And her face! Do you remember the story I told you about the woman I caught having sex in the churchyard in Leeds? This creature has her face.”
    “Well, well, well. So that’s the second meeting you’ve had with Azraella, the Angel of Death. Better not let there be a third occasion or it’s game over,” I say.
    Ursula nods. “That’s not exactly a comforting thought but at least that encounter only took place in a dream, so that doesn’t count. At least I hope not,” she adds with a worried smile. “However I must say I am impressed by your knowledge of angelology.”
    “That has nothing to do with it,” I reply, “but our paths have crossed before. For an angel, she’s a miserable piece of work. Always in a hurry, no wonder she’s the patron saint of Goths.” Ursula looks at me askance. I shrug my shoulders. “It’s another long story and now is not the time to tell it, let’s get back to your dream.”
    “For protection, I instinctively reach for the crucifix around my throat but it is missing. The chain has snapped, just like the one I was wearing earlier this afternoon. When Azraella sees my futile gesture, she grins at me. I can still see the smile on her face and the way she bares her teeth: a mouthful of long, needle-like teeth that remind me of a barracuda or piranha. Then she glances back to the hourglass and I can see the upper bulb contains just a few remaining grains of sand.
    “Just as I feel a wave of despair wash over me, you grab me and say ‘Suppose we totally jam the clock? Would that stop the passage of time altogether? Only one way to find out but we’d better move quick. Ursula, I love you but we only have four minutes left to save the world!’
    “You pick up the telescope and its tripod, adding ‘This big boy looks stout enough to do some serious damage’ and head down into the bowels of the church tower. Pausing only to wave goodbye to the still hovering Angel of Death, I follow you into the pitch blackness of the tower and down towards the heart of the slowly ticking clock.
    “And then I wake up.”

6. Mother Shipton’s Bane
    By the time Ursula finishes recounting her dream, she is shaking and covered in sweat. “Hold me,” she says, “I need to feel your arms around me. Pull me back into the real world and out of this nightmare.”
    Time passes. I gently stroke my fingers through her hair until I feel her relax in my arms. “How long,” I ask, “have you been having dreams like this?”
    “I told you,” she replies, “only since I first met you.”
    “No, I don’t mean this particular dream. I meant dreams generally of a revelatory and apocalyptical nature. Since you joined the Church? Or did you join the Church in the hope it might help you escape these dreams?”
    “What are you getting at?” she asks.
    “Come on, this is my special subject area, I don’t need to phone a friend. Ursula Southill is not a common name but it’s familiar in my circles. It’s the name of the woman better known to history as Old Mother Shipton. She was a sixteenth century psychic, seer and white witch from Knaresborough up in Yorkshire. The woman has even been described as England’s own Nostradamus.
    “She predicted the downfall of Cardinal Wolsey, Drake’s defeat of the Spanish Armada, the Great Fire of London and the End of the World, though it seems she got the date wrong on that. How does it go...
The Worlde to an end shall come, In Eighteen Hundred and Eighty One
.”
    As I talk, I notice Ursula avoids making any eye contact with me. “You are one of her line, aren’t you?” I suggest. “That’s what’s eating you up inside. There’s some kind of hereditary trait running through your family’s gene-pool that gives you the gift of prophecy. Only you are not comfortable with the visions you see?”
    Ursula remains silent for a few moments before nodding her head in agreement.