

Ramblings of a Deluded Soul

By

Jake Barton

'Some mornings, it's just not worth chewing through the leather straps.' ~ Emo Phillips.

'Life is hell, most people are bastards and everything is bullshit.' ~ George Black, father of Conrad.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed by a newspaper, magazine or journal.

Ramblings of a Deluded Soul

Jake Barton

Copyright 2010 by Jake Barton

Smashwords Edition

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental – apart from the real people described in personal recollections where names and, crucially, hairstyles may have been changed.

With grateful thanks to Poppet and Kim. Maureen, as usual, acted as first and last reviewer. Her insight and support, encouraging the writer to reveal aspects of his past that he'd intended to remain private changed the focus of so much of this book. Without you...
Jake Barton used to be someone completely different - this is a massive step down. Jake was known by another name for many years. He was young then, clever, hirsute, handsome, good company, sensible and superbly fit. Of these virtues, very little remains.

He writes crime fiction with a hard edge, making use of a life which frequently brought him into contact with major drug dealers, gang leaders, heroin addicts and many other denizens of society's underbelly.

During the course of an unconventional life, touched by wanderlust, involving much movement around the globe, he has been a labourer in a steel-works, taught English and History, been a work-study engineer, a restaurateur, civil servant, Nightclub bouncer, antique dealer, owned a small French vineyard and also had another job that he's not supposed to talk about.

Jake used the time he spent on Authonomy, a readers' website under the auspices of Harper Collins to refine his novels and engage with fellow writers. The Gold Star he earned for attaining a top five position on a site containing many thousands of authors has proved far less valuable than the continuing friendship of so many unpublished, unheralded and yet astonishingly talented writers. Without the support of whom, etc.

His first novel, Burn, Baby, Burn was a Kindle phenomenon, storming into the Top Ten of the Amazon All Books chart. As with so much else in his life, Jake managed to contain astonishment behind a façade of justifiable expectation.

To define Jake Barton in one word would be difficult. "Wastrel" comes pretty close.

He writes, sporadically. Very occasionally, his writing meets acceptable standards.

Random jottings from a disordered mind. A haphazard mélange of wisdom and nonsense.

Disclaimer: Not all posts contain wisdom.

Poems, scattered jottings, reminiscences on past experiences, the process and rationality of writing, work in progress, and quite a lot else. As it arrived, without any attempt to improve, eradicate, or adorn.

There are a few examples of what the author fondly, and possibly erroneously, regard as his best work in here, interspersed with some of the worst.

Make your own minds up.

Chapter 1

Muse? Yeah, turn up when YOU feel like it, why don't you?

I finally got to bed at five o'clock this morning. No wild parties, (ha!), festive frolics or any such-like seasonal joys – just sitting on my arse, scribbling, tapping keyboard, in other words – WRITING!

Well, I'm a writer. Let's face it; I don't do much else of a constructive nature. What's wrong with that? I'll tell you what's wrong with that – note to self, why are you having conversations while alone, answering your own questions? Get a grip, man. It's all a matter of practicality. For months now, I've been faffing about, drifting along, going with the flow. It's an easy life, no pressure, and suits my nature perfectly.

Then what happens, two days before Christmas if you please? The long-departed muse pops back again and boots me, figuratively, in the nuts. Not the Christmas nuts either.

Three in the morning. Like any other sensible person, fast asleep, perhaps dreaming of my precious Liverpool football club, when the call comes. Wide-awake, ideas flooding around what passes for a brain, my head jam- packed with people who don't exist all busily rampaging around my skull.

I sit up, quietly in the interests of self-preservation, then slip out of a warm, cosy bed and slip, wraith-like, downstairs. It's cold, dark, and only a deranged person would be here, but there I am. I put on a light, sit down, reach for a pen and notebook. My God, I'm writing again.

Three thousand words later I take a break. The love of my life appears, coffee cup in hand. She hadn't even noticed my absence!

'What are you doing?'

'Just a bit of writing,' I say, casually waving at the page of indecipherable scrawl on my lap.

'About time too.'

Well, yes, I can relate to that.

I write for most of the day, toddle off to bed just before midnight, but twenty minutes later I'm back downstairs again.

In my chair.

Scribbling.

For another five hours.

It's in my head. Must come out. I'm an all-or-nothing writer. Not one of those organised people who sit themselves down at a civilised hour and write. Probably without the crossings-out, snorts of derision, or nervous tics that are part and parcel of my 'system.' If it's not in there, it won't come out.

The trouble is: it's Christmas; other demands on my time. Why now, of all times? Go AWOL for months then wait for the most inconvenient time possible to come charging back, brooking no argument, like an attention seeking toddler.

Oh well, so long as you're here, might as well make use of you. I'm writing. Again. Any doubts on my part, along the well-trodden path of 'what's the point of writing if nobody wants to read your tedious drivel?' – and, yes, been there many times – were knocked back by an email I had last night. From an agent, a good one I'd happily give 50% of all future earnings to secure – although not actually intending to mention this to her – who asked to see my novel three or four months ago.

She'd rang me at home, enthused about my writing, made all the right noises, all good stuff. At the end, she rejected me.

Nicely, but still rejected me.

A rejection accompanied by, 'I know you can write. Your book is commercial. Any other year, any other financial climate, I'd beg to take you, confident I could place your book.' So, close, but no cigar.

Oh well. Onwards!

Chapter 2

Is this too nasty for Christmas Day?

I've been looking over some old notes; scribblings from a few years ago, and came across an outline for a new crime novel.

It isn't pleasant, but that's okay, I can write 'nasty' when the mood takes me. I may not press ahead with this – two other projects in my head already, but I'll put an excerpt out, see if anyone likes the idea. This is the opening of Chapter 2.

*******

'Soon now.' The voice was barely more than a murmur but he heard it clearly. He could always hear that voice.

Even when they tried to make him into a different person, to change the type of man he was. The type of man he'd always been. Even as they were sticking the needles in his arm, he could hear the voice. The voice, deep inside his head, that spoke to him alone.

No one else.

The voice that came from deep inside his head was the only remnant of sanity in this bloody place.

In the room across the corridor, a man screamed. The high keening wail of a soul in torment. The tattooed man ignored the scream as he ignored every other aspect of his confinement. His fellow inmates, the warders and doctors, they were nothing.

He heard footsteps in the corridor and turned to face the door. The regime never changed. Medication was the lifeblood of the system and three times a day they came. The drugs were not intended to improve his health. This facility was not interested in rehabilitation. Only control.

The ward orderly entered the room carrying his clipboard with a cheap plastic pen attached by a length of twine. The man glanced at the clipboard and ticked a box on the sheet of paper. He held out a small plastic container containing three tablets together with a paper cup of water. The orderly didn't look at him and the tattooed man would have expected nothing else. Even though he had recently paid a large amount to this man, it had been purely a business transaction. Their relationship was based on fear and the tattooed man was content with that arrangement.

The money had paid for a telephone call in private. The call had been important and had been very expensive. The money was not important; he had a great deal of money. Once, he'd had a great deal more money but, even though some of that had gone now, he still had the power. The influence. When he asked for something, it would be provided.

The telephone call had been to a man now retired from his former trade and living in Spain. When the call came, the man in Spain had only one option. A refusal would swiftly bring to an end his retirement in the sun. Permanently. The tattooed man was never denied a request. Not even when that request came from a prison cell.

The orderly looked frightened. He always looked frightened when he came into this room. The rules were very clear: the tattooed man was never to be approached by a lone member of staff, but the orderly had regularly chosen to break this particular rule. His venal nature had overcome his fear and the rewards had been considerable. He always offered the medication, that was his job, but the tablets had not been accepted for the past three months and the orderly disposed of the unwanted medication when he completed his shift.

The provision of the pay as you go mobile 'phone had been a dramatic escalation of their relationship and the tattooed man had paid a small fortune to obtain it. The call had been crucial.

Loose ends.

The man he'd called insisted on hearing his instructions from the person who was paying his fee. That was only proper. The tattooed man had paid a great deal of money and expected to get the best man for the job. He had been locked away in this place for two years, but still possessed the ability to plan the death of a person who'd once been a member of his inner circle. A person he'd trusted and who had betrayed that trust. He'd have preferred to do the job himself, but that wouldn't be possible. They were never going to let him leave this place and someone else would punish the betrayer.

It was a matter of honour.

He'd thought for a long time that another man had grassed him to the police. A man with as much to lose as himself. He'd had the man killed while in police custody, but his informant had been wrong. The dead man had also been a victim of the super-grass, just like himself. The tattooed man had no regrets. The dead man had been a rival gang leader and he had no reason to mourn his passing. What mattered now was getting the job done and a contract had been agreed.

The only stipulation had been that the man concerned had to die in a manner befitting the seriousness of his crime. His betrayer's identity was confirmed and the realisation was like a dagger in his guts. A young man he had trusted with too many secrets to count. A man he had been grooming to take over from him when the time came. His former protégé had walked away when the heavily armed police kicked down the doors in the middle of the night and bundled the tattooed man into the back of a van.

It was not sufficient that the betrayer should die. His death must be preceded by an agony beyond his comprehension. The prospect pleased him and he smiled.

The orderly had been visiting this room for over a year and had never seen a smile on the face of its occupant. Some reflex prompted him to smile in return and the change in expression on the face of the tattooed man turned the other man's bowels to water. The tattooed man leapt forward and clamped his teeth onto the neck of the terrified orderly, shaking him like a terrier with a rat. The metallic salty taste of blood and the sound of cartilage crunching between his jaws were old friends.

He reached out for the pen attached to the clipboard and waved it in front of his victim. Without releasing the grip of his clenched jaws he pushed the point of the pen inside the ear of the other man and slowly applied pressure. A bubbling roar of agony erupted from the throat of the orderly and was immediately stilled as a fountain of blood sprayed into the mouth of the man whose teeth continued to ravage his throat.

A scrabble of heavy boots in the corridor announced the arrival of the security staff. They charged the tattooed man, beating him savagely with their heavy batons but his teeth remained clamped on the neck of their colleague and the muscles of his arm bulged as he forced the pen deep inside the ear of the orderly. Even as their stricken colleague slid to the floor, the security staff continued to thrash away at the head and shoulders of the tattooed man, but his strength and resilience were immense.

The orderly had been well paid for favours granted to the man in his charge, but it had been intolerable that he should have presumed there was any trace of a friendship between them. The tattooed man did not encourage smiling.

Even as he finally lost consciousness from the relentless blows to his head he felt the life slip away from the man beneath him and was content. The consequences of his actions did not concern him in any way. He was already banged up for life and early release would never be an option.

What more could they do to him?

Chapter 3

My Favourite Book

The easiest question of all.

I've often been asked to recommend a book. Your favourite book, what's that then? A difficult choice for a prolific reader you may have thought.

Not so.

The book that draws me back, time and time again, isn't a 'classic' by any means. The author didn't even live to see its success, committing suicide long before his work was eventually published. What would we have gained if he'd gone on to produce a body of work to rival his early masterpiece? Oh, the book? Why, that cult masterpiece, A Confederacy of Dunces by the late and very much lamented genius, John Kennedy Toole.

The story behind the book is as fascinating as the novel itself. Toole's suicide in 1969 should have marked the end of any hopes of publication – instead it proved the spur for a remarkable turnaround. Not that this was an overnight transformation. Toole's mother discovered a dog-eared copy of the manuscript among her son's effects and made the publication of her son's novel a quest to which she devoted all her efforts over succeeding years. It wasn't an easy task and any unpublished author can relate to the eleven years of struggle that led up to the eventual publication of a magnificent novel in 1980. A year later it won a posthumous Pulitzer Prize.

The characters are central to most successful books and the swaggering, truculent, magnificently appalling Ignatius Reilly dominates the narrative. Inimitable and unique in his warped outlook on life, Ignatius is a tour de force and one can readily imagine the problems that beset any film producer contemplating a leading man. Intriguingly, despite many efforts this most filmic of all stories has not yet hit the big screen. Successive attempts to cast John Belushi, John Candy and Divine as Ignatius were foiled by the sudden deaths of the actors in question giving rise to suspicions that the project was cursed. It will happen, it's a story that is crying out to be filmed.

As for the book itself, well you need to read it yourselves. It's a novel set in New Orleans, peopled by a cast of grotesques, that defies rational explanation of what makes it work. If you don't read this book and howl with laughter, you should consider seeking medical attention. It's a rampant comedy of errors; a wide-ranging exploration of the hidden underbelly of society and it brings the most unforgettable character in modern literature to the reader's attention. Once you've met Ignatius Reilly, your life will never be the same again.

Read this book.

Chapter 4

Funny Sort of Christmas

It's been a funny sort of Christmas. Being snow-bound, unable to get the car out for a week, had its limitations, but there were compensations.

Not being able to visit relatives was one. That's a biggie. Poorly-wrapped presents unravelling in the boot, bottles rolling around no matter how well they're packed, traffic jams, stressed-out drivers, and that's only the journey. On arrival, there's the usual routine: traipsing around other peoples' houses, dispensing gifts, swapping kisses, pretending to admire every new acquisition no matter how hideous or inappropriate - oh, such torture.

'Ooh, what a lovely conservatory.'

Sniffy reply. 'It's an orangery, actually.'

'Oh, right, of course it is. Don't you miss having a garden though?' (The new 'orangery' having replaced the back garden, was actually touching the hedge of the house next door).

Even more sniffily. 'We have the best of both worlds. An outdoor room that can be used all year.'

'Ah, yes, I can see that.' Moving swiftly back into the main house as frostbite nipped at my extremities.

Next port of call. 'A puppy! How lovely. What a funny little chap with his floppy ears. Was he a rescue?'

'He cost £1400.'

'Oh.'

'The breeder says the long ears are fine because his mother was a show champion and she had long ears as well.'

'Hmm!'

Friends done, relatives next.

'We'd given you up.'

'The traffic was...'

Oh, never mind excuses, at least you made it at last. Better than that year when you never got here at all.'

'We were in Australia.'

'Always something. Your sister seems to manage very well.'

'She lives next door but one. You see her every day.'

'Don't start. If you're going to pick an argument you'd better just collect your presents and go. Not too much to ask to spend a civil hour or so once a year, I'd have thought.'

A difficult day with much smiling and nodding in agreement at a series of contentious and occasionally appalling pronouncements, three line whip in effect – 'Not a word, just sit still and say nothing.'

Boxing Day. More relatives. The odd ones. Throwbacks. The ones we see at weddings and funerals. But, we're in the area. They know we're here. So we pop in. Keep the peace.

It's worse every year. Nothing in common with these people apart from accident of birth. I sit on an upright chair, trying to divorce myself from the reality of a mangy dog humping my leg, a babble of noise as a dozen people talk, well shout, at once, eat yet another mince pie where the pastry outweighs the filling by a ratio of ten to one. I smile. Respond to direct questions, knowing my reply is neither required nor heard.

After three days, we head back home. Duty done for another year. Knackered, nerves frayed, a car packed with things we don't need, don't want, in some cases don't even know what it is.

'Not too bad,' my wife says as we approach sanctuary, 'Not as bad as last time, anyway.'

'Hmm. About the same, I'd say.'

We lapse into shell-shocked silence once more. Oh, we get over it, usually by mid-February.

This year, ah yes, this year was different. We were snowed in. Couldn't get out. No cars left our road all week. So, we had to ring up and explain. Stay put. Just the two of us. 'What a shame,' they all said. 'Poor you, at Christmas too.'

'Yes,' we agreed, 'it's awful. No fun at all this year.' Hugging each other and ourselves. Best Christmas ever. We're praying for snow next year, starting about 22nd December. Thick, dense, relentless; bringing the country to a halt.

That'll do nicely.

Chapter 5

A Writer's Year

End of the year looming. Taking stock. A year packed with interest on many fronts, but what about my writing?

On balance, a good year. My stint on Authonomy ended with a Gold Star in March. Not much recompense for the untold hours, days, weeks, months that were lost, never to be regained, but many good memories of my Authonomy period. Finding fellow writers, generous, helpful, supportive people, in the main, improving the book I posted on the site and certainly improving myself as a writer.

Post Authonomy, submitting my meagre effort to a regiment of agents and publishers chipped away at my fragile confidence and made me question on a daily basis why I put myself through this torture. Praise aplenty, but the end result was the same; still no Whitbread Prize nomination in sight, not even a request to switch on Christmas lights or open a supermarket.

I'm writing again, three projects under way, my manuscript is with a top agent, I've started a blog, it's all positive. I even 'tweet' occasionally, even though Twitter must be the most banal means of communication ever invented. I don't, won't, write 'text-speak' – if a sentence requires a semi-colon, it gets one, thereby condemning myself to mobile phone misery. So be it.

The latest venture, well advanced, is making my 'old' book, Burn, Baby, Burn, an e-book to be read on Kindle and the like.

Quite a leap for a Luddite Grand Master.

At this time, it's also time to come clean. Okay, the last year has seen significant progress, but I've had a lot of help. Authonomy, the last couple of months in particular, were harrowing. My own stubborn nature didn't help, determined to do everything the hard way, and there were more than a few 'meltdowns' where I was on the verge of giving up. Two people in particular kept me going, for the sake of it let's call them Jane and Kim.

Bossy? Oh yes.

Nagging? Constantly.

Supportive and helpful? On an hourly basis.

Then there's the wretched book. Harper Collins read it, liked some of it, didn't really understand it, left me scratching my head, baffled and disenchanted. Cue another heroine – I'll call her Poppet, daft name, but there you go! Poppet read the whole book, unlike Harper Collins, understood it, ditto, and gave me the best advice I've ever had. Lying through her teeth, she said she loved the book, told me to leave well alone, stop beating myself up – in short, 'to thine own self be true.'

She's still around, still a tower of strength along with Jane, Kim and many others I've met during the course of the year. Helping, cajoling, instilling belief, advising or just putting up with the nonsense I spout on a daily basis, they're a fantastic support system.

Writers are a strange breed.

Introspective at times, especially when the creative juices are flowing. We all need help and who better to give it than a fellow writer? I adore my fellow writers and have had the opportunity to meet many of them in 2010. Jane is as lovely in real life as I'd imagined her to be, delightful Raven, the mad-haired giggle factory that is Jackie, all enriched my life. In York I met Fred the brain surgeon, clever, witty Sandie and the amazing force of nature that is Bradley Wind. Recently, a red-letter day, meeting Gerry from Canada, one of the most talented writers I've ever come across. Daisy, fabulous Daisy, Dan the cleverest man in the world, it's been a great year. Thank you all for enriching my life, helping me far more than I deserve, keeping me writing when my congenital laziness comes to the fore. You made 2010 a great year for me.

Chapter 6

Possible new novel. More thoughts on an opening chapter.

Ragged strips of cloud fish-tailed across the sky as the breeze freshened. A scruffy unkempt dog with an irrational hint of exotic parentage about the way he held his head high as people passed by, tugged gently on the length of frayed rope that linked him and his master. The dog's owner slumbered against the wall of the video shop that was his chosen pitch, the small pile of coins at his feet evidently not yet sufficient for another can of Special Brew.

Further along, a young man unfurled a dirty sleeping bag and shook out the detritus of a night spent in the partial shelter of a shop doorway. His etiolated complexion resembled sun-bleached putty while the clothes he was wearing had clearly been originally purchased for a much larger person.

The homeless man stirred and favoured the youth with a volley of curses before sinking back against the wall, dislodging a plastic cider bottle which rolled across the pavement and lodged against a child's bootee in the rain-filled gutter. The scent of diesel fumes mingling with the aroma of decaying food spilling over from the neck of a black bin liner was heavy in the damp air, but neither the dog nor his owner appeared concerned by such trifles.

The young man had gathered together his meagre possessions and moved away leaving the street momentarily empty when the dog growled deep in his throat. Hackles raised, he scented the air, head perfectly still and eyes fixed on the narrow alley running between the twin rows of shops.

A figure moved slowly from the shadows and the dog settled down on the pavement, ears flat against his skull, growling softly. A young girl, slim and with a distinct lightness about her step, slipped from the shadows. Her legs were thinner than the excuses of a serial adulterer and a bruise stood out like the damaged skin of a windfall apple on the pale surface of her left cheek. The dog whimpered softly as the girl glanced in his direction, but she gave the animal and its owner no more than a cursory glance. The girl wiped her hands on a square of white material, a man's handkerchief perhaps, and dropped the cloth at her feet.

After she had moved out of sight, the dog slipped away from his dozing companion and moved cautiously towards the mouth of the alley. Tail held low and belly snaking close to the ground; he paused at the discarded strip of cloth, whimpering as the smell of fresh blood overpowered the last vestiges of his courage and fled back to the safety of the video shop doorway.

A faint glimmer of light entered the room with all the stealth of a trespasser as the first hint of dawn touched the window and the man lying on the single mattress sighed. It had been a long night and he'd not slept at all. Some nights he slept like a baby, but others were just like last night. He'd thought the fear and insecurity would fade with time, but it hadn't happened. The only part of his life he didn't control, couldn't control, was when he lay awake in the darkness. Re-living the past and fearful of the future.

He suspected, no he knew, that somewhere out there, in the darkness of the night, dangerous men were looking for him. He'd made their task as difficult as possible, but the men who looked for him were very persistent. The light was stronger now and the shadows began to recede. In daylight, he felt secure. In control. A wealthy man. A successful businessman. In any other line of work he'd have been a local celebrity. Giving generously to worthy causes and lunching in private clubs where wealthy successful men met to discuss mutually profitable schemes for the expansion of their businesses.

That was never going to happen. His personal wealth and the profitability of his business were far beyond the imagination of any conventional businessman, but he remained an outcast from the rest of society. That didn't bother him.

Spider stirred at the sound of car engines in the distance. Thoughts which had dominated his mind throughout the long night began to fade. The imaginary conversations died away. He'd done something a few years back that had upset a lot of people.

The wrong sort of people.

He'd crossed the line and his name would still be cropping up in any number of conversations. In the darkness he could hear those voices very clearly. He knew what they were saying and he knew exactly what their plans for him would be. Before he'd crossed the line, he'd been part of many similar conversations and the decision had always been the same. Why should he be any different? The name those dangerous men were saying was not his name.

Not any more.

He'd removed any connection to his former self. Everything about him was different. Surgery had made him into a different man. His face was leaner; his features changed beyond any possibility of recognition, even his body shape had altered radically. He'd lost forty pounds and gained a body as far removed from the one he used to inhabit as it was possible to achieve.

When he was alone in the darkness all these efforts amounted to very little. His mind raced and his senses remained on full alert. Listening for the creak on the stairs, the faint rustle of clothing, the tinkle of breaking glass. Any of these could mean that the time of his death had been decided. The method would still be unknown to him, but he already knew that whatever the means chosen, the results would be very far from pleasant. He didn't fear death. Death came to everyone. There was no good way to die, but there were any number of very bad ways.

Chapter 7

So many stories careering through my head today

Another night of waking at three am. Wide awake, mind racing, all these stories clamouring for attention. Like buses, none for ages then a fleet of the things arrive at once, my errant muse has a long history of inconvenience.

I can sit at my laptop in daylight hours without a sniff of an idea, but I'm prolific in the hours normally reserved for sleep. So, I do what I usually do, scribble away like a man possessed, not really concerning myself with quality at this stage, just getting it all down.

The rest of the day I fiddle about with it. Tinkering. Is any of it going to be useful? Could it form part of a project already under way or is it a completely fresh idea? Last night's musings gave me two new directions for a partly written book, but I'm leaning towards developing a new story line, probably in a different book. So many different strands now – here's the two that surfaced in the early hours. They may survive and become part of a new book; they may not. Who knows what three am will bring tomorrow?

The man with no name sat back in a padded chair, relaxed and at ease, reading a lengthy newspaper article. The bare hotel room was bland, carefully chosen to match his personality while he was on a job. He'd travelled a long way and knew that the man who'd hired him would be in touch at the appointed time.

Precisely.

He glanced incuriously at the digital clock at the side of the carefully made bed. Fifteen seconds to the hour. He moved slightly closer to the telephone and as he reached out a hand the 'phone rang. He was smiling as he answered with a single word. 'Yes.' Punctuality was a good sign, but he'd expected nothing less from this client. He listened in silence for two minutes, making no notes.

'My name?' he said as the monologue came to an end. He glanced at the discarded newspaper on the bed and in particular at the article he'd just finished reading.

'Call me Indra,' he said. He listened to the voice at the other end of the line and smiled. The client was a man whom he would never meet, but it pleased him to know he was dealing with a man of intelligence. 'That's right,' he said. 'The Hindu god of war. It's as good a name as any.' It was possible that the client had merely read the same article as himself, but even if that were the case it demonstrated an ability to retain information. That talent was a prerequisite of knowledge and the surest guide to any viable measurement of intelligence.

It was always a bonus to work for intelligent clients. They were far less likely to cheat the hired help. The difference between a common thug and an intelligent man was the intelligent client would know that cheating a man such as himself was tantamount to a death sentence.

He replaced the receiver and began to collect his belongings. He didn't own much and even among the few items he did own there were none that he couldn't walk away from without a moment's regret.

He had money, rather a lot of money, but was not even remotely concerned with wealth. He had enough for his needs. He lived well, ate well and dressed well, sparing no expense, but he could manage perfectly without any of the trappings of wealth. It was important to him that he owned nothing that he would miss if it were no longer available.

The same maxim also extended to personal relationships. He had no family, no friends, and no lovers. He had never allowed another person into his life. Other people were a tie and an attachment and he had no need of either. Everything in his life was disposable, to be discarded when necessary.

The only object that really mattered today had been waiting for him at reception when he'd checked in. He took it out of the padded envelope and examined it carefully. The .22 calibre Colt Woodsman had been derided by some as a ladies' gun with no stopping power, but in his opinion it was the perfect weapon. Easy to carry, and conceal where necessary it had never let him down. He routinely specified a matching silencer and always self-loaded his ammunition. The gun lacked stopping power, that was true, but in his hands this was a virtue. He wasn't looking to knock down a charging buffalo after all.

When he touched the barrel to a human head and pressed the trigger it was game over. More powerful handguns were far more accurate, but gunshot victims had been known to survive even a head shot from a magnum cartridge. A bullet could pass straight through a skull and leave the victim alive. Not in good shape, but alive. With the Colt that option wouldn't be possible. When the bullet left the barrel it passed through the skull, but lacked the power to blow out an exit hole. With a surgeon's skill, he'd calculated the exact charge needed for his ammunition. The bullet may not have had the power to break out of the skull again, but it rattled around inside, turning everything it touched into mush. Job done. Nobody could take a direct head shot from a .22 and live to tell the tale.

Indra put the weapon inside a shabby leather briefcase and collected his loose change from the bedside table. He was ready to go to work and now that he had the details of the job he was keen to get started. This eagerness had never deserted him and was a major factor in his long record of success.

He was very good at his job. In fact, he was a lot better than that; he was the best. Being the best took dedication and the elimination of distractions and unnecessary attachments. He had the details he'd asked for, he had the weapon he'd specified and he was ready for the next stage: finding the target and killing him in a violent means of his own choosing.

Chapter 8.

The Job Interview

Becoming a soldier was easy. It took hard work and the ability to follow orders.

Blind obedience.

Moving up, the requirements were more exacting. There had to be a spark, a suggestion of leadership potential, but the best and the brightest recruits could be fast-tracked through the ranks at a pace that mocked the career structure of a conventional business. Team Leaders got to meet the boss on a regular basis and the financial rewards were enormous. The big money on offer had to be earned and Spider demanded blood and sweat in equal measure, but it was not unusual for a Team Leader to have a BMW 6 series with tinted windows on order well before the time they were old enough to take a driving test.

The auditions had been Spider's idea. The final barrier to Team Leader status was a procedure he handled personally. The youth sitting in the passenger seat was shivering with suppressed excitement as Spider swung the big car down the exit ramp. The long motorway journey had passed in silence, but the tension hung in the air as the appointed audition grew ever closer.

The traffic on the North Circular was as bad as ever and Spider made the decision to travel elsewhere in the country on the occasion of the next audition. He preferred the anonymity of London, but the traffic was a pain in the arse and he'd consider other options. Bristol perhaps? Or Glasgow? The only essential requirement would be that the chosen venue was a long way removed from his home base.

Spider turned left and within a few minutes the traffic eased. The suburbs attracted less attention than the inner city areas and he'd planned today's destination with characteristic attention to detail. He accelerated past a dawdling motorist, enjoying the sensation of power as the big car surged forward.

Spider glanced in the rear mirror as the speed camera flashed and recorded his details. The car was a Volvo estate. Less than a year old, roomy and powerful with the best seats in the industry. The original owner had kitted it out with a host of extras, but wouldn't have recognised it now if it sailed past him on the motorway. The colour was different for a start and the registration number was an exact duplicate of a similar car parked in an underground garage in Aberdeen. The Scotsman wouldn't appreciate the arrival of a fixed-penalty notice on his doormat in a week or two. He may even be able to prove that he'd been three hundred miles away on the day of the offence, but the chances were that he'd have to pay up in the end.

Spider wasn't concerned. He'd only keep the car for a couple of weeks and then move it on. Eastern Europe or the Gulf was the most likely destination. The big German motors, Mercs, Beemers and Audis, were always in demand, but Spider had a soft spot for the Volvo; he couldn't fault them for comfort and they were so much less ostentatious than the more prestigious marques.

The occasional speed camera was no more than an irritant, but Britain is the most spied-upon country in the Western world and careful planning was needed from this point in particular. Automatic number plate recognition, ANPR, recorded the registration details of every vehicle on just about every main road in the country. The data, over thirty five million records every 24 hours, is retained by the police on a central database and could track the progress of a specific vehicle with awesome accuracy. Spider took every precaution to ensure that any vehicle he used would never be traced back to himself, but vehicle recognition was only part of the threat to his safety. Closed circuit television cameras covered all built-up areas and the technology was improving all the time. Face-recognition software was widely available and Spider had drilled into his troops that the omnipresent cameras could pick a face out of a crowd and cross-reference the digital image to data collected by a different camera which had revealed a crime in progress.

As the traffic died away and the houses on the tree-lined avenues appeared more affluent, Spider sat forward in his seat, concentrating fiercely. The end of their long journey was imminent and he could sense waves of excitement and expectation emanating from the youth next to him. Spider eased to a halt under the shade of a mature plain tree and looked carefully at his surroundings. The houses were set back from the road, each with a well-tended garden and broad expanse of drive. He scanned the streetlights for CCTV cameras, but saw nothing to arouse concern. A single pedestrian was walking towards the car on the other side of the road and as the figure drew closer Spider looked directly at the youth seated next to him.

'Problem?'

The youth shook his head. The figure drew closer, no more than fifty yards away now. A woman leading a small brown dog on a leather lead. The woman was in her early thirties, well groomed and attractive. A resident, judging by the expensive clothes and her high-heeled shoes were not exactly ideal for lengthy walks.

Spider opened the glove box and removed a JVC camcorder. He checked the battery levels and focussed on a tree further along the road. He grunted in satisfaction and nodded to the youth who immediately climbed out of the car and walked towards the woman and her dog. She had been fiddling with the dog's lead, unravelling a piece of string that had entwined itself in the jewelled collar and rose again as the youth approached. Spider zoomed in on her face and discerned no signs of concern, only a willingness to assist the young man who she presumed to be in need of directions. The youth walked right up to her, his calm attitude still attracting no semblance of fear in the woman, and as she spoke to him, he looked back at the watching Spider and smiled. Spider recorded the exact moment when the woman saw the knife for the first time and the expression on her face changed to naked terror. The first stroke was clumsy – the impetuosity of youth – but each succeeding slash with the broad blade found its mark.

When the woman sank to the ground, her ravaged face was unrecognisable. Spider nodded when the youth looked round once again and through the viewfinder watched as he reversed his grip on the knife and buried the blade to the hilt in the woman's chest. He stabbed her twice more before rising to his feet and walking slowly back to the waiting car.

Spider flicked the dashboard button to open the boot and heard the weapon drop onto the plastic sheet lining the interior. He switched off the camcorder and replaced it in the glove box. The assassin opened the passenger door and climbed inside. Spider waited for him to fasten his seat belt before pulling smoothly away.

Failure to fasten a seatbelt was a criminal offence.

Chapter 9

Fluffy bunnies? I can write about them. Or can I?

Four or five years ago I decided to write a gentler book. A book my mother could describe to a friend without feeling shame and disgrace. I retained Donna, plucky little Donna from my first two books, reasoning that she too deserved a break from murder and mayhem.

I set the book in rural Andalucía, where I lived at the time, drawing inspiration from the surroundings. It's a novel containing far less violence, virtually no 'street language' and thereby appealing to a far wider audience. As with most of my carefully laid plans, the novel was a failure. Virtually everyone who read it begged for a return to my 'nasty' writing style.

My good friend Kay, far away in Australia at present, was particularly scathing. 'Write what you know,' she said. 'Anyone can write a mystery in the Spanish sunshine. Give me something to scare me stiff.'

So that was that. My fluffy bunny period. Short-lived and unlamented. Here's a couple of sections, see what you're missing.

The finca's setting was as close to perfection as Donna could imagine. Perched high up on a ridge with mountains rising steeply at the back, the house faced south with the blue Mediterranean sparkling away towards a horizon that ended at the Rif Mountains. A view that stretched all the way to Africa; a different continent.

The land in front of the finca sloped down in steep terraces of grape vines; olive and almond trees forming a veritable paradise for butterflies and exotic birds. As Donna rounded the corner of the house, she stood transfixed at the sight of a matched pair of eagles riding the thermals, hovering motionless against a perfect blue sky, every detail of their plumage clearly visible, her vantage point more or less level with the magnificent birds as their keen eyes scanned everything that moved far down on the valley floor a thousand metres or so below their widely spread wings.

Donna moved on as the eagles wheeled away and picked her way carefully through the scrubland. A thick bank of prickly pear formed a formidable barrier to an approach from the rear and any attempt to approach from that direction past their fierce spines would require the utmost care. The mule-house, fifty metres distant from the main finca, was similarly constructed to the parent house, apart from the absence of windows in the whitewashed metre thick walls and had clearly been built with the single purpose of keeping the fierce heat at bay. The sagging roof with its lichen covered terracotta roof tiles was home to any number of lizards and other tiny creatures and a few hardy sprigs of some plant or other, pushing defiantly towards the sun from the depths of the numerous gaps between the tiles.

The wooden door was thick oak; studded and massive enough to withstand a battering ram, but gaping partly open to reveal a cool dark interior.

To the right, the land dropped steeply into the black depths of a narrow ravine, rough weather-beaten stones and straggly scrub obscuring any view to the bottom unless one was prepared to lie prone in the dust and peer over the edge. Donna decided she could live without knowing whether the gash in the earth was a bottomless pit, and retraced her steps away from the crumbling rim with great care.

The lintel above the mule-house door was split and sagging dangerously and there were deep fissures in the cracked stone pillars. As Donna approached, she heard a faint creak, then started in alarm as a small green lizard darted from its place of concealment and scuttled into the shadow of the overhanging tiles. No doubt, the lizard was more frightened of Donna than Donna was of the lizard, but the difference was only marginal.

Was there someone there? In the mule-house, perhaps? The back of her neck tingling Donna knew she must investigate, if only to resolve her own foolishness.

Wincing at her own timidity, Donna squeezed through the narrow entrance. Inside, the darkness was absolute. Donna slipped to one side of the door frame, reasoning that if there was anyone there they would see her silhouetted against the light and stood still, holding her breath. After thirty seconds, Donna's night vision had improved sufficiently that she could see her hand clearly. If she held it an inch from her face! The only sound she could hear was the blood pounding in her ears.

Nothing else.

The room was empty.

She'd half turned to leave, feeling utterly foolish, when she heard it. Deep in the darkness and so faint as to be almost inaudible, the unmistakable sound of an intake of breath. Donna froze, adrenalin flooding her nervous system as if someone had turned on a tap. Then, she heard the same sound again, and this time saw the faintest hint of movement on the far wall.

It was enough. Without thinking, Donna lurched forward, determined to take the initiative, and on the second stride, smacked her head into a heavy wooden beam. She knew it was wooden by the sound of the dull thud as skull met beam. Her senses swam and she sat down hard on the stony floor, hands cradling her head. The pain was intense, but Donna also felt utterly foolish, accepting for the first time that discretion may have been a wiser course of action. Head swimming, she tried to rise, but her body weight had apparently quadrupled in the last few moments. She felt defenceless and vulnerable sitting on the floor, but the pain was too intense to consider doing anything else.

'Who's there?' She called out, her voice like a railway station announcer on a bad day, metallic and unreal. No reply came, but Donna wasn't really expecting an answer. She tried again to get up, but was overcome with nausea and vertigo, remaining stuck on one knee like a sprinter about to spring from starting blocks. Not very appropriate in the circumstances. The likelihood of her springing anywhere was nil.

Every cell in her body complained. Loudly. Donna feared she may have done herself some damage, concussion perhaps, or something even more serious. With a massive effort of will she rose slowly to her feet, avoiding any sudden movement. The darkness heightened the feelings of disorientation Donna was feeling, and she knew she was swaying from side to side, unable to gain control of her balance in the absence of any visible reference points.

As Donna's head began to clear, the forgotten threat of the intruder provoked a fresh surge of alarm. Was there anyone there or had she imagined the whole thing? Even if there had been anyone hiding in the darkness, they would have had ample opportunity to escape while she'd been staggering around like a wasted clubber after an all-night party.

Opening her eyes as wide as possible, Donna strained to see into the gloom, wishing she'd had the sense to go and fetch a torch before venturing into these unfamiliar surroundings. She'd just about convinced herself that she was making a total fool of herself, standing in the dark with a lump the size of a duck egg swelling on her forehead, when all her former suspicions were vindicated. At the very edge of her vision Donna saw a shape move towards her, nothing more than the suggestion of a figure, then felt an intense pain on the side of her face that caused her to cry out. Not a punch, no more than a heavy slap, but in Donna's weakened state, sufficient to fell her instantly, sending her crashing to the ground once again.

Donna lay prone, unable to move a muscle, and felt rather than saw a vague shape materialise from the shadows. A disembodied hand reached out and touched her on the neck, as gently as the tender caress of a lover. The hand moved downwards until it touched and then encompassed Donna's right breast. Her head was still spinning, and her limbs were heavy, or the sense of outrage would have given her the strength to spring to her feet. Donna uttered a small groan of protest and the hand withdrew, gently scraping her nipple with fingertips softer than a summer breeze.

This next segment describes the following day.

As Donna set back towards the house, she heard a faint plaintive cry. The missing kitten! She followed the sound until she reached the lip of the narrow ravine. Lying full length on the dusty ground, Donna craned her head over the edge but could see only a forest of climbing weeds. She called out and heard an answering cry from the depths. Donna ran back to the finca and removed the nylon clothesline from the front of the terrace. Tugging on it to satisfy herself that it would bear her weight, she dashed back to the ravine.

'I'm coming, little one,' Donna called out and was rewarded by a faint mewing sound from deep below her feet. She tied one end of the rope to the doorframe of the mule-house and the other around her waist.

Donna paused for a moment on the edge of the ravine, aware that what she was doing was foolish and that the sensible thing to do would be to wait for Peg to return before she went off on a potholing expedition. Especially considering her recent bang on the head.

Her mind was made up by a further desperate cry from below, and she took the first step over the edge and into the darkness. On the rim, the hard-packed earth was bare and un-yielding, but lower down, where it was cooler, dense vegetation flourished. Slender runnels seeking light and warmth struggled up the sides of the ravine from the far dark depths. Dive bombed by insects, legs scratched and itching furiously, the very last place on earth Donna wanted to go was down into that dark pit. Then she heard a plaintive mewing from deep in the jungle and her mind was made up. Like it or not, she had to rescue that kitten.

In the increasing darkness, Donna felt a sudden chill not entirely explained by the withdrawal of the sun's warmth. Goosebumps rose on her arms, but it was a sense of unease she was feeling rather than any change in temperature. Pulling on a metaphorical cloak of courage, she pressed on.

Thorns snagged her clothing and ravished exposed skin, but she was a girl on a mission. Something brushed her thigh and Donna gave out an involuntary shriek of alarm, prompting a blush of shame, and she stopped for a moment to get her breath back.

The light was surprisingly far above and the itching from her arms and legs was maddening. Donna tried to tell herself that if she'd have known the bloody ravine was this deep she'd have never attempted to climb down, but knew that wasn't true and settled for cursing the wretched kitten for being so damned inconsiderate as to fall down this dark pit. Knowing full well that once she got hold of the poor little creature she'd kiss and hug it all the way back up to safety.

The creeping plants rising from the depths were suffocating and flies swarmed around, drinking her sweat and driving her to distraction. Ten feet down, it was almost dark. Donna could only feel for hand and footholds, calling out words of reassurance to the kitten with every step.

Donna reached the bottom at last, in complete darkness, but could feel warm fur against her calf. With great difficulty in the narrow confined space, she managed to reach down until her fingers touched the kitten's upturned face. She rummaged around and freed its leg from the roots of some plant and pulled it up to where it could nestle on her shoulder, purring frantically and licking her neck with its sandpaper tongue.

The flies seemed worse than ever, settling around her head in a dense swarm, and Donna was swatting around frantically as she reached up to pull at the foliage that was blocking out the light prior to climbing out again. As Donna raised her arm, her foot slid off its precarious perch. With some of the leaves removed she could see slightly better and glanced down to look for a more reliable foothold.

What Donna saw made her scream out in terror. She squeezed her eyes tight shut and kept them closed for what seemed an age. When Donna opened them again, nothing had changed. It was not a dream. The nightmare was all too real. The naked woman on whose thigh Donna was standing was still there. Donna didn't need to look at her staring eyes to be aware that she was very dead indeed.

Chapter 10

Spider, not everyone's idea of a benevolent employer.

This character surfaced in the early hours of the morning - now he's interesting me more and more. Not the sort you'd want your daughter to bring home. Here's a couple more extracts from my working notes, the character of Dexter may not be retained, but I need a force of counterpoint to the dark side, represented by the unlovely Spider.

Spider looked at the face of the youth standing before him, scowling as only a fifteen year old can, and realised he'd made an error of judgement. A rare error, it was true, but a mistake had been made and would have to be corrected.

'It's your patch, Buzz. Your job to stop it happening, right?' His voice was calm, but the air of lurking menace was always there.

'I told 'em, if they...' Buzz blustered.

Spider held up a hand and the youth fell silent. 'Not interested. You know the rules. Don't shit on your own doorstep. Simple as that. Kids running riot every night on your patch. You've let things get out of hand. I can't have that.' He spoke in short clipped sentences, prodding the chest of the younger man to emphasise each point.

Buzz made no further attempt to justify his actions. One look at the face of the man in front of him was enough to ensure his silence. Buzz had seen at first hand what happened to anyone foolish enough to argue with this man. The results had not been pretty. Keep quiet, say nothing. That was the only way he could earn the right to another chance.

'Listen to me.' Spider raised his voice a notch for the benefit of the other figures crowding into the empty flat. The windows were boarded over and the only furniture was a mattress on the floor. Spider moved around a lot and required very few creature comforts. Setting an example. Showing his troops that having money didn't mean he'd opted for an easy life. These streets, this housing estate was where he'd started and would remain his home and the centre of his power base.

'I told you the rules. I don't allow anyone to fuck about on this estate. This is my turf. I decide what goes on round here. I've told you that many times. Now what do I see?' His voice rose higher and the boys at the back of the room pressed in closer. 'Bloody kids doing whatever they fucking want. Out at all hours, stealing fucking cars, painting their fucking names on walls. Your patch, Buzz. Your responsibility.'

Buzz lowered his head. A patch of urine soaked through his denim jeans as he shuffled his feet nervously. The acrid smell spread throughout the room and a collective sigh went up as the younger boys crowded closer still.

Spider looked out at his troops, their eyes bright with excitement. 'Any of you got any ideas? Who's fucking with me?'

A skeletal youth, about fourteen or so, spoke up. 'It's the Price twins and their cousin. Ray somebody. He's from Kirkby, used to deal a bit at his last place and he's got the idea he can do that here. The fucking Price kids are just thick bastards, nicking cars just because their cousin tells them to.'

'I told them,' Buzz burst out, 'I told them straight what I'd do to them if they did it again.'

Spider looked at him, a vein pulsing in his temple. He prided himself on his ability to keep his temper, but rage was threatening to overwhelm him. 'Wrong answer,' He said quietly. 'You don't tell ever tell anyone not to do it again. They know the rules. There's nothing in the rules about getting another fucking chance.'

He turned his head and spoke directly to the thin youth who'd spoken out. 'Digger, isn't it?' The youth nodded, his pleasure at being recognised by the leader clearly evident. 'The Price kids, they need a lesson. See to it, right?' Digger nodded. 'And the cousin. I want to deal with him myself. Bring him to me.' Digger nodded again, his eyes bright. 'You up to running his patch?' He jerked a thumb in the direction of Buzz. Digger nodded again.

The spreading pool of urine forced Spider to take a step back and he looked at the dejected figure of Buzz with disgust. He reached into his back pocket and took out a black case. The blade gleamed when he took it from its case and held it out for all to see. The straight-edged razor was his favourite weapon and the boys took a collective step backwards to allow him a free range of movement. Buzz scarcely reacted as the first stroke opened his cheek from side to side, but when blood spurted from his throat with the second strike, he gave a single scream of pain. The third slash took away his capacity to scream, cutting through his vocal cords and sending him crashing to the floor where his blood mixed freely with his own urine.

Spider looked at the faces surrounding him and felt exultation. His workforce was growing. Every day he became more powerful. A black community leader in South London had been on TV a while back, sounding off about the way in which the deprivation and poverty of housing estates in places like Peckham was producing a new breed of terrorist whom he'd termed Urban Child Soldiers. Spider could have told him the Child Soldiers tag had been widespread on Merseyside long before a few gang-related shootings rattled the cages of the politicians.

The difference up here was that the man in charge was shrewd enough to keep everything low key. Young kids were the future of his empire and he chose them with care. The boy he'd singled out to replace the hapless Buzz would do well. Spider had chosen the name Digger because the lad's facial features and athleticism reminded him of the former Liverpool football legend, John 'Digger' Barnes and he'd been keeping a close eye on his progress.

He named each of his boys personally; from day one they would be known only by their street names. It was important that they forget about who they used to be. Make a fresh start. As he had also made a fresh start.

Nobody knew anything about who he used to be. He was Spider and he was the leader. That's all anyone needed to know.

Spider reached down and wiped the blade clean. 'Get rid of that,' He said, walking away. The group parted to let him through, every one of them still throbbing with excitement. When Spider left, the boys crowded round the figure on the floor, watching him die.

An hour ago, Buzz had been one of them. A senior figure with extra powers, extra rewards. No one in the group could quarrel with the fate of their erstwhile colleague. The rules were clear enough and they all knew that Spider was a stickler for rules. The most important rule was to own and control your own patch. Petty crime had virtually died out on the estate, vandalism and joyriding eliminated at a stroke. All part of the plan. Spider controlled the estate, not individual gangs, not the police, and everyone on the estate knew it. This estate and the surrounding area were the only crime-free areas in the city and all the residents felt the benefit of that.

Spider had taken power from the feuding gangs who'd made up the estate by sheer force of will. He'd recruited younger boys, those without a role or purpose in life and given them hope. When the local gangs had been brought to heel, Spider went after the money. Money meant power and the men with most money were the drug barons. The drugs trade has always been lucrative and the drug barons had built up a formidable power base over the years. Secure in their positions of wealth and influence, the established gang leaders were slow to realise that resisting a hostile takeover did not depend on manpower or weaponry, in which they were infinitely superior but in the application of force.

Spider was prepared to go to the limit, without fear and without scruples; he would go to any lengths to achieve power. Possessing no family or friends he had no weaknesses. He intimidated the drug cartel bosses by putting pressure on their families, their homes and businesses.

Spider had no possessions; he moved around, living in a succession of squalid flats, and without the trappings of an extravagant life-style. When the drug trade was secured, Spider branched out, expanding his empire. He bought up property and businesses at rock bottom prices. Threats and intimidation were not idle threats and lessons were learnt quickly. Drugs, prostitution, landlord, protection money, as well as a cut of all criminal action in the area, he had it all. Potential rivals were too frightened to cross him as it became widely known that he never took a backward step. He recruited even younger boys to push drugs, run errands, obtain information, or steal cars to order. The money flowed in and still he pressed on, always expanding, always pushing the boundaries of his empire a little further. His rules were few in number, but the consequences of disobeying his rules were draconian.

There were no paper trails. No bank records or invoices to incriminate him. Premises where drugs or weapons were stored had no contact to himself. Everything he did, his entire business, was carefully arranged in such a way that there was never any link to Spider. If the police got lucky or a job went wrong, someone else would take the fall. His name would never be mentioned.

His soldiers were loyal but loyalty only went so far. Anyone arrested knew the score. Spider used the classic stick and carrot method. Keep your mouth shut, do your time and you'd be rewarded when you came out. That was the carrot. The stick aspect was equally simple: anyone who talked out of line or attempted to grass up Spider or any other member of the group was a dead man. No expense would be spared to ensure retribution would be instant and certain. Prisons were full of Category A hard men who'd been grassed up by their subordinates. Spider had known the effects of treachery at first hand and all his team received regular reminders that this was a zero tolerance issue. Retribution would also extend to family members. Wives, girlfriends, mothers, sisters, all were in the frame.

The drug trade remained his main interest and it was here that the rules were most strictly enforced. He never allowed his dealers to be users and would not allow his best men to handle drugs in case of a set up or police action.

Spider was twenty-two and had built up his empire in little more than a year. His relative youth made him a role model for his followers, someone they could relate to and provided a sharp contrast to the men he had replaced. Established drug barons were mostly men in their mid-thirties, too far removed from the violent natures of their youth. They were soft now, too concerned with their wealth and with extended families. They were vulnerable and Spider brought the threat of total violence to their homes. Spider was convinced that within another year, all areas of the city would have fallen to him and he would be powerful enough to go after his ultimate target. There were old scores to settle and it was with this end game in mind that Spider took each and every decision.

In the flat, the group of boys were silent, each with their own thoughts as they looked down at the body on the floor and felt a tingle of excitement at the possibility that it would soon be their turn to move up. Digger was now marked out as someone who was going places. There would be other promotions on the way. Before Spider came, they had nothing. Now, the estate belonged to them and their influence was growing. Spider already controlled great swathes of territory across the city and soon, very soon, all of it would belong to him.

***

Dexter had last been through this estate a couple of years ago, back in the days when he was still a copper. All the shop fronts had metal grills over the windows, graffiti covered every available surface and there wasn't a car in sight that still possessed a full set of wing mirrors or hubcaps.

Moonlight cast iridescent pools of shadow that softened the harsh outline of the towering apartment blocks. Rows of concrete posts stood useless and redundant, their globes having been smashed in a single night of riot and mayhem two years ago and never replaced. There had been little demand for their reinstatement; no one who walked these dark and dangerous streets after nightfall had any pressing desire for illumination.

The estate was still in the same place and so were the shop-front grills, but the graffiti had gone. Completely. He stopped the car and looked up at the flats. No sign of ply board covering broken windows. Dexter climbed from his car and looked around. The roads were deserted, but the finely honed instincts of an ex-copper told him he was being watched. A dozen unseen eyes were shadowing his every move. Like jungle predators waiting for their next meal to enter the killing zone, there were eyes everywhere.

None of them friendly.

There was little point asking the neighbours if they knew anything. Selective myopia was a common condition on these landings. If a herd of wildebeest had galloped through their bedrooms, they'd still claim not to have noticed anything out of the ordinary. A bad memory and poor eyesight were essential qualities for healthy living in the tower blocks.

A couple of years back, the Betts family were top dogs in this area. Three toe-rag brothers and the old man who was the worst of the lot. The boys ran this estate and old man Betts ran the three boys. With an iron fist in both cases. Violence was the common theme and crime flourished under Betts' rules. Dexter had wasted more hours than he cared to remember in attempting to find witnesses to the numerous offences carried out within the boundaries of the estate. Nobody ever talked. Like the wartime poster said, careless talk really did cost lives. Usually the life, or at least the health, of the person doing the talking.

The Betts family were no longer at the top table. The old man, Dennis Betts, had vanished a year ago and his sons were either dead or banged up in maximum security. The disappearance of Dennis Betts had brought about a power vacuum in the area almost overnight. It was widely rumoured that the old villain had been snatched on his way back from the drinking club he part owned and was feeding the fish somewhere out in the Irish Sea. His bodyguard had turned up a week later, most of him anyway, in a drainage ditch at the side of the East Lancs. Road, but Dennis had never been seen again.

The corpse of the bodyguard, minus his hands and feet, had clearly been intended to be found and to provide a clear message that the old order was about to change.

Dexter had asked around, but the identity of the new man at the top was still to be confirmed. Dexter wanted to see the old Betts stamping ground for himself before he committed himself to further action. He'd never backed away from a job in his whole career, but Dennis Betts had been a hard bastard and an opponent worthy of respect. Nobody knew better than Dexter how big a step it had been to crush the power of the Betts regime and the unknown man responsible was obviously someone who posed a considerable danger to anyone foolish enough to stick their nose where it was not wanted.

A distant figure slowed as Dexter's face became visible in the gloom, then turned abruptly at right angles and vanished into an alley between two buildings. A second figure followed at a discreet distance in the manner of a reprimand coming after an incautious remark. Separate, yet closely linked. The second man pulled his hood down, covering his face and took the same evasive action. Druggies, Dexter surmised. Dealer and client. These days, more likely to be crack, a development that boded ill for Dexter's former colleagues in the Drug Squad.

Crack was bad news. Heroin lifts you up and lets you down slowly so you stay peaceful. Unless and until you hadn't the means to buy your next fix. That aside, heroin addicts tended to be gentle souls asking nothing from the world outside their close relationship with the white powder. Crack cocaine is a different beast. Under its spell, peaceful men discover a taste for mayhem and those who are already wild become madmen.

The wind stirred the branches of the only tree within sight, its leaves rustling like the whispering of naughty children.

Dexter always reckoned this estate had been planned with criminality in mind. A maze of cul-de-sacs and blind alleys made the estate as inaccessible to an outsider as a mediaeval hill village in Spain. No problem if you knew your way around, but a nightmare for non-residents, especially if the stranger was a policeman. Dexter had never countenanced the idea of no-go areas, but the ease with which dead-end streets could be barricaded, trapping unwary officers, had brought about more than one tactical withdrawal in order to ensure the safety of his team.

These days, without any back-up worthy of the name, Dexter wouldn't even consider engaging the enemy on their own turf. The prospect rankled, but he'd have to be more subtle if he wanted this particular enquiry to be productive. Direct action was a non-starter.

He climbed back behind the wheel of his car and drove slowly away from the estate. He'd seen nothing to suggest his safety had been at risk, but that didn't mean it wasn't the case.

Chapter 11

Here, Doggie. Nice Doggie.

More notes on the development of Spider.

I've had an idea in my head for some time, churning away, concerning the loathsome business of dog fighting. Sadly, it's growing in popularity – what a reflection on the ills of society in the 21st century that is. A character without any discernible redeeming features should have an appropriate 'hobby' – what could be more applicable than dog fighting?

Spider climbed out of his car and glanced around at his surroundings. He'd travelled way outside the city limits to an abandoned industrial centre.

The anticipated urban renewal had never materialised and the purpose-built units had been long since abandoned. The buildings hemmed him in, redbrick warehouses and prefabricated units looming over the central courtyard like malevolent beasts around a jungle clearing. Even the air was unpleasant. The courtyard was a black oily square of tarmac, pitted with deep holes and strewn with broken glass and litter. There had once been a play area here, but the sound of childish laughter had not been heard for some considerable time.

Spider walked briskly through the estate, shoulders hunched against the bitter wind until he reached a grim single storey building where he produced a key from his pocket and inserted it into the lock on a formidable metal door. The door swung open and he walked inside, locking the door behind him. Sections of the roof had collapsed inside the shell of the main building and Spider trod carefully as he walked swiftly through the debris. The central area had been subdivided into smaller units which were in a far better state of repair than the host building.

He heard a dog bark once, the sound echoing off the blank walls, and frowned. The unit at which he came to a halt looked just like all the others, but he took another key from his pocket and used it to open the rust-streaked door. He walked inside and looked at the row of cages. Each cage contained a muzzled dog, eyes staring malevolently at the intruder. The majority were pit bull terriers with the occasional Staffie. Dogs born with the urge to fight and a lust for combat.

Spider whirled round as the attention of the dogs switched from him to the door behind him. His shoulders relaxed as he saw the man who had entered the unit. Spider ignored the snarling pit bull terrier that the other man held by the collar, restraining it with an ease that belied his slender build. The man spoke a single word of command and the dog was instantly still, but its small button eyes never left Spider's face. The man slipped a muzzle over the head of the dog and locked the animal inside an empty cage. 'Off his food,' he said, gesturing towards the caged dog. 'I've given him a jab. I'll keep my eye on him.'

Spider nodded. The slim man had an affinity with the dogs and their welfare was his main concern. He possessed sufficient medical knowledge to ensure each animal was at peak condition at all times and the ability to weed out and dispose of the weaklings. Most of the dogs bore the scars of combat and each of these animals had been victorious in battle. Only the strongest and most vicious dogs survived the fights which were always decided by the death of the weaker animal and these dogs were the gladiators of their day.

Spider followed the man along a corridor and into a small room no more than eight feet square. Apart from a single bed, the room was devoid of furniture. No headboard, just a plain mattress with a single sheet as the only covering. There were no curtains or blinds on the window and no view either. Just a six-foot gap between this room and the neighbouring block with nothing to see apart from row after row of red bricks.

Three nails hammered into the wall acted as a wardrobe and Spider knew that the only working toilet and sink in the building, next to the room holding the caged dogs, was equally minimalist.

The living area couldn't have been more spartan in nature, but there was not a speck of dust in the room and the clothes hanging from the nails looked clean and fresh. Two black leather boots, polished to an immaculate shine, were hanging by their laces from one of the nails. Spider had known this man for a year and had never seen him look anything else than clean and smart.

This was a man who didn't need any of life's luxuries. Spider paid him far more than he could ever spend, but money had never been his motivation. A place to sleep and the company of the dogs that were his only friends satisfied most of his needs. He was well supplied with food for himself and the dogs, but the only other thing he needed was something that only Spider could supply. He was tense now, almost quivering. Spider's visit had been unscheduled and that could only mean one thing: a job.

Spider let him wait a few moments before he spoke. 'Someone is looking for me,' he said.

The other man said nothing, but his eyes were bright.

'Find out who they are.'

''Yes.' The single word hadn't been a question but the word hung in the space between them.

'Find them and hurt them.'

The other man's expression softened. This was the work that he craved.

Spider spoke again, his eyes fixed on the face of the man before him. 'Anything you need, let me know. When you find them, don't kill them. Not until I've had a word.'

The other man nodded. 'But hurt them?'

Spider gave a chilling smile. 'Oh yes. Hurt them. Make them sorry they ever heard about me.'

He dropped a brown envelope on the bed. A bulky envelope stuffed with banknotes. Spider nodded at the other man, then turned and walked away without another word.

As he passed the open room containing the caged dogs he glanced inside. The animals were muzzled to ensure their silence and to prevent them damaging each other, but the air of collective menace in that room was overwhelming. Pure hate radiated out towards the man watching them. Only their handler had their trust.

Many of the animals had been treasured family pets in the recent past, but that veneer of civilisation had left them during their first fight to the death. Only the animals that possessed a true blood lust survived and their only motivation now was the opportunity to fight again and again. They were well fed and exercised and the nature of their surroundings didn't concern them. The restraining muzzles and cages were a trivial detail. Only the opportunity to kill was important.

Their former owners may still be grieving the loss of the family pet, but the dogs had long since forgotten their temporary lapse into domesticity. They were killers once again. Reverting to the true nature of their bloodlines.

Chapter 12

A French Farmhouse Feast

We lived in France for many years, initially in the Loire Valley and later close to the Mediterranean in the sunny Southwest.

In the first weeks following our arrival in France, life had been far from easy. Having decided to undertake the restoration of a vast Maison de Maitre in the Loire Valley, a mile or more from any neighbours, we soon became familiar with local builders' yards, but had not yet made contact with any of the locals.

This was all to change with the arrival in our life of the redoubtable Joel one cloudy morning as it began to drizzle with rain. In his mid-sixties, short of stature but as strong as a pit pony, he'd walked along, peering curiously at the new arrivals while leading a placid cow by a rope halter. Hitching the soft-eyed animal to the gate post, he walked inside, introduced himself, and without another word set to helping me move about sixty sacks of cement into the barn and out of the rain.

Chatting away as we worked, he told me he'd been born on a small farm nearby, had never been more than twenty miles away from the place of his birth in his life, and that we must come and visit for a meal the following evening. The matter was settled, there and then.

The following evening, Joel greeted us at the door, cap tipped roguishly over one eye, closely followed by his wife, Marie, scurrying along from the kitchen. Following the usual round of kisses and handshakes, it was down to serious business, with our host offering a bewildering choice of aperitifs. Pastis, of course, the universal stand-by appropriate to all occasions and times of day, and bottle after bottle ranged in serried ranks on the sideboard. Pineau-des Charentes, a delicious blend of two parts cognac to one part grape-juice, and Suze, a greenish-yellow drink based on gentian, very sweet with a bitter after-taste. Personally, I find it disgusting, but it has its admirers. I noted bottles of Muscat, Épine-Noire, made to Joel's special recipe, and Vin-de-noix, a similar concoction but substituting walnuts for the blackthorn shoots. There were many others, all made on the farm from traditional recipes. We played safe and decided on Pineau-des Charentes.

I was not at all surprised to note the splendour of our surroundings as Joel had already assured me, despite my protestations, that his wife would have made a special effort on our behalf. A gleaming linen cloth covered the huge table, laid with the very best china plates, and napkins arranged in the shape of an open fan.

'Like Maxims', I said, and Joel beamed. Neither of us have dined at the famous Parisian restaurant, or are ever likely to do so in the future, but the compliment was perceived as such, and Marie's efforts seen to have been appreciated.

We took our seats while Joel poured a glass of Kir for each person; white wine mixed with a small quantity of crème de cassis. The name originated with a hero of the French Resistance and former mayor of Dijon, Canon Kir and is a traditional opener to a meal with friends. We all touched our glasses together.

'Santé', Marie said in her soft voice and we toasted each other's continued good health.

Joel asked me to teach him an English toast. 'Bottoms-up', I responded, raising my glass in salutation.

'Bottoms-up', replied Joel, roaring with laughter and choking on his wine. Marie smiled indulgently, whisking an imaginary crumb from the spot-less tablecloth. We had already appreciated her limitless patience to be a necessary virtue, as Joel would try the patience of a dozen saints.

We sat chatting for the next twenty minutes or so. This leisurely approach to dining was alien at first. We were accustomed, from living in England, to spend not much more than an hour and a half over a meal of this nature. The French will probably take twice as long, allowing ample time to savour the food and wine to the full. Each course will be discussed in detail, and the accompanying wines given the attention and appreciation they deserve.

While Joel told Maureen an interminable vulgar story, of which, fortunately perhaps, she understood no more than one word in ten, I took the opportunity to admire the table setting. Wineglasses, three to each person, were arranged in a straight line above the plate. As is usual practice, no side plates were provided, but this is where the napkin comes into play, bread being placed directly on the cloth. The very best cutlery had been laid out, forks placed with the points facing down. It is considered unlucky for the points to face upwards.

Marie appeared with a steaming bowl containing a delicious leek, potato and spinach soup. Wine is never served with a soup course, except at the very end, when we were offered half a glass to add to the last few drops of soup remaining in our bowl. This old custom, known as Faire le Chabrout, involves raising the bowl to the lips and drinking the wine-laden dregs. Joel assured us that it was also customary to wipe one's mouth with the back of a hand, and demonstrated as much, roaring with laughter when we declined to follow his example. Marie chided him gently, but had to smile at his affectation of innocence, eyes rolling, with all the skills of a natural clown.

Marie removed the soup bowls from the table, and returned with small finger bowls, hot water and a slice of lemon. Waste is un-heard-of in this house, and bones will be picked up with fingers to remove all traces of the meat.

The next offering was a mini-course; radishes served with sea-salt and creamy yellow butter. Picked fresh from the garden, washed, and served with the green fronds still attached. The radish is picked up by the fronds, and then dipped in turn into butter and salt before eating. The humble radish is widely prized in this region, and serving it in this fashion, as a complete course, elevates it to a position it deserves. Like all vegetables, it is at its best when served absolutely fresh, these radishes were still in the ground ten minutes ago, Marie having slipped outside to pick them, and given them a quick wash, while we were finishing the last of the soup. Her energy was astonishing, always on the move and absolutely in her element this evening with dinner guests to pamper and spoil. Maureen made several offers of assistance, only to be gently reminded that she was a guest, and should remain in her seat. Joel told us, with obvious pride, that his wife enjoyed entertaining guests and all the work involved more than anything else. Marie confirmed this was the case. 'C'est ma fantaisie', she whispered modestly and fled in embarrassment to the kitchen.

Joel said that we were not having a fish course, meaning that we would be expected to retain our plates and cutlery for the remaining courses. Normal practice is to scrub one's plate with a chunk of bread, ready to move on to the next course. A fish course would, of course, involve changing both plates and cutlery.

The next part of the meal was a surprise. Not the food itself, fresh juicy Charentais melons with their deep apricot-coloured flesh, but by Joel and Marie dipping their melon into a saucer of sea-salt before each mouthful. Noting our hosts' obvious enjoyment, we followed their example, but soon realised that this taste was one we had yet to acquire. We prefer our melon au naturel.

A further break for conversation, with Joel taking centre-stage as usual, arms waving wildly as he told his stories, to gales of laughter around the table. Then, the highlight of the evening, the main course.

I already had a broad hint of what to expect as the aroma seeping through from the kitchen was unmistakable. 'Poulet roti a l'ail', Maureen whispered and so it was. Chicken, cooked with forty cloves of garlic. Forty cloves seem to be the magic number for this dish, although I am told that the actual number of cloves does not have to be that specific. This is Marie's specialité, and was greeted with acclamation as our taste buds switched into over-drive. The rich blend of tender chicken, garlic, olive oil and white wine, was a magnificent feast.

The sheer number of garlic cloves would have appeared extravagant in England, but garlic is one of the essential plants in a French kitchen garden. It is easy and cheap to grow, and Marie would plant enough to last the whole year. The forty cloves of garlic in no way dominate the scent or taste of the dish. The whole garlic cloves are absorbed into the meat, along with the wine, tenderising the flesh of the chicken and enriching the accompanying sauce. Served with a simple green salad, the finger bowls were much in evidence and conversation around the table died down as the delicious food demanded our entire concentration.

Joel wiped the last morsel from his plate, and, pushing his chair slightly away from the table, stretched out his legs with a great sigh of satisfaction. 'Magnifique', he said, quite simply and with the utmost sincerity. Marie blushed with pleasure as we raised our voices in a chorus of approval. 'It's nothing', she said shyly, modest as always.

Dishes of vegetables followed, each with a generous knob of butter, and served separately from the meat in order to savour each dish to the full. Young, tender green beans, baby shallots, white waxy potatoes and a vegetable described as cardons, looking rather like turbo charged celery served with a crème fraiche sauce, and completely unfamiliar to me, but grown by Marie in her kitchen garden.

The potatoes, in particular, were magnificent. Smooth and waxy boiled in their skins, small, tender and of eccentric shape. Marie told me that they were rattes, her particular favourite. This variety is somewhat scarce and stocks are very soon snapped up when they appear in the market. Joel described the scenes around the market stall as being reminiscent of a rugby scrum, but with the participants being sturdy French housewives. These particular specimens were products of his own garden, as he has obtained enough seed potatoes to grow half a dozen rows of this delightful variety.

Marie hurried to and fro; fetching fresh supplies of bread, water, whatever her guests needed. We protested in vain, that she should remain seated and enjoy the meal with us, but she told me firmly that she was enjoying herself, patting each of us as she passed, pleased with the success of the meal, a worthy testament to her efforts and skill.

Almost everything we ate or drank during the evening had been produced on the farm. Although our hosts are very far from wealthy, their diet of meat, fresh vegetables, fruit, herbs and dairy produce is second to none. Fresh food is the norm, with almost no tinned or 'convenience food' in evidence. The farm supports a wide range of animals, cows, sheep, goats, ducks, geese, chickens, pintades or guinea fowl wonderful at killing snakes and better than a dozen burglar-alarms, turkeys, rabbits, and two pigs. Joel has enough vines for his own use throughout the year, and half a dozen beehives, his daughter's hobby. Giselle, the daughter, lives with a young man in the town. Marie hopes she will get married, but she has not, as yet, announced any plans.

By this time, four empty wine bottles stood at the end of the table. Joel pantomimed the plight of a man dying of thirst and trotted off to replenish the stocks. He returned with two bottles of his best wine, a Chinon Rouge, and a bottle of Cahors, the rich dark wine from the Midi. Setting the bottles in the centre of the table, he praised their qualities in fulsome terms. Never one to understate his own offerings, he told me that he had saved both bottles for a special occasion, and that they would be 'formidable, avec du fromage.'

He was absolutely right. The cheese was superb and wonderfully complemented by the wine. Cheese has a high prominence in the order of a French meal. Rather than tagged on at the end of a meal, almost as an after-thought, as is the usual case in England, it is always offered as part of the meal, forming a natural bridge between the main course and the following dessert. A knife and fork are all that is provided as accompaniment, together with red wine. Bread may occasionally be provided, but never with butter, and crackers are virtually unknown.

The cheese was simply superb. Two different cheeses, both made on the farm, were offered, but served in such a way as to provide an incredible range of tastes and flavours. First, goats' cheese made in the traditional shape reminiscent of Crottins de Chavignol. The shape can be imagined from a translation of Crottins, the most polite version being 'horse droppings'. Then, a cheese apparently unique to the farm as I have never seen any like it elsewhere made from either cow or goat's milk, or a combination of both. We had the combination, shaped like a fat cigar covered with a dusky rind.

Using these two different cheeses, a selection of each was offered at different stages of its life, ranging from fresh creamy young cheese to a hard strong variety, matured for a considerable period of time. My plate contained six slices of each cheese. Each slice was taken from a cheese at a different stage of maturity. Joel told me to eat the slices in a particular order, working clockwise around the plate, starting with slices of fresh cheese, very smooth and creamy and progressing to the most mature. By the end I was enjoying cheese at its most magnificent, firm, strong and wonderfully pungent. Only two varieties, but a dozen different tastes and textures, accompanied by strong red wine and a stiff jelly of apple and some other ingredient which baffled me completely. 'What is this, apple and something?' I asked.

'Cotignac', replied Marie which was no help at all as the word was unfamiliar. She repeated it and that of the mystery ingredient several times, but still I did not understand. Joel excused himself, returning shortly with an example of the fruit, picked fresh from the tree. Its velvety texture was un-mistakable. 'Oh, of course', I said, 'Quince'.

'Coing', Joel corrected firmly, and another useful word was added to my vocabulary.

Joel enjoyed his wine to such an extent that he decided it was time for a song. I must confess to being tone deaf, completely unable to carry a tune, and, probably, the worlds' worst singer. Joel was to make me sound like Pavarotti. The absence of any musical talent left him completely un-fazed, making up for his obvious deficiencies with an overdose of enthusiasm. Bellowing some obscure ditty, humming to replace any words he did not remember, of which there were many, this was a tour de force. Maureen and Marie had tears in their eyes and my ribs ached with laughter as Joel entertained us with a song which involved his little finger protruding from the fly buttons of his trousers, while dancing around the room.

None of us were willing to follow such a performance, until Marie allowed herself to be persuaded, singing a haunting ballad that reduced us to an awed silence. She has the voice of an angel, and, after the song ended, there was no way I would attempt to follow it with one of my poor efforts. Under duress, Maureen and I eventually performed a duet, featuring a medley of 'My old man's a dustman', and 'Yesterday'. Joel sang along throughout, despite not knowing a single word, helping to distract attention from our woeful performance.

We had reached the stage, aided by the amount of wine consumed during the meal, where language difficulties were irrelevant. Even Maureen, whose command of the language was rudimentary in those early days, took a full part in the lively conversation, aided by her creative use of gestures.

Dessert was served, together with chilled bottles of Coteaux du Layon, sweet wine of a type which translates as 'luscious'. Strawberries served with cream or crème fraiche, where I was relieved to note that the local custom of adding ground black pepper was not strictly enforced, and one of Joel's favourite sweets, a wonderfully rich cream and coffee pudding.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of sensations. More singing, telling of stories, and good companionship, the ideal meal with friends.

Strong dark coffee was served, after which Joel and I cleared away the dishes and washed up. It was clearly an unfamiliar task on his part, as he had not the faintest idea where any of the items was to be stored. After washing and drying, and reluctant to disturb Marie's kitchen routine, we left everything stacked in neat piles, ready to be put away.

A second cup of coffee prompted the offer of a digestif. My newfound word ready on my tongue I chose a quince liqueur, wonderfully smooth and quite delicious. Maureen, adventurous as ever, requested Baie du Houx, a liqueur made from holly berries, very strong and of quite a unique flavour. I know this because I was obliged to finish most of it! Joel poured himself a small glass of neat Eau de Vie. 'Bottoms-up', he announced, then drank in a single motion, throwing back his head and laughing as tears sprung to his eyes. Eau de Vie, literally water of life, is distilled from fruits of various types. As a pure spirit, it is colourless and retains the scent of the fruit from which it was distilled. The most common variety locally is Eau de Vie Poire William. Incredibly strong, it is widely praised as a digestif, and I can certainly vouch that it 'hits the spot'. Marie took a very small portion on a saucer into which she dipped a cube of sugar. The sugar having soaked up the spirit, she took a genteel suck of the sugar cube and then added it to her coffee.

We took our leave some seven hours after arrival. Unwilling to risk driving, we walked the three miles back to our house. The night was warm and pleasant, stars filling the sky, and we spent the entire journey reminding ourselves of the pleasures we had experienced. The wonderful food, the superb wine, and, most of all the delightful company of our hosts. A night we will never forget.
Chapter 13

I Shouldn't Really Be Here, You Know.

We left England almost twenty years ago. Suddenly.

We gave up our jobs, sold the house, and went off to live in France.

The whole process took a week. A frantic week, admittedly.

Leaving aside the ludicrously dramatic reasons behind this sudden change, why France? Well, many reasons. We liked France and property was cheap. Reasons enough? We thought so.

We bought an old house, a ruined house, to renovate, make it habitable, a career move that was to continue for another 18 years. I'm not a builder, not even in my dreams, but I'm a quick learner. This was in the Loire Valley. Later we went south, to the shores of the Mediterranean and, later still, to Spain.

It was in rural Spain, ten miles inland from the concrete hell of the Costa del Sol, perched high in the mountains overlooking the Mediterranean with views across to the Rif Mountains of Morocco, that I discovered my spiritual home. The climate, the relaxed pace of life, the absence of formality, this was how I wanted to live forever. We stayed on, finished the 300-year-old finca with its spectacular views and bought another house, a total ruin with equally stunning vistas.

My lovely wife has been in sole charge of common sense throughout our years together and she took a long look at me one day as I hobbled back up the track.

'Why are we still doing this?' she said. It was a good question. The knee operations I'd put off for so long couldn't wait any longer. We sold both houses, eventually, and moved back to England, on a trial basis. That was 18 months ago. English winters are hard to take after so many years away and this one is taking its toll on my spirit.

We kept back a piece of land in Spain, a project, for a day that may never come. An insurance policy, if you like. The land is calling me. Do I really want to start again, slogging away, mixing cement and carrying armfuls of bricks? Not really. Do I want to sit inside watching the rainfall in my English bolthole? Not at all.

So, what's the answer? Once again, my wife had it all sussed. We'll stay here, in England, move back up North, put down limited roots, establish a base camp. 'Then we can go off and have adventures.' That word did it for me, 'adventures,' I like adventures. We've been to Australia, New Zealand, Singapore, Fiji, Alaska and the Canadian Rockies in the last couple of years.

Adventures.

It isn't necessary to go so far. I yearn to go back to Morocco for a month or two, perhaps do the big trek through the Sahara to the southern tip of Africa we talked about last time we were there.

But setting off in the camper van to do Eastern Europe is an adventure, meandering through Ireland or the Scottish Highlands is an adventure. So many choices.

I'm content again. Of course I miss the year round sunshine, but I'm also enjoying my morning stroll to the cafe with the leather armchairs where they provide a log fire, all the day's newspapers and generously large mugs of coffee. You don't get that when you live two miles down a goat track, sunny or not. Right then. Adventures it is. Getting excited now.

Chapter 14.

Food and wine, so much more than mere fuel.

During my years living in France I picked up a great deal of information on the essentials of life.

This being France, food and wine were high on the list of priorities. I'd rashly agreed to help my French neighbour with his grape harvest and, having laboured since dawn under a burning sun, the break for lunch, promptly at noon, was very welcome.

Taking a seat on one of the long oak benches, I noted an immaculate VW camper parked in the shade of a walnut tree.

The owners of the camper van were two Englishmen in their early twenties, extremely camp, and excitable, and excellent company. The more outgoing admired Maureen's blond hair. He told her he was a hairdresser by profession and offered to cut her hair, after lunch. This was an offer to be considered seriously. My wife dreads the inevitable visit to the hairdresser, where the inadequacy of her spoken French is severely tested, and welcomed this generous offer.

'It's too hot now for long hair, could you cut it really short, like a boy?' She asked.

'Oh, you want to be a boy and I want to be a girl!' he screamed, collapsing into fits of giggles.

Maureen's new friends showed her round their van. All sorts of gadgets and an excellent calor gas stove, the other young man being a chef. The extensive cooking facilities in such a small space were at the expense of the sleeping area which consisted of one small bed, barely large enough for one person.

'Don't you fall out?' Maureen asked, looking at the narrow bed with a concerned eye.

'Oh no, we've never had a cross word', the hairdresser screamed as they fell about laughing until their sides must have ached.

Our hostess, Josette was placing vast quantities of food on the trestle tables, and I suddenly realised I was ravenously hungry. Numerous bottles of red wine were produced, together with a walnut aperitif made from green walnuts, red wine, and eau-de-vie, as well as earthenware jugs of water. Baskets of hot crusty bread were stacked down the centre of the tables, and we all reached across to break off chunks as required. A huge steaming bowl of cream of asparagus soup stood on a side table, together with individual serving bowls. Down the centre of the tables there were dishes of hot button mushrooms in garlic, boiled potatoes topped with butter and parsley, aubergines studded with garlic, wafer-thin translucent slices of Bayonne ham, green beans, and an enormous salad with a simple vinaigrette dressing.

I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. Aches and pains were forgotten as we set about the demolition of this food mountain. A dozen different conversations criss-crossed the tables, hands reached out for bread, for wine, and the farm dogs were beside themselves, begging shamelessly from each person in turn, ever hopeful of a share in the bounty.

Josette replenished as quickly as the food was eaten, each time tempting us with some new extravaganza.

The cheese board made its appearance, together with fresh supplies of red wine, and then it was time for dessert, greeted with roars of approval, as it is with this course that Josette is justifiably famous among her discerning neighbours. Prunes in white wine arrived first, then peaches in white wine, followed by pears in red wine, dishes chosen for their partnership with wine emphasising the value of the crop we were engaged in picking. Heaped bowls of cream and crème fraiche completed the feast. We sipped strong black coffee and sought out shade, where the more canny of our number would enjoy an hour's siesta before the signal to resume work was given.

'Come with me' said Marcel, taking me by the arm, 'we will taste some wine'. One of the more obvious benefits of living in France is the availability of fine wine at a price unheard of in England. Supermarkets sell a great range and variety of wine, always with a large selection produced locally. The choice is huge, but almost always confined to French wine. This is understandable in a land so obsessed with the quality of its own products. No one else understands or produces wine like the French. This may or may not be the case, in view of the rise in recent years of excellent wine from such places as Australia, California and Chile, but don't expect a Frenchman to hold any other point of view. I buy some wine from the supermarket, but mostly I buy in bulk from Marcel. We are fortunate in having a large cave, or wine store, in our house. In times gone by, our house made both bread and wine for the village, as testified by an enormous bread oven and huge stone storage tanks, each holding many thousands of litres.

I know Marcel well enough by now to know that he needs very little encouragement to visit his beloved cave. Before I came to live in France, I thought that red wine was made from dark grapes and white wine from white grapes. The process is far too complicated for such simple rules of thumb. White grapes are only made into white wine, that much is true, but black grapes also make white wine, as well as rosé and, of course, red wine. The pulp and juice of dark grapes are colourless, and, as only the juice is used in the making of white wine, dark grapes are used as readily as white grapes.

Marcel has recently taken delivery of a new continuous winepress, and we made a detour on our way to the cave in order that I could admire the new acquisition, a gleaming miracle in cream and chrome. It works non-stop, accepting pulped grapes at one end and discharging sweet-smelling must at the other. The other machines were equally impressive. The first stage in preparing the grapes, known as faulage, involves splitting open the grapes without crushing the pips or stalks. The machine used for this process, le foulorr, is a terrifying beast, indeed. Two enclosed rollers rotate in opposing directions, flaying the skin from the grapes. The next stage is eraflage, removing the stalks, after which the grape pulp is pumped into the main press. After pressing, the resultant juice, or must, is left to stand for a period, allowing the cloudy suspension to settle. Marcel will siphon the clear juice away from the sediment when setting, or debourvage, has taken place. The clear juice will then be transferred to massive vats to ferment. There are many other stages before the wine can be bottled, the following year. The wine must be clarified and filtered, protected against infection by microorganisms, and its progress checked at every stage. This is where the skills of the producer are most important, and where an acknowledged expert such as Marcel will hope to produce a wine which will excite the admiration of his customers, thus guaranteeing sales and a healthy profit for the year.

Marcel took over the farm on the retirement of his father about 15 years ago, and has drastically expanded his wine production, almost to the extent of excluding everything else. His father, Marcel the elder, continues to work on the farm every day, but in recent years, has concentrated on his vegetable plot which extends over a mere half acre. Winemaking was Marcel's hobby and has become his passion. Vineyards were planted in the area before Roman times and a winepress about 2000 years old is on display in the musée du vin at Tours.

As we walked to the cave I asked Marcel what grapes he was currently growing. I thought this a simple enough question, but was somewhat disconcerted by the complications that the answer produced. Many varieties of grapes are grown some for a specific purpose and others for blending. The bulk of the vineyard is given over to Cabernet Franc, used as a single grape variety in nearby Chinon for their splendid red wine, but Marcel blends it with a small quantity of Cabernet Sauvignon for the making of Anjou Rouge. The Sauvignon grape is easy to grow and tolerant of most climatic conditions, thicker skinned that the Cabernet Franc giving a rich dark flavour, an ideal wine for blending. The Cabernet Franc grape is known as Le Breton after the representative of Cardinal Richelieu, the Abbé Breton who collected a range of grapevines from the Bordeaux area to try in local vineyards and of these, the Cabernet Franc proved best suited to the soil and climate of this area. It makes an earthy wine with flavours of blackcurrant and raspberries, and improves with age, keeping very well for five or six years.

The Chenin Blanc grape is known locally as Pineau de la Loire. These grapes are picked very late in the year when they are over-ripe and after Pourriture Noble, noble rot has set in. Marcel makes the wonderful Coteaux du Layon wine from over-ripe Chenin Blanc grapes. This grape needs maximum sunshine and in a hot dry year such as this the Coteaux du Layon will be superb. Marcel advised me to put my order in now for next April or May when it will be ready to bottle. He actually makes Coteaux du Layon -Val de Loire appellation, as he is just outside the geographical area of the true Coteaux du Layon. The same grapes are used and exactly the same methods of production.

The other two main grapes are the Sauvignon Blanc and Chardonnay. The Sauvignon Blanc is a difficult grape to grow, as it is very choosy about its soil and climate, for perfection everything has to be ideal. Marcel has found a corner of his vineyard where the soil is ideal for this grape and the only other variable is the climate. Too little sun will make a sour, sharp wine, but too much sun will make it over-blown and unsatisfactory. This is the grape variety used in Sancerre and Pouilly-fumé wine. At its best it is magnificent. Marcel bottles it as simply Sauvignon, and it will rival his Chardonnay and Coteaux du Layon, 'in a good year'. Unfortunately, good years are rare with this grape. 'Why bother?' I asked. Marcel shrugged his massive shoulders with the depth of expression that only a Frenchman can bring to the action. 'Perhaps this year will be right and then you will know the answer'. Marcel's other love affair is with Chardonnay. 'Easy to grow and easy to sell. Everybody knows the name, even Les Anglais!'

I asked about Rosé wines and Marcel told me that he used to make a Rosé d'Anjou from a variety of grape known as Groslot, reasonably sweet and very popular a few years ago. Fashions change and he now makes Cabernet d'Anjou from the Cabernet Franc grape. This is not a problem as he has so much of this grape for making red wine. Cabernet d'Anjou is stronger than Rosé d'Anjou but rather drier, more to the local taste and sells very well. He also makes a Rosé de Loire, again a dry Rosé wine. He explained the difference between them but it was not apparent to me. They tasted so similar as to appear identical, the colour is identical and it appears a rather fine distinction. I rationalised the inadequacy of my palate by supposing that as we had tasted directly from the tank, the difference would have been more apparent if the wine had been served chilled.

We arrived at the cave and Marcel slid open the large double doors which are normally kept closed to keep out sunlight and heat. Closing the door behind us we entered an enormous stone-flagged cool room, almost chilly, with huge vats, some stainless steel, others an opaque plastic and several enormous old wooden casks, all having a spigot or tap and a marker showing the level of the liquid contents. Many of the larger concerns store their wine underground, but Marcel's cave is on the surface. It is essential that the wine store remains cool and sterile. It is the height of bad manners to wear strong perfume, aftershave, sun creams etc. in this holy of holies. Smoking, even by the French, is not practised at a wine tasting, probably the only occasion when the ever-present cigarette will be extinguished. A party of Americans had visited Marcel earlier in the year, with the intention of tasting and buying wine, only to be banished from the premises. Marcel took great exception to the strong perfumes they were wearing and feared that his precious wine would be contaminated. He was unable to understand how anyone could arrive at a wine tasting at 9.15a.m. after a breakfast of jam and croissant, and with a noticeable scent of peppermint toothpaste obliterating their taste buds.

An upturned oak barrel had a small silver tray with half a dozen wineglasses. This region has its own wine glass and wine bottle. Following the First World War a protracted debate took place, after which a wineglass unique to the Anjou region was chosen. The Anjou wine bottle, more akin to a Beaujolais bottle than that of Bordeaux has an embossed crest below the neck with three Fleur-de-lys, a star and a crown, all surrounded by two branches of laurel. Marcel was noticeably more serious as he told me he would teach me how to taste wine. This is a ritual all of its own and is always treated with the utmost seriousness. He has demonstrated the various stages to me in the past, but obviously felt I would benefit from a refresher course.

A partly filled glass of Anjou Rouge was my initiation. I held up the glass by the stem, tilting it slightly and holding it against the background of the whitewashed walls, Marcel pointed out its colour, a rich dark ruby. He cautioned me that if I should wish to buy wine from a less reliable supplier that I should insist on viewing the colour of the wine against a candle flame. The definitive test of colour is by viewing from above where there can be no distortion in the glass. Satisfied with the appearance of the wine, we then proceeded to examine the scent. Marcel gripped the wine glass stem with the tender embrace of a lover, swilling the contents around the globe to release all the flavour. Examining the scent of wine is no place for genteel delicacy as Marcel demonstrated by thrusting his prominent nose into the glass and inhaling deeply. Swirling round about the bowl with the precise judgement of a master craftsman, he brought the wine to the very rim of the glass, but never spilt a drop of this precious liquid, before repeating the sniffing process. My every action was scrutinised with great care as I followed his example. Marcel took a final deep sniff, gave a huge sigh of pleasure and raising the glass to his lips, and took a generous swallow. He rolled the wine around his mouth, his intense pleasure indicated by his flashing eyes opening wide and cheeks crinkling with merriment. As I drank from my own glass, Marcel partly opened his mouth and sucked in a great gulp of air, like an ill-bred navvy slurping soup. He continued swirling the wine around his mouth, overdosing on the sensation, before finally, swallowing with a sigh of the most intense pleasure. Savouring the feeling for several seconds, he assured me that this after-taste, lingering in the complicated series of channels which make up the body's sinus system, is the ultimate test of a convivial wine. I followed his example to the best of my ability, albeit my slurping left a little to be desired, too decorous by far, but I remembered every aspect of the lesson with gratitude.

'You always swallow?' I asked.

'Bien sur, what else?'

'I thought perhaps...' I mimed the act of spitting out the wine, not knowing the French verb 'to spit'. (I still don't know the word).

'Merde', he spluttered. 'Jamais'. It was clear that the practice of spitting out the wine was only applicable when being offered a taste of a new wine, which, when newly introduced into the casks, would bear no resemblance to what it would later become. A knowledgeable palate would be able to discern the likely outcome of this young wine, but would obtain all the necessary information from a taste of the wine on the sensitive areas of the mouth and tongue. The stomach would be unlikely to appreciate such a young wine and in these circumstances, it would be quite in order to spit it out. This would clearly be more appropriate to a wine taster from Paris or some other large city, but my companion left me in no doubts that spitting out his wine would be considered the ultimate heresy. I could not imagine the consequences if anyone had the temerity to spit out a mouthful of Marcel's wine.

'What wine do you like yourself?' I enquired, savouring the rich fruity flavours exploding from my glass.

'All of my own, naturellement, but also Muscadet and the wine of the Rhone delta.'

Marcel does not grow Muscadet which is more suited to the cooler damper areas around Nantes, but is a great admirer of the classical dry white, superb with shellfish, especially oysters. He has lain in stocks - 'only a few bottles, perhaps fifty or sixty', for the Christmas and New Year festivities. His particular favourite wine for a special occasion would be either Châteauneuf-du-Pape, a wine that keeps forever and is always magnificent, fruity, rich and 'trés fort', or, even more impressive, Hermitage, made from the Syrah grape which Marcel coverts for his own vineyard, and has planted a few rows to see how they fare. He regards Hermitage as the greatest of all red wines. 'Le champion', he affirmed, eyes flashing as he spoke of the great passion of his life. Wine to a Frenchman is a subject very dear to the heart. Other subjects are widely discussed: politics, the weather, rugby, food and all its attendant rituals, but the greatest respect is given to wine. Marcel would not thank me for the observation that sex is a passing fancy compared to wine; he is, after all, a Frenchman, but, in his heart, he knows it to be true.

Refreshed, educated and invigorated, I followed Marcel back to the yard. I had learned a valuable lesson and gone some way towards understanding the powerful grip that the product of the simple grape holds over these men who earn their living from its cultivation.

Chapter 15

Wish I were here now.

A special place, this. A tiny haven just off the beaten track on the Costa del Sol, little known and all the better for that. Where is it? Don't be silly, I'm not telling you that. Do you think I want it spoilt by you lot cluttering up the place?

On the coastal strip, the surrounding hillsides are thickly planted with a burgeoning crop of nearly identical villas. Each with surrounding strip of well-watered garden. Pale oleander and deep red hibiscus mingle with Bougainvillea of every conceivable hue while long-necked palm trees tower over the vibrant undergrowth. Ornate wrought iron cages defend windows and doors and vigilant security guards scrutinise each and every visitor.

On the steeper slopes, brand new communities re-create ancient hill villages, each house tight to its neighbour, pushing upwards in a classical pyramid of interlinked dwellings, the uniform white paint so bright it hurts the eyes.

Imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery, but the developers have got it badly wrong. Everything is too perfect, too clean, and far too symmetrical. What sets the old villages apart is their very lack of order, the higgledy-piggledy narrow streets fit only for donkeys and mules, the eccentric nature of the architecture, the sense of permanence that only the passage of innumerable centuries can create.

The old coastal town is delightful. Old narrow streets packed with restaurants and no tourist tat in sight. A spur of promenade defiantly fronting the sea, a lone speedboat, far out from shore, a brilliant white speck against the deep blue of the ocean, its rich creamy wake like an ostrich feather adorning some expensive creation atop the head of a society lady in the Royal Enclosure at Ascot.

Chapter 16

An absolutely infallible system for dealing with the frustrations of telephone call centres.

Call Centres. A triumph of twenty-first century technology. I relish each and every opportunity to get in touch. Over time I've developed an infallible system. Here's a call I made earlier today as an example.

Fifteen rings, then a metallic voice offers me a choice of five options. Great. I love choices. I press three, although any of them will be as good as any other. I wait another thirty seconds before a (different) android asks me for another option, only four this time. Hmm, not as good as last time. I take the safe route, pick three again. I know.

Another brief pause. Forty-two seconds, but who's counting?

Suddenly, making me jump, music kicks in. Oh, good! If I really concentrated, perhaps I would manage to identify the melody in the time I spend waiting for a human voice to come on the line. I screwed my eyes up and listened furiously. No bloody idea.

Who chooses this stuff ? Presumably there were copyright issues involved, meaning someone had shelled out money for the right to take a perfectly good tune and turn it into unrecognisable mush. The piece came to an end, still unidentified, and an up-tempo number kicked in, all jangling chords and manic bursts of noise. I decided I'd listen harder. Why not? Nothing better to do. The first hint of a melody flicked at the edge of my brain and then clicked into place. The Girl from Ipanema, as I'd never heard it before.

I tried singing along. No chance. 'Tall and tanned and young and lovely'; wasn't that the line? It didn't fit. Not in this version anyway. I dropped the phone in my lap and pulled faces at it for a good thirty seconds. This system has worked in the past. Not today as when I picked it up again, the Girl from Ipanema was still walking.

Time for the crucial phase, this one never fails: I remove the phone from my ear, clench my eyes tight shut and say 'fuck off' very clearly and distinctly into the mouthpiece. When I return the phone to my ear there's a dull empty silence on the line.

'Hello?' a voice says at last, managing to convey doubt and no small degree of alarm within the confines of the single word.

'Hello,' I answer, striving for a neutral tone with bright and breezy elements mixed in. 'Sorry. I think we had a crossed line just then.'

Chapter 17

Thoughts from a maximum-security mental hospital.

Ashworth Hospital on Merseyside is one of only three high-security specialist psychiatric hospitals in England, the others being Rampton and Broadmoor.

As part of the job I used to do, I had occasion to visit 'patients' in Ashworth on several occasions. Violent criminals, detained under conditions of maximum security, as their nature made them far too dangerous to be confined in even the most secure prison. Scary people, the most disconcerting being those who appeared entirely 'normal' – calm, polite, eager to assist me with my questions – an hour with these people and I could guarantee I'd leave the interview room bathed in perspiration.

A few notes I made at the time, intending to use them for a novel that never got off the ground.

I'd experienced the usual convoluted system of repeatedly proving my identity and my reasons for attendance. Even for a repeat attendance, it takes an hour. Minimum. The endless corridors, locked doors, cameras. Lots of cameras. I'd reached an anteroom where I would be 'parked' until the senior manager deigned to allow me to admit his inner sanctum.

In addition to the cameras and the triple strands of razor wire, iron bars covered the windows and thick mesh provided extra protection for the glass itself.

Colditz came to mind. All that was missing was a moat and drawbridge. The defensive screens reinforced my initial conclusion this is an awful place.

All this security has its place. The intention is not to deter intruders. The whole point of the CCTV systems and barred windows is to prevent anyone from leaving. It seems more oppressive somehow this way round.

Scudding clouds careened across the sky, driven by the wind whose ubiquitous presence had dominated the past two days, but the view from the small windows would be gloomy whatever the weather.

Cracked vinyl ties cover the floor and paint had blistered and peeled from the harsh sterile walls. This was a functional room without a hint of compromise. It fulfilled a specific purpose and there were no concessions to artistic expression. A hard, brutal room designed expressly with hard brutal individuals in mind. There were other areas within the same complex where soft pastel shades and comfortable furniture helped to sooth a tormented nature, but this room was not intended to assist a process of rehabilitation.

A figure appeared at the door, winked at me and gestured for me to follow. We'd met before, several times. He liked me. I'd been responsible, in part, for some of the inhabitants of this unit being in here in the first place. This earned a wink, if not an offer of coffee and biscuits.

'He's on his way,' my guide said. 'Go on in; he knows you're here.'

The work area was genteel enough to have been the office of an architect or advertising executive.

An open-plan office was divided into smaller pods by waist-high partitions. Anyone seated at a workstation would have an impression of privacy, but by standing up would be able to see virtually everyone else in the room.

Brass light-shades over dozens of desks gleamed brightly. A small rectangle of space had been partitioned off from floor to ceiling to form an oasis of privacy and it was to this section that I was directed.

The framed scrolls and certificates behind the desk were certainly impressive. As were the professional standard photographs of a tall distinguished looking man with various celebrities. The person who sat at this desk couldn't actually see the trophy wall behind him. The certificates and photographs weren't there for his benefit. They were intended to send a clear message to visitors. 'Look at me', the wall screamed. 'See how important I am'.

I carefully studied each photograph in turn. Taking them all in. Image projection on a grand style. I formed the same opinion as I had on the last occasion I'd sat in this chair.

'Tosser,' I thought.

Chapter 18

What's in the bag, sunshine?

Stuck in Folkestone with an hour to kill. An unfortunate expression, considering the plot of a novel that's been filling my head for a week or more.

I perched for a moment on the arm of a wooden bench. A brass plaque said, 'In memory of Dennis Clarke 1938 – 2003. A true friend and a devoted husband and father. He loved his work. Presented by his colleagues at Johnson and Son.' Devoted husband and father who loved his work? A bit of a contradiction there, I thought, doing the maths in my head. Died at sixty-five. Retired and popped his clogs straight away. Perhaps he really did love his work. He didn't last long after he stopped work; that was for sure.

A small white cloud rushed across the sky like a runaway swan, but in the lee of the gleaming three-storey buildings the air was still and quiet. In the absolute silence, you could have heard a nun fart.

A man, twenty-five or so, walked past the bench and glanced at it without particular interest. Poor Dennis, no bugger cares. The passerby had one of those fancy facial hair jobs that always make me want to puke. The upkeep on those narrow strips of beard and fancy curved sideboards must be a right pain. Far more trouble than the scrape of a razor now and again or three days of stubble. In my experience – trust me, I really study this stuff – facial decoration of this kind was the hallmark of someone who really loved himself. The man walked round the corner and out of sight, presumably still believing he looked the dog's bollocks. Pretentious twat.

A police car drove slowly down the road, the officer in the passenger seat looking at tax discs on car windscreens. He favoured me with a hard stare that I returned with interest. I'd have to check online, but as far as I'm aware, loitering without any discernible intent was surely not a crime. I checked my pockets. £3.56. That's good, not likely to be picked up for vagrancy then.

The police car turned round and headed back towards me. This could go either way. I've never been one for turning the other cheek. I'm doing nothing wrong. What possible interest could they have in me? Almost without noticing, I clenched my fists. If they wanted trouble, I'd give it them. The car came abreast, slowed slightly, both officers favouring me with long, hard looks.

The car didn't stop. Moved on. Attention reverting to parked cars and out of date tax discs. I relaxed. They wouldn't be back. I picked up my carrier bag from the side of the bench, tied a further knot at the top. It wasn't leaking, not yet anyway, but there was always the chance. Not recommended, especially when wearing brand new jeans. That's the only problem with human heads when they're still fresh. After a day or so, they're fine, but the early stages are ruinous to clean clothing.

Chapter 19

Breaking a man's legs with a hammer is harder than it looks.

I was supposed to meet the top man.

One of the mysterious men in white coats who prowled the corridors of this place, he'd insisted on seeing me before I was allowed to meet the man I'd travelled all this way, in a thunderstorm, to interview. Helping with my enquiries as a police officer may have said. I wasn't a police officer, but there was no need for him to know that. He'd assumed I was and that was fine by me.

I wanted to know how the person in question had managed to have so many people's limbs rearranged while an inmate in a maximum-security mental hospital, but I had my doubts whether the inmate in question was going to help me find out.

The doctor certainly wouldn't be helping with my enquiries, that was immediately apparent.

'Just a few brief questions,' he said, clipboard in hand, pen poised.

'No problem.'

'I'd like to make sure your presence here doesn't make my job any harder than it is already, you see?'

'Hmm.'

'The man you're booked in to see, he's a difficult patient.'

'I'm sure he is.'

' Yes, quite. I'd like to get some idea of your motivation, what you're expecting to get out of your visit.'

I could have produced my warrant card, signed by the Home Secretary, told him to move his fat arse out of my way and bring the 'patient' to see me, right now, but I didn't. Ever the diplomat I just said, 'Mmm.'

'Perhaps a few technical questions to start with,' Doctor fat-arse said.

'Right. Only, please don't show me any sodding ink marks.'

'The infamous Rorschach inkblots? No, not today.'

'I just don't see how that helps,' I said, hoping I was demonstrating genuine puzzlement and not just ignorance. 'You know, showing someone a few dozen odd shapes and making out it means something when the patient says it reminds him of his dead mother. What's that all about?'

Was it right to say inmate? Should I have said patient or something? Who fucking cares? If you can't say something sensible, just shut up.

'Interesting.'

'God, that's just what I'd have expected you to say, interesting.' I said, laughing out loud. My mirth quickly died away with the realisation that I was the only person present who found anything amusing.

'The test has many uses. There are only ten inkblots actually. Not a few dozen.'

'Oh.' I hadn't known that. I tried to look interested. Humour him and he might go away.

'When Hermann Rorschach introduced these patterns in 1921 they were considered a radical breakthrough. He died the following year so we can't say for certain how he himself saw their actual development, but over the years a huge amount of data has been collected. I should imagine it would be quite difficult to arrive at a conclusion that hasn't already been made at some time or other.'

'I see.' I was still trying to look as if the subject fascinated me, but it wasn't getting any easier.

'Of course, it is a pretty nebulous activity, delving into the human mind as it were, so any tool can be considered useful. That's all we can hope for, most of the time. You'll find no arrogant statements of certainty in this place. No such thing as a sure thing in psychology.'

I nodded.

'Exactly what were you hoping to discover today as a result of your interview with the patient?'

I took a deep breath. 'I'm sorry, doctor, that's really none of your business.'

He didn't look happy. 'What you must understand is that the patient is in a vulnerable state at present. I'd be concerned if your questioning induced a setback in his rehabilitation.'

I nodded, understandingly. Reassuringly. There would be nothing to gain here by pointing out that the 'patient' was a ruthless man who had been responsible for the violent early death of at least five people. I'd personally seen him break the legs of a rival with a hammer. It took a dozen blows to accomplish this task and he'd laughed aloud after each blow.

I wasn't interested in his 'rehabilitation;' I just wanted to try to prevent him carrying out any further atrocities. He may talk to me. I was a friend, or so he thought. I wasn't expecting miracles.

'Just a chat about old times,' I said. 'Nothing to get him excited at all.'

Doctor Fat-Arse beamed. 'Excellent. Well, I'll get things moving. So glad we understand each other.'

We shook hands and he bustled out, white coat flapping. I composed myself and put myself back in the zone. The ripped and battered leather jacket I was wearing had once belonged to the man I was about to see. He'd given it to me a year ago as a token of friendship.

We'd bought and sold hard drugs together, planned major crimes, talked about the future development of the 'business.'

We were mates. In his eyes, we still were. I certainly hoped so.

Chapter 20

In a very different vein - my dad's debut poem, at the age of 85

My dad left school at fourteen, without qualifications. He worked as a labourer in a steelworks and at the start of the last World War was denied the chance to fight for his country as the work he did was vital to the war effort.

He never read a book in his life, had no real education, yet in his mid-eighties he began to write poetry. I taught him to use a computer, made slight changes to his poems to ensure they scanned correctly, but the words are his alone.

This is the first poem he ever wrote. He was 85 at the time.

Were You There?

Did you volunteer for service in the war to end all wars?

Did you witness the destruction, that was never seen before?

Were you on the fields of Flanders, were you in the trenches there?

Did you hear the shot and shell, that seemed to come from everywhere?

Did you bandage up the wounded, did you bury all the dead

With your eyelids barely open, and your feet that felt like lead?

Were you there at the surrender, the Armistice, were you there?

Did you see the flags and bunting, were you there, were you there?

Did you see men returning, some were shell-shocked, some were lame.

And some with poison gas were scarred, to never work again?

But some, who were not there, they are somewhere out at sea,

The victims of the submarines, they died for liberty.

And some lie out in foreign soil, and some were never found,

The dreadful cost of warfare, buried deep in alien ground.

Men in high position talk of peace, but that is where it ends.

They feel that all the world's their foe, and dare not trust their friends.

If war is not to be a way of life, for generations yet to come,

Now is the time to make a stand, to bring the message home,

To say to politicians, we've had our fill of war.

In war there is no victory, victims aplenty to be sure,

Some of us alive today have trod this path before,

And the memories it left with us are like an open sore.

If human conflict is to cease, and human life be spared,

The countries of this tragic world will need to be prepared,

To work for unity and brotherhood, all with one accord,

And then, perhaps one day, peace and love will be restored.

Chapter 21

A typical day in La Belle France.

I've recently discovered some notes I made when writing background for a recipe book based around our early years in France. The first couple of years had been backbreaking, getting to grips with a massive renovation project, an abandoned Maison de Maitre in the Loire Valley.

Two years on, most of the construction work behind us, we'd finally settled down into a routine. That first 'easing-down' summer was scorching; the heat relentless and we had to adjust to a life very far removed from our previous experience. We were thinking about our next building project, but the heat of that summer provided a fine excuse for putting off the next stage of relentless labour.

We'd adjusted well to living close together, every hour of every day, and only wished we'd made the move earlier. This was to be our summer of quiet contemplation, the first genuine rest we'd ever experienced as a couple.

These are the notes I took, describing 'a typical day at home.'

A stroll on the patio, accompanied by cats with much purring and rubbing around my legs, while I drink my coffee, and then back in to shower, and shave if I feel up to it.

I detest shaving and can at last manage to avoid the necessity every single day. The 'designer stubble' favoured by sports stars and rock musicians is distinctly unattractive in my case, more Desperate Dan than George Clooney, sometimes I even frighten myself when taking a quick glance at the mirror, but at least the chore can be lessened and a good compromise is to shave on alternate days.

We occasionally have a croissant together, but more usually manage on just coffee, before I leave on my tour of duty. This involves releasing the ducks and chickens from their pens, kept safe from foxes during the night, and collecting any eggs. The goats are next on the agenda. We have three baby goats at present and two adults, Thelma and Louise. Goats are delightful animals, great characters and very friendly. They have no unpleasant smell at all; only Billy goats possess that distinctive aroma. The only problem with goats is their ability to eat absolutely anything, usually the very things we didn't want them to eat.

I tether the young ones in the field, attaching them to old tyres and making sure that they have plenty of scope to move around but without becoming entangled. Thelma and Louise have their own fenced area with lots of grass and interesting things to munch. They have to be penned, as they are now too strong to be tethered. Thelma appeared in the kitchen one afternoon last year, dragging behind her an enormous tractor tyre.

On the terrace, a basking lizard lies motionless on the warm stone, Heat haze dances and shimmers on the distant copse of trees. Our cats have by now picked their sunbathing spots with care and settled down for a hard day's basking. A miner bee reverses carefully from its perfectly round hole in the earth, before drifting away on its daily duties. Beyond the hedge, the fields of dried maize rustle like the parchment of ancient deeds in a lawyer's office.

A pair of soaring buzzards, supported by outstretched wings, swoop and glide in the clear air, their button eyes alert for the slightest movement on the ground beneath. One drops vertically, to earth, its cruel hooked beak and talons ending the life of some unfortunate creature, then soaring upwards with its prey and re-joining its mate, swirling wings taut, as they ride the thermal hot up-drafts from the hot earth below.

Buzzards, hawks, kestrels and other birds of prey are very common sights in the huge open skies and perched on fence posts and tree branches. Decimated by DDT and other pesticides in England, they flourish here. A pair of buzzards roost in a tree at the edge of our land. Viewed through binoculars, they are a spectacular sight.

A small pond is home to croaking frogs, serenading each other on warm evenings. Herons, standing motionless, still as statues often visit the pond by the water. Taking off, they fly directly over the hedge bordering our back garden.

I check the vegetable garden, do a little light weeding where necessary and, before it becomes too hot, cycle to the village for bread if Maureen has not made any, although she usually has. The early morning is ideal for attending to any jobs around the house, mainly small tasks, as we have now reached the 'ticking over stage'.

The small yellow La Poste van arrives at the gate mid-morning and our post lady invariably stops for a chat. She both delivers and collects mail and will supply stamps as required. Perhaps I will read or write in the shade, as the sun is too harsh for the eyes by this time, until it is time for lunch.

Lunch, invariably on the terrace, usually a big salad with homemade crusty bread followed by fruit and homemade yoghurt with a glass of wine or a cold beer. Almost all meals and food preparation take place in the open air.

After lunch, if it's very hot, that most sensible arrangement, the siesta comes into its own. We have learnt from our friends and neighbours locally to avoid the heat of high summer from lunchtime to mid afternoon where possible. We are not missing out on any sunshine, in summer it's still hot until late in the evening. We take the strength of the sun very seriously. I wear a hat most of the time, together with dark glasses and appropriate sun creams. Clothing consists of tee shirt and shorts with sandals or flip-flops, no socks.

We close the shutters to the bedroom and living room. It took a while to come to terms with the necessity to do this, all our instincts being to open the windows when it's hot to air the rooms and let in a cooling breeze. This may be very sensible in England, but things are very different here, it's just too hot. The front of the house bakes in full sun and the closed shutters allow a delightful cool haven by the end of the day.

Suitably refreshed by our siesta, I check that the animals still have sufficient drinking water, then, perhaps a dip in our small pool, a most welcome diversion.

Later as it becomes cooler again I can attend to such duties as watering the garden, mowing, strimming, scything etc., only really possible early or late in the day. Our acres of grass are not such a problem now we have the goats, but before their arrival its control was a task equivalent to painting the Forth Bridge. In high summer it hardly rains at all and grass will not grow under these conditions, which takes the pressure off mowing, but necessitates watering the crops on a daily basis.

We feed our livestock and put them away for the evening and, after a quick shower enjoy an aperitif before the main meal of the day, again, usually eaten on the terrace.

On other days we may visit friends, go to the supermarket or go out and about exploring the area, but this is a typical 'at home' day.

Chapter 22

Running a crime empire from a padded cell.

I wrote recently about visiting an inmate in a Secure Mental Hospital on Merseyside. Here's a little more on the same theme.

The waiting area was not a place I'd like to spend anything other than the absolute minimum of time in while I 'waited.'

The man I'd come to see wasn't in a meeting, hadn't been called away to deal with an urgent call. He was banged up in one of the rooms down the corridor. A metal door, bed screwed to the floor, stainless steel toilet and walls designed to minimise self-harm. What the papers called a padded cell.

Alone. Segregated from other residents. At all times. Like a wild animal in a cage.

I was waiting because a scribbled note on a piece of paper said one of the senior doctors wanted to talk to me before I was allowed to visit the man I'd come to see. This was unusual. I'd been here before, more times than I'd have wished, and this was a break in routine. I was happy to wait. For a short time.

I'd been directed to an alcove, part of a communal area. Hard plastic chairs and a scored table, all firmly bolted to the floor. No natural light. No concession to the provision of a dignified sympathetic environment at all. The dividing walls were painted plasterboard. Not solid at all, just thin partitions. The minimal sound insulation they provided would have been a clue, but the hole in the wall next to my face, roughly the size of a human fist, was absolute confirmation. I looked intently at the hole in the wall, feeling the repressed rage that was part of the fabric of the building. A great many unhappy men and women had sat in this room, in this very chair perhaps? Violent people. Tormented people. Desperate people. I felt their presence all around me.

I wondered whether the man sitting opposite was feeling the same thing. He was waiting too, but looked as if he was resigned to a lengthy stay.

The gloomy expression on his thin face had a distinct air of permanence. Seated, his legs appeared awkward, almost as if they belonged to someone else. A wide gap between trouser and sock revealed a slice of pale white skin, mottled like the dead flesh of a plucked goose. Thin to the point of emaciation he crossed one ankle over a knee and jiggled his foot nervously, adding to my suspicions that chemical influences were fuelling his surging metabolism. A battered but expensive leather briefcase was on the chair alongside him. He reached into its depths and pulled out a buff folder. I recognised the form it contained, had seen a fair few in my time. A lawyer, almost certainly way down the pecking order at one of the big city firms. The top men didn't volunteer to come here. I could have told him he was wasting his time, but his expression suggested he had already reached the same conclusion.

My reasons for being here were very different. The man I'd come to see was a mate. At least, he thought he was. Banged up in here, without contact to the world outside, I hoped my visit would provide some leverage. Persuade him to reveal how he was managing to influence events back on the streets. He was a wealthy man, of course, but it was the logistics that interested me. Who was being paid off, which of his warders were doing very well lately? That would be a start. Three young men had died in the past week. Died in circumstances that no human being should die, whatever the extent of their criminality. The man I was waiting to see had arranged their deaths. Given the order. Even as an inmate in a Secure Mental Hospital he retained the power of life and death.

This place was a sewer scooping up human flotsam. Some form of cleaning product added a smell of pinewoods to the all-pervading mixture of urine and unwashed humanity. The perfume of the cleaning product was sickening, but nowhere near powerful enough to dominate the other smells. A white-coated man rushed by, coat tails flapping. Patients were thin on the ground. I'd only seen one so far. Are they patients or inmates? As I gave the question some thought, a cadaverous young man, shaven headed and barefoot, shuffled past. He flicked dead eyes towards me, seemingly registering nothing, and shuffled on. He was a scary-looking bastard, but seemingly had the run of the place, meaning he must be one of the better residents. The man I'd come to see wouldn't be walking around. That was an absolute certainty.

'Sorry to keep you.'

I stood and shook hands with a distinguished looking man in a white coat. The lawyer opposite didn't even raise his head. He knew he was in here for a while yet.

'Just a quick chat,' my companion said as we walked to his office. 'Hope that's okay.'

I nodded. It wasn't a problem. A few extra minutes delay was welcome. The man I'd come to see had last seen me over a year ago. The evening before armed police smashed down his front door at three in the morning to be precise.

I'd been careful. Remained visible in the community while establishing the details of my good fortune in evading arrest for long enough for the word to get about. If the man I'd come to see knew of my part in his arrest and subsequent confinement, my life would be very different. I'd know soon enough. A few more minutes would be neither here nor there.
Chapter 23

Undercover.

He lived his life between the cracks. Out of sight. Very few people even knew of his existence and they all knew him by a different name. None of the names was his real name. He hadn't used his real name for fifteen years.

Today was a watershed. An important day. Concerning a good friend. Not a close friend and the friendship, truth to tell, had been one-sided in the extreme. He'd cultivated a friendship with the man he was intending to see. Made himself indispensable. He'd taken the results of that friendship, reported back to his unseen controllers. There had been a great many telephone calls, messages left in public places, a single brief meeting in a crowded pub – this job had been a big one. Six months, a long six months, until the message had finally arrived. 'Pull out now, it's going down.'

He'd watched from across the road, three in the morning, hidden behind an advertisement hording, as the cars screamed into the road, blocking both exits. Shapeless figures, streaming from the vans, the crash of the front door collapsing inwards as the 'Doris' wielded by a burly policeman made short work of the hinges. Shouts and screams, 'armed police, armed police,' lights switched on in every room, then a period of calm as the initial energy dissipated.

He'd maintained his position, careful to keep out of sight. He wasn't a police officer; their undercover boys weren't part of this operation. Too many loose tongues. When he went under, he was on his own. A memorised number to call in an emergency, that was it. Safer that way. The job was dangerous enough without involving anyone outside the team. A very select team, only four people. The undercover man and three to share back up.

He stirred at the sudden commotion, figures emerging from the ruins of the doorway. Police, talking loudly, still pumped up, then the big man himself. Shaven-headed, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, cuffs glinting under the streetlights. Two burly officers bundled him across the pavement, a hand holding down his head as he was pushed into the waiting car. Others piled in after him.

A small figure pushed through the crowd, screaming, hitting out at those who tried to restrain her. Secure in his vantage point, he grimaced. Sharon. The big man's long-term girlfriend. The daughter of a crime boss herself, she was no stranger to pre-dawn raids, but today she'd lost it completely. Screaming with rage, tears glinting on her cheeks, she made it as far as the car before hands managed to pinion her flailing arms. 'Bastards,' she screamed. 'Fucking bastards.' The big man looked back at her impassively, sitting calmly while all around him was mayhem. He'd been taken before, many times, and had always been back on the streets within days, if not hours. An expensive team of lawyers were employed specifically for days like these.

The big man knew the score. He'd allow himself to be taken to the small room deep inside the police station. Say nothing. Let the lawyers do their job. He'd been in this position before. Nothing to worry about.

What he didn't know, surely hadn't even entertained the thought, was that one of his inner circle had provided the evidence to justify this raid. A trusted friend. The big man had overseen the import and sale of class A drugs for ten years, dealing in human misery. Along the way he'd been responsible for the maiming, beating and the occasional unexplained disappearance of his competitors, but none of his inner circle had ever turned on him.

Until now. The man in the shadows, pulled back as the convoy began leaving. Sharon was still screaming abuse, directing her rage at the remaining officers and any neighbours who'd been sufficiently curious to make an appearance outside their front doors. She'd made him a cup of tea, a couple of biscuits on the side, only six hours ago.

He slipped away, collar turned up against the biting wind. Overnight, the clouds had blown away and the morning air was clean and fresh. A new day, full of promise.

His job was over. For now. There'd be a debriefing, later today, but the man whose identity he'd occupied for months was no more. The evidence he'd obtained was enough to put the big man away for a long time. The drug trade would go on. It always did. But, this was a victory. A significant battle won in a never-ending war.

Now it was time to become someone else for a while.

Be himself. Take some well-earned leave. Rediscover 'normality.'

Until the next job came along.

Chapter 24

Morning coffee, a writer's routine.

Windy. Blowing half a gale, actually. Rain in the air. The sea is wild, waves booming across the sea wall into the marine lake.

Great day for windsurfing, not that I give the prospect much thought. I wrap myself up, dressed for warmth and comfort rather than style. Not that I ever do anything else.

Outside now. Cold, not many people about. Sensible. I walk briskly, bustling along, eyes screwed up against the elements. Finally, the reason for this journey, more of an expedition than a journey today, comes into sight. I push on the door, push harder as it sticks when there's rain about, and stumble inside. There's warmth here, instant gratification. I order my usual, large latte, semi-skimmed, and start to remove layers of clothing.

Early, so I get one of the leather armchairs. Good. I riffle through the papers: Telegraph, Times, Independent, Liverpool Daily Post, all here. A smartly attired woman in the corner, pot of tea and toasted teacake, is reading the Guardian. Mustn't grumble. I take a selection back to my lair and start to read. Front pages, skimmed, then the main course, the sports sections. It's Saturday so the papers are bigger, packed with extra inserts, most of which I disregard. Appointments, that's jobs then, er, no thanks. I put those to one side.

My coffee arrives. Perfect. With a biscuit peeping shyly from behind the mug. The waitress winks at me. I'm a regular, get regular's perks. I wink back and, on the spur of the moment, order toast. White, brown or granary? God, the pressures of life these days! I plump for granary; healthy option.

I've read most of the important stuff by now, toast has long gone, but I'm in no rush to venture outside. I glance around at my fellow customers, often a good source of material for a writer. Mmm, interesting.

The man in the corner, cappuccino, with chocolate topping, slice of cake, is staring into space, ear-buds in place. A teardrop tattoo at the corner of his right eye and a spider's web below, creeping up from below his shirt collar to cover his neck gave out a message that contradicted the smart suit and immaculately polished shoes. Right profile, hardcore biker; left profile, city slicker. Interesting contrast.

The Guardian reader leaves and I'm straight across to grab it, even before the door closes behind her. A woman I vaguely know – she's a neighbour although we've never spoken – half opens the door and peers inside. She has a lived-in face. One that had known hard times and taken some tough decisions along the way. Many of them being wrong decisions, or so it appears to me. I don't know her, of course I don't, but I'm a writer. I make assumptions. She looks at me, gives a faint nod of recognition which I return in kind, closes the door again. No one here she wants to see? I control my feelings of inadequacy, she had other plans, and it wasn't just my presence that deterred her.

The waitress comes over for a chat. Not hinting I should buy another coffee or bugger off. Not that sort of place. She tells me about her plans for the weekend. They sound exhausting.

Finally, I can't put it off any longer. The rain has stopped; the wind is no longer battering the steamed-up windows. I add layers of clothing, pay for my coffee and toast, leave a tip in the jar on the counter. 'See you tomorrow' the girl in the back kitchen sings out. I nod, wave, walk to the door.

Outside, it's foul. Worse than it was only a minute ago. A lot worse. I turn up my collar and set off back, stepping over puddles that weren't here before. Five minutes and I'll be back home. Warm. Dry. Content.

Chapter 25

Playing a Dangerous Game.

Doormen, security personnel, whatever they call themselves these days, are divided into two camps.

The most common group are what everybody else still refers to as bouncers; those of the no hair, no neck, and no brain cell variety. Not much conversation, but that's not much of a job requirement. If you resemble a brick shit-house and can say 'You, outside, now,' and 'Fuck off and don't come back,' you're up to the job. There's the obligatory few digs in between the two set speeches, but they wouldn't be in this kind of work in the first place if the opportunity to duff up the odd punter wasn't a major incentive to take the job on.

There's almost always a place for sorting out unruly punters, usually a dark alley at the side of the club well away from the ubiquitous CCTV cameras. Retribution for perceived insults and other dark deeds are settled in the alley. No cameras. No rules. No mercy.

The other type of security personnel is much more of a rare breed. A doorman with a fully functioning brain can be a dangerous combination and Winston Deakin had been just about the best in the business for the past five years. Not large by accepted standards at a shade over six feet with a body that tapered rather than being shaped like a giant breeze block, he had the trade mark shaved skull and twenty inch biceps, but hidden beneath the white dress shirt and immaculate dinner suit was the epitome of a modern Renaissance Man.

His home background was classic: absentee father and a succession of temporary step-dads all keen to sort out the stroppy little kid with an attitude by giving him a good hiding. He'd made his name on the door of the toughest clubs on Merseyside and had moved up the ladder in the last few years. Winston was now chief 'minder' for one of the most notorious criminals in the British Isles. Drug barons and crime bosses like Des Sherlock make a lot of enemies and need a reliable man watching their backs.

The work is dangerous, but a higher salary than the Prime Minister is a fair trade-off. Muscle men are ten a penny, but a man like Winston Deakin had the ability to look after himself and his employer and also possessed that most useful commodity of all – initiative. Nobody needed to tell Winston how to do his job; he took care of everything. Des Sherlock paid top money to ensure his freedom to go just about anywhere without worrying about some nutter from his past turning up with a gun in each hand.

I'd come across Winston a fair few times while developing a relationship with his boss. Des Sherlock was a throwback, a man who'd built his crime empire based on fear and ruthlessness, but he'd become complacent. I'd made solid progress in a relatively short time, establishing trust, even the beginning of a friendship based on an assumed mutual advantage. Winston was brighter than his employer, suspicious of everyone who tried to break into the inner circle. He was a problem and I'd indicated as much to my contact a few days ago.

'Don't sweat it,' I'd been told, 'the word is he's got enough on his plate with the new boys to worry about you.'

I'd nodded, not entirely reassured, but not wishing to make it more of a threat than it really was. I knew all about the latest challenge to the Sherlock Empire; it was the sole topic of conversation lately. East Europeans, bringing their own brand of ruthlessness to the UK, were increasingly nibbling away at hard-won territory. Des Sherlock knew only one way of discouraging competition. The method had served him well. Broken bones and a lot of pain were involved and that was just for openers.

Last night Winston had been given fresh instructions: seek out the leader of the incomers. Remove the head and the body dies was the gist of the words I'd managed to overhear.

I wasn't involved. Not at this stage. Just one of the group awaiting an audience with the boss. Winston left, smiling. The job obviously appealed to him.

Less than twenty-four hours later the goalposts had shifted. I stood on the terrace, maintaining a respectful distance as Des Sherlock ranted and raved at the men who'd been part of Winston's crew. The terrace was magnificent, paved in Italian marble, stone balustrades leading the eye across the vivid green lawns to the distant shoreline.

Winston didn't say anything. His eyes were wide open, fixed on the last rays of a magnificent sunset. The sight was spectacular but he didn't appreciate it. He'd never enjoy a sunset again. Despite the staring eyes, he had obviously been dead for some time.

His eyelids had been cut away and the open wounds on his chest and arms testified that he'd taken a while to die. His genitals lay alongside his severed fingers on a white handkerchief by the side of the body along with a wallet and wristwatch. It was transparently obvious that this was the body of a man who'd died a hard death and also that his final hours had not been at all pleasant.

Chapter 26

Meeting Digger. A delicate negotiation. Risky too.

The pub hunkered down against a backdrop of encircling tower blocks, blending almost imperceptibly into its surroundings like a shy maiden at her first formal dance.

It was warm inside, bodies tightly packed around the bar. I took my drink away from the seething scrum, went to find a quieter area. I looked at my fellow drinkers and thought how alike they were. Not in a physical way as they represented as diverse a cross-section of the species as it would be possible to assemble in one place.

At short notice anyway.

Mostly male, mostly white, a couple of West Indians, an Asian girl reading a paperback novel, three tall women with the distinctive high cheekbones of Eastern Europe. A fair old mixture, even allowing for the presence of the red-haired cross-dresser who rode his/her bike around the city centre wearing a very short skirt and a chiffon blouse in all weathers. No, it wasn't any physical common denominator, but a kind of greyness that hung over everyone in the bar.

Like a cloud.

Not a physical greyness of complexion, although there were a fair few of that ilk in here, but rather a dismal acceptance of their fate. Hunched shoulders, frown lines, smokers' coughs were the common currency. Add a distinct smell of damp clothing – on a day when it hadn't rained – mingled with the aroma of greasy food and you had a very British acceptance that life was shit and there was nothing that could be done about that. May as well go down the pub for a drink.

This was the local of the man I'd come to meet. His choice of venue. Familiar ground, putting me on the defensive. Fair enough. He didn't know me.

I sipped my pint, kept myself to myself, thought about the meeting with Digger. I was early, but even so my presence would have been noted. A stranger. I caught the odd glance, tried to ignore the hostility that was building. This wasn't a pub for a casual passer-by. These people all knew each other. They didn't know me, but they were content enough to bide their time for now.

In the toughest areas of a tough city, hard men are ten a penny. Machismo rules the roost and the strongest and meanest dominate their weaker fellow citizens. Grow up in these streets and you learn to stand up for yourself. People around here don't frighten easily. From an early age Digger had all the necessary qualities to become a leader: a refusal to take a backward step and a fine line in violence. What marked him out for attention was the extra ingredient. A streak of madness. Violence, even exceptional violence, only took him so far. It was the irrational glint in his eye when the rage came to the surface that earned him a unique reputation. Digger was both feared and respected as a hard man, but it was his reputation for unpredictable behaviour that took him to the top of his profession.

I wanted to get close to an important man and Digger was my way in. If Digger vouched for me, that would help. I had a strategy in mind, but had an alternative plan in mind as well. Appealing to the venal nature of men who made a good living from the sale of hard drugs usually met with success. Representing myself to Digger as someone who could make him a lot of money could open doors, take me a step further towards the man at the top of the pyramid.

The wild card was the sheer unpredictability of the man I'd arranged to meet. He'd either go for it or not. The difference between this meeting and a traditional business venture was extreme. A pitch would be made. It would be accepted, or it wouldn't. Just like deals that were taking place all over the city today. What made this proposed deal stand out was the penalty clause. Other deals, the salesman would shake his head, walk away, and try a different strategy next time.

My meeting today was very different. Failure to convince Digger would have serious repercussions. In the next hour I'd either be walking out of here with an agreement to meet the next man in the chain, or I'd be lying in the alley behind the pub getting my head kicked in. There'd be no shortage of volunteers and a complete absence of witnesses.

A stirring among the crowd told me I didn't have to wait much longer. A stocky figure pushed his way through, not bothering to order a drink. He wasn't here to be sociable. Deep grooves were etched into the skin of his face. In the Prussian army of long ago, the duelling scars they resembled would have been a badge of honour. This was a face that had found any excuse to frown and laughter had been an alien concept since early childhood.

I nodded, put the remains of my pint down on a table.

Showtime.

Chapter 27

Eric the Wood Man. French Life Remembered.

I've just been back to France for a short visit and, by way of 'singing for my supper' helped a friend stack his firewood. It reminded me of my early days as a resident in this wonderful country, renovating an old country house in the Loire valley.

A good friend had mentioned a neighbour of his who had supplied him with some splendid firewood, well aged and at a very reasonable price. We had recently purchased some firewood, which, on delivery we discovered to have been freshly cut and, therefore, as green as ourselves. This timber required drying out for a couple of years, obviously a problem if the weather turned cold and the only fuel is suitable for little else than sending smoke signals, a variation on 'water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink'.

I expressed an interest, but then forgot all about it, until I received a telephone call about three weeks later. The caller, in rapid French, told me that his name was Eric and that he had my firewood ready for delivery. I confirmed the price, gave him my address, and asked if it would be possible for the logs to be cut to about half a metre in length, rather than the usual metre, as our stove would not take the large logs, and I did not own a chain saw. I am not a suitable person to be in control, or otherwise, of a chain saw being accident-prone and 'unlucky' with machinery. No problem at all, said Eric, promising to call on the following day.

Three days later a tractor and enormous trailer pulled into our drive. The trailer contained not a single log, but the tractor driver, soon confirmed as Eric, explained that this was a 'dry run' to sort out his best route, and that he would call tomorrow with the firewood. My impression of Eric, gained from our telephone conversation, was very different from the actuality. He was at least seventy years of age; despite the best efforts of his cowboy boots no more than five foot in height, with creased mahogany features and a handshake sufficiently fierce to bring tears to the eyes. He had the capacity to speak at five hundred words a minute, and it was with some difficulty that I managed to slow him, by way of a constant barrage of 'lentamente', to a level of speech that I could understand. Eric reiterated that he would deliver the firewood on the following day, and that it was already cut to length, but that he would bring with him his chainsaw to cut up any logs that were deemed too large.

The asthmatic tractor and fully laden trailer arrived the following morning. Following a delay of at least ten minutes, while Eric discussed la chasse with the postman, he unblocked the road and pulled into the drive, allowing a small impatient convoy of cars to go about their business. A forest of logs was piled high along the length of the enormous trailer. They varied in length from one metre to entire tree trunks, not a single log being small enough for our stove. Observing my consternation, Eric tapped the side of his nose, and, from the back of the tractor, released from its mounting the largest chain saw in Europe! Standing upright it was as tall as me and I am over six foot. Needless to say it absolutely dwarfed Eric!

We established a routine whereby I unloaded and stacked the wood while Eric cut each log to a manageable length. It was a hot sticky day, hardly ideal for manual labour. The dust from the logs, and the flying wood-chips and sawdust emanating from the screaming chainsaw made frequent refreshment breaks a necessity. Eric produced a plastic water bottle containing red wine, the quality of which can be imagined by the vigorous shaking he gave it before taking a generous swallow and passing it over to me. The liquid was warm, cloudy, fiercely sharp with tannin, and, by a good distance, the worst wine I have ever tasted.

'C'est bon ça?' Eric snorted, after another violent shake and swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

'Oui', I nodded, through watering eyes. He had been drinking this stuff for most of his life and was considerably fitter than me, so what did I know?

Following a picnic lunch, accompanied by a bottle of our own wine, this time with a label, we continued with the work, Eric cutting like a man possessed and me unloading and stacking. By mid afternoon it was just about possible to see some signs of progress. The pile of newly cut logs by now rivalled the considerable stack remaining on the trailer.

We paused for breath as a battered Citroen van spluttered into the drive, a very large lady at the wheel and a younger replica of Eric in the back. This formidable lady had apparently, driven fifteen kilometres, accompanied by her grandson, for the express purpose of engaging her husband in a furious argument. Towering over her spouse she gesticulated furiously, the inevitable floral pinafore stretched to bursting point with the vehemence of her gestures. It transpired that the tractor was required for another job on the farm, and she had brought their grandson to collect it. Eric junior, remained mute throughout, but had brought another plastic bottle of wine, which he managed to smuggle across while Madame's back was turned. Fellow sufferers, they shared a conspiratorial wink.

In an attempt to bring an end to the argument I said that I would manage the rest of the, still enormous pile, with a handsaw and axe. Eric used this offer as fresh ammunition in the battle, and to such effect that his wife departed on the tractor with the still-silent grandson, leaving the trailer and van behind, contenting herself with a baleful glare at her husband as the tractor wheezed down the road. Eric preened like a fighting bantam cock, shook the wine until it fizzed, then drained half the bottle in a single huge swallow. He offered me the remains with a cackle of delight over his victory with the old enemy. Our conversation, as we resumed, now centred exclusively on marriage and its detrimental effect on the male of the species.

'I would never marry again', he thundered, 'Jamais', adding with a sly leer 'but I would have many mistresses'.

We cut the last log as darkness fell. I was exhausted, virtually to the point of collapse, but this remarkable old man remained as sprightly as ever.

Eric departed in high spirits, thumping me between the shoulder blades as he praised my hard work and good companionship. He insisted, as a special treat, on presenting me with the last couple of mouthfuls of his appalling wine, and promised, when he returned on the following day to collect his trailer, to bring with him a fresh bottle of wine, 'Pour votre femme, un petit cadeau'. This would surely be the least appreciated gift my wife would ever receive. His parting shout, in the deepening gloom, 'a mistress, as many as you can manage, but never a wife' echoed across the sunflower fields, the stillness of evening disturbed only by the diminishing racket of grinding gears and an inadequately repaired exhaust system.
Chapter 28

Crucifixion, harsh but effective. Oh yes, very effective.

Two young men were standing sentry duty. Trying to look casual and failing dismally. I knew both of them by sight; neither was of any concern to me. Not dangerous, although they probably imagined they'd attained hard-man status.

The taller man took a step forward. Seeking dominance, warning me not to mess with him. Borderline dosser was the kindest description that came to my mind. He'd not shaved for a while, a few weeks at least, and his hair looked like it had been neglected for several months. However, the creased and baggy jeans, a carefully ripped tee shirt in a hideous shade of burnt orange and brown loafers worn without socks were top quality. He'd either spent two minutes or three hours getting ready to go out and I reckoned the odds were strongly in favour of the three-hour marathon. The vagrant look may be the height of fashion in some quarters, but this lad had missed it by a mile. The sad bastard had spent a fortune trying to look like a refugee and all that money and effort had been wasted. It told everyone that he was a complete wanker, but that was about all.

The other man, a year or so younger, was someone I'd met before. Never spoken to him, but had seen him around. On the outside, right on the periphery of any action going down. I only knew him by his street name – twat-face. I assumed he'd not picked out the name himself. If he'd ever possessed another name, chances were he'd forgotten it by now. I wouldn't have been surprised if his own mother didn't call him twat-face. He was small, runty even, with sloping shoulders and weak features, a roll-up invariably tucked behind one ear although I'd ever seen him smoking. He was wearing full street uniform: ripped jeans, capped tee shirt, and unlaced trainers on his feet, no socks. The clothes were right, but street cred still eluded him.

He self-promoted a reputation of sorts as a small-time dealer. Nothing heavy. He probably robbed the odd car stereo or nicked stuff from shops, but that would have been his limit. Twat-face was too timid to mug a pensioner pushing a walking frame and even when the Five-Oh squad came round looking for likely bodies to inflate the crime control figures, they'd give him a miss.

The day was gloomy enough already, but the heart of the estate was like the dark side of the moon. In the shadow of the encircling tower blocks any natural light was bleached to sepia shades reminiscent of how television portrays melodrama. This may be the I-Pod generation, but traditional grime and poverty are still alive and kicking round here. The gap between urban squalor and urban renewal is a yawning chasm running through the centre of this housing estate. Not a penthouse loft conversion in sight. Plywood replaced glass in a majority of the window frames and while a plethora of chrome bathroom fittings and seductive lighting schemes could be found less than a mile away as the crow flies down by the restored docks area, the contrast was light years distant.

The characteristic shape of the Roman Catholic cathedral, Paddy's Wigwam to local residents, jutted out against the distant skyline. A city boasting two notable cathedrals and European City of Culture in 2008 still retained enough of its former notoriety to allow a flourishing criminal underclass to flourish. This estate was now home to one of the new breed of criminal. A former resident who'd escaped his dismal surroundings to seek fortune elsewhere, had recently returned and the area had seen more changes in the past year than even the oldest resident could remember. Petty crime within the estate had gradually dwindled and eventually ceased completely.

The local police hadn't suddenly found a magic formula; a new power base within the boundaries of the estate was making all the decisions and one result had been the abolition of minor inconveniences like vandalism, joy-riding and petty theft.

The change hadn't been achieved overnight. It had taken several weeks for the message to be received that antisocial behaviour would no longer be tolerated on the estate. Reminders had been necessary, draconian in their very nature. A notorious family had seen their flat repeatedly firebombed and had been urgently re-housed to a distant area of the city. Two teenage youths who'd ignored a final warning concerning their persistent vandalism had been taken from their homes in the night and had almost every bone below the waist broken with judicious use of iron bars. Three known sex offenders had been tied to concrete bollards on wasteland, the clothing around their genitals doused in petrol and set alight. Their screams had carried throughout the estate, but not a single witness had come forward.

'Help you, mate?' The older lad took a step to the side, blocking me. I looked at him, said nothing. Waiting. I'd nothing to say to low rankers. He'd realize that in time. Twat-face stayed put. Confrontation wasn't his scene. I ignored him.

The taller lad shuffled his feet, but stayed put. I reached forward, placed my palm on his chest, and pushed gently. He resisted for a moment then moved back, looking uncertain. This wasn't in the script.

I stayed mute. Looking over his shoulder. A few seconds, then he broke. Stepped aside. I didn't look at him. There'd be other eyes watching. Unseen. Reporting back. Getting drawn into a dialogue with losers like these two would do nothing for my rep. I walked on, deeper into the estate. I passed a burnt-out house, smoke-blackened. I knew the man who'd lived there. Tommy Dingle. Not his real name but where he hailed from. I'd never heard anyone use his real name. I could relate to that.

He'd been a dealer. Middle management not street level. I'd sat in dingy pubs, walked canal towpaths with him a year or so back. He'd been on the up and up in those days. The case against him had gone tits up, too many witnesses had developed amnesia, but he'd taken a wrong turn since then. Crossed the wrong man. Failed to heed warnings. The body had been there for a week or more when the police broke the door down. Crucifixion is extreme, but very effective as a means of getting a point across. Bringing people to heel. The house had been torched the following night, still swathed in evidence tape. End of story.

The man who'd arranged for Tommy Dingle's 'lesson' lived on this estate. I needed to get close to him. Find out what made him tick. Probe for weaknesses. I wasn't expecting this to be easy.

Chapter 29.

The Fat Man and the Favour.

The fat man reclined on one arm, shielding his eyes against the Spanish sun. He nodded at the new arrival and motioned towards a plastic chair on the terrace by the glistening pool. There was no sound from the direction of the house and the pool area was an oasis of calm.

'You found it then?' said the fat man.

'Obviously.'

The fat man fixed the eyes of his companion, waiting until he took the offered chair. 'Don't get lippy, son. Bad for your health. I want you to find me someone to do a job for an old friend. A special job.'

'You want someone killed?'

'Not as thick as you look. Yeah, I want someone killed. That's the job in a nutshell. Put me in touch with the best guy out there. I need him to find someone. When he finds him, kill him. Simple as that. Can you find me the best out there to do a job like that? You come highly recommended, son. Are you as good as they say you are? Can you get me a guy to do that? I want the best around, I'll pay his price, tell him that. Do you have someone in mind?'

The other man nodded. 'You want the best; I'll get you the best. Only thing is...'

'What? You're thinking I should go over there and bang a few heads together, find the little fucker myself? That it?'

'No, that's not it. The man I have in mind, he'll do the job, if the price is right. But he works to his own rules. If he takes the job, you won't have any say in how he wants to do it. Will that be a problem?'

The fat man smiled. 'No problem at all. Put me in touch with this geezer. I'll tell him what I know, then all he has to do is find a man for a good friend of mine. Find him and then kill the fucker. Job done.'

'And that's it?'

The fat man laughed, hard-eyed, with a complete absence of mirth. 'Oh yeah. And one more thing. He needs to die nasty, as bad as it gets. That's important. Got it now? Got the fucking message? Now fuck off and get me the guy I need to do the job.'

The other man rose to his feet. He nodded once but didn't speak, then walked away towards the house. The fat man looked over his shoulder until the other man was out of his sight. He had led a South London gang for almost two decades. A difficult and dangerous job and no less dangerous after his retirement. Every leader expected to be challenged. A gang boss was just the same as a stag or a mountain gorilla in that respect. The head of the herd only keeps the job by force of personality and regular demonstrations of his continued fitness to lead. Retirement to a Spanish villa with a sizeable nest egg stashed away was rare indeed in modern times. The perks of being the top man were too great. Retirement, after a career in drug trafficking wasn't really an option. The top man knew too much and would always be a potential threat to whoever took his place. Retirement usually only came after death or a long spell of imprisonment. The sun beat down remorselessly from a cloudless sky but the fat man's expression was as bleak as a Siberian winter.
Chapter 30

Death to be prolonged and painful? No problem.

The man without a name raised the phone to his ear and listened carefully. He took no notes. In his particular trade, nothing was ever written down. The cell-phone he was holding was reserved for this caller alone and would be destroyed after the call ended. The caller would have a similar arrangement in place. Standard practice.

The man listened without speaking and committed the information to memory. Age, physical description, last known address. Everything he needed to do the job. When the caller stopped speaking, the man without a name spoke for the first time.

A number.

His price for the job.

He didn't wait for his price to be agreed, but depressed the off button on his phone. He flicked it apart and removed the SIM card, bent it over until it snapped and placed the two halves on a side table. Together with the carcass of the cell phone, they would be disposed of later in different locations. Nothing would ever be traced back to him.

He knew the caller would pay his price. It was fair recompense for his unique skills and the client would know that. Half the fee was always paid in advance. Complex arrangements were in place to ensure that money would be transferred to a specific bank account in the Cayman Islands from where it would be transferred to different accounts around the world. No one person knew all the details of these subsequent transfers and the various links in the transaction acted entirely separately.

When the man without a name confirmed that the deposit had been made, he would carry out the job. The clients knew they were dealing with a man who had never failed to carry out an assignment. They also knew the consequence of their failure to pay the balance of the fee on completion of the job would be to become a target themselves. Nobody had ever failed to carry out the second stage of the agreed payment.

The man without a name had a reputation to uphold. When he accepted a job, he completed it. His clients knew this. They wanted the best and were prepared to pay for it.

Nobody knew his real name. The name he was using today was different from the name he had used on the previous day. For a man with unlimited funds, evidence of identity was a minor detail. Money would buy a passport, a driving license, and credit cards, everything that was necessary to operate freely in any country of the world without attracting the attention of the authorities. Neither his fingerprints nor his DNA were held in any police database and only the bodies he left behind could confirm he had ever existed.

The job he had just accepted was routine. He had a name, a description and some background details. The reason for the job was not his concern and he never asked. All he had to do was to find the man the caller had described. Find him and kill him.

The method was his concern and his alone. The only stipulation made by the client was that the death should be prolonged and painful.

Very painful.

That would rule out the easy options, but the price had been adjusted to take this into account. The man with no name had no preference. It was just a job. A simple 'accident' or a prolonged period of agony with the victim begging for death right up to his last breath, it was all in a day's work.

Chapter 31.

The Next Link in the Chain.

The pub was not noted for its atmosphere and certainly not for its décor or comfort. The beer was nothing special and the landlord was a miserable bastard. Despite these apparent deficiencies, the place was packed out. Mostly the drinkers were men, but I noted a few women here and there, all concentrating on getting pissed with a hint of desperation thrown in. No sexism here, getting hammered was the shared aim.

I never sat down to eat or drink in public without taking certain precautions. There had to be more than one entrance or exit point and I always sat with my back to a solid wall, facing the door. No exceptions. I didn't even notice I was doing it any more, it had become second nature.

A woman reeled past, a call of nature interrupting her alcohol intake. She'd evidently set out to achieve the slut look and managed it spectacularly. The skirt length went far beyond fashionably sexy and was well into fuck me now territory. She glanced at me, looked away. Time and place were wrong; today was all about getting pissed, as fast as possible.

The man I'd come to see sat down in the chair opposite. Two fellow drinkers moved out of earshot, creating an oasis of calm. This man had that effect on people. He'd clocked me when he came in. A strange face in a sea of familiarity. Collected a drink from the bar, no money offered or requested, and sat down opposite me. Who else would I be here to see?

I said nothing, took a sip of my beer. When I looked up he was staring at me, the piercing eyes like smooth grey pebbles in a riverbed. Hard and unforgiving. His hair was jet black and scraped back to reveal a prominent widow's peak. Clipped and razor cut his hair suggested a concession to vanity. A possible weakness. I stored the information away for future use.

Despite myself, the hairs rose on the back of my neck as he spoke. 'Know you, do I?'

'No. But I know you.'

'Oh yeah?'

'Know of you anyway.'

'Right.'

Sudden realisation arrived on his face like the fast-forwarded dawn of a bright new day.

'Tommy sent you?'

I nodded.

He took a long pull at his drink, half-emptying the glass. 'He's a twat, Tommy.'

I said nothing, biding my time. He looked at me, as if expecting a reaction. When it didn't come, he smiled. Only his lips moved, the eyes were blank pools.

'Loyal,' he said, eventually. 'That's sound. You'll be wanting me to put a word in then?'

I nodded.

'I can do that, pass the word along. May not be enough though.' He stood, scraping his chair on the floor. 'Get yourself another drink,' he said, over his shoulder. 'Won't cost you this time. I'll make a call.'

He walked away. The noise levels rose, markedly as the door closed behind him. This was a man who was no stranger to violence, not a man to cross, even inadvertently. He was a link in a chain. The man he had gone to telephone made this man look like a presenter on kids' television. Getting to meet him hadn't been easy so far, but this was the easy part. Gaining his trust, that would be a lot harder.

Others had tried. I'd met one of them in Stoke Newington hospital. Dan had worked with me a couple of years ago.

He was good.

Not any more.

Not since his last job ended.

Now, he ate through a straw, would never walk again and he'd certainly not be winning any beauty contests. Having your ears cut off with a bread knife doesn't help anybody in the looks department.

Dan had tried and failed.

The baton had passed to me now. I decided to have another drink after all. May as well take advantage while I still could.

Chapter 32

Big Stan.

'What's up with you then?'

I don't respond with an instant quip as it's pretty obvious to anyone with normal eyesight what's 'up with me.' The crutches are a fairly solid hint.

'Knee operations,' I reply, still marooned in the doorway, the questioner barring admittance.

'Again? You had 'em done last year, didn't you?'

'Yeah,' I say, adding a rueful smile, crutches chafing as I perch like a weary flamingo in the confines of the doorway. 'Didn't work; had to have another go.'

Big Stan moved aside, lets me hobble past and subside gratefully into an armchair. He's one of those men who everybody tags the description 'big' onto his given name when what they really mean to say is 'fat bastard Stan.' He's an inch or so smaller than me, but is approaching twice my weight, well, you get the picture. Glandular problems he told me once, yeah, and eating a massive meal every couple of hours has nothing to do with it. He's not a bad bloke, not really, just not who I want to talk to this morning.

My knees hurt, I've hardly slept, I'm only here to give my wife a rest from my grumbling. The waitress comes over, puts her arm round my shoulders to give me a hug, dislodging my crutches and knocking three cups, empty ones, off the next table.

There's a rush from behind the bar, all hands to debris clearance duties. Now I feel responsible.

The waitress returns, eying my crutches warily. 'You're a one, aren't you?' she says, brightly.

I agree, I am a one, indeed, and order a coffee, latte with semi-skimmed if you're interested in such trifles, and a round of toast. Wholemeal, with blackcurrant preserve. It's a wine bar, not a greasy spoon caff, so that means I get 'preserve' rather than 'jam.' Not that it makes any difference to a Philistine.

Millie, that's the girl making the coffee, brings me an armful of papers. Big Stan sits down in the chair opposite, overflowing it on all sides. I want to read, he wants to talk, there's only going to be one winner.

'You know what your trouble is, don't you?'

I flick through the papers, saying nothing.

'Too much sport, too much hard graft. All that carrying bricks up ladders on them houses of yours you did up. When we gonna earn, eh'

I nod, refraining from asking when my companion last took part in any sporting endeavour. As for 'hard graft,' that was a complete non-starter.

Millie brings my coffee, pats my hand, avoiding any contact with Big Stan, a serial groper only tolerated as he's the best tipper in town.

'You wanna sue the bastards,' Stan says. 'Should have made a better job of it the first time.'

I nod, vaguely, unwilling to explain the last operation had been successful for almost a year and that it was only recently that problems had developed.

I'm warm, the coffee is good, Stan looks like he's taken the hint that I'm not keen on chatting just now, things are looking up, when there's a huge commotion in the kitchen behind me. Millie runs out, shrieking like a banshee, as the room fills with smoke and the detectors overhead kick in with an ear-splitting racket.

Stan earns hero status by rushing, in as much as a man his size can 'rush,' into the kitchen and not only finding but operating the fire extinguisher. The toaster had burst into flames which had spread within seconds, Millie explains through her tears. Stan re-emerges, smoke-blackened, but the hero of the hour and Millie hugs him gratefully. He sits down again, nodding his appreciation of the well-wishers' congratulations.

'Had that happen many a time on the ships,' he says. 'Dangerous places, kitchens.'

'You were on the ships?' I ask, thinking cruise liner or ferryboat.

'Oh, a while back now,' Stan replies. 'Destroyers, mostly. Falklands War did for me. Took a direct hit, only bloody time we saw any real action. Piece of shrapnel hit me right between the shoulder blades. Never even saw it coming. Invalided out; just the pension now.'

I said nothing, regretting my previous perceptions of the man. The kitchen had cleared, smoke dispersed, smoke detectors stopped wailing. It looked unlikely that my toast and preserves would arrive, but I could cope with that. I put the papers on one side.

'Fancy a beer, mate?' I asked.

Stan beamed. 'Don't mind if I do,' he said.

Chapter 33

A Writer's Dilemma.

'Your work is ingenious. It's quality work. And there are simply too many notes, that's all. Just cut a few and it will be perfect.'

'Which few did you have in mind, Majesty?'

Mozart's alleged rejoinder to the Emperor's perceived criticism has never been more relevant than when applied to a writer. I refer to the traumatic stress-feast that is editing.

My first novel, written eight years ago while perched on a mountain ridge overlooking the blue Mediterranean was easy to write. My head was full of ideas, the words threw themselves onto the page – what's all this fuss about writing being difficult?

The finished book dwarfed War and Peace, in length if not in quality. Hundreds of pages, millions of words, or so it seemed. When printed out the resultant stack of paper cast a giant shadow. I'd entered the novel in a competition – best unpublished novel of 2002 or something of that ilk – and, based entirely on the opening three chapters, was acclaimed the winner. Cue excessive rejoicing, amended career plans, Ferrari on order. Well, all except the Ferrari.

The prize was a referral of the complete novel to The Literary Consultancy, a prestigious resource for writers wishing an independent scrutiny of their work.

I waited the several months that is the norm for anything connected with scrutiny of one's writing, then received three pages of 'observations.'

If asked to reduce their thoughts to a single word they'd probably have chosen 'crap.' To attempt to paraphrase their conclusions I'd choose the remark attributed to the Emperor Joseph 11 – too many notes.

There's a book in there, possibly a very good book, buried in self-indulgent over-writing and excessive verbosity. That's not an exact quote, it's been a while since then, but that was the gist of it.

I hacked away, reducing to 158,000 words, still not even close to what it should be. More butchery, the loss of each word a stab to the heart, until I reached the stage, 128,500 words, of complete satisfaction. That's intended to be ironic, by the way, when are we ever 'satisfied' with our books?

A year on the Authonomy site, access to 'proper' writers, taught me so much. My book still needed major work and I was far too close to it to see its deficiencies. I re-wrote, hacked away another 3,500 words. Then a fellow writer, I'll call her Poppet although obviously that's not her name, took me by the throat and shook me until I gasped for air. We're talking metaphorically here, but only because we're far apart, geographically speaking.

Poppet's advice, be true to yourself. It's your book. I stopped worrying about other opinions; I'd had wise advice and taken most of it. Any more and it would no longer be the book I'd intended it to be.

That book, Burn, Baby, Burn, has gone out into the world – to sink or swim, who knows? I've finished two other books, another two on the go, all will need editing. This time, it will be easier. I know what I want to say and I'll make sure the finished books are still MY books.

Meanwhile, I'm looking at the notes I wrote in the early hours. Why? What was I thinking of? What possible use is any of this to any of the writing projects that are rampaging around my head? I type the notes into a file entitled 'Dross.' It's a big file, packed with random jottings. Will I use any of it?

Probably not.

Will I throw the contents away?

Of course not.

Chapter 34

Cigarette Burns to Genitals, a few broken Bones – Is That All?

A man who will kill to order for monetary gain is the ultimate weapon. Especially if he is a man who cares for nothing and nobody other than himself. All that matters to such a man is the money. Enough to satisfy his needs. Killing to order is as good a way of earning a living as any other.

The man without a name had become expert at his chosen craft. Each job required careful planning. The method was usually left to him and the details had to be worked out in advance. A balance had to be found between risk and reward. In general terms, the reward equated to the degree of risk to his personal safety. Only a fool disregards risk and this man was no fool.

Occasionally, the task required him to suffer pain or extreme discomfort. He accepted this and was comfortable with it. He had a high pain threshold and would accept even extremes of pain if the nature of the work made such a sacrifice necessary.

This job was a case in point, allowing himself to be captured and tortured by men working for his intended target to whom he had represented himself as a potential business rival. He had known from the outset that the target was extremely well guarded and had demanded an enormous sum as recompense for the damage he would inevitably suffer.

A couple of pints of blood, cigarette burns to his genitals and a broken bone or two had been a price worth paying. Painful, but not life-threatening. When his captors had seemingly broken him in mind and body, they paraded him, apparently barely able to walk and bleeding from a dozen wounds, in front of their boss.

He waited until the boss, a Turk who had amassed a vast fortune as an arms dealer, gave the order to dispose of the bleeding remains before acting. The three guards, in good humour and still tired from their efforts, saw only the husk of a man they had worked on in the basement room.

Not a threat.

Big mistake.

Even when two of the guards lay dead at his feet and a third writhed in agony by the door, the Turk showed no fear. In the instant before his prisoner attacked, The Turk looked into the face of the man who had been sent to kill him and realised that death was inevitable.

The Turk recognised the nature of his opponent and stood impassively as death swooped down upon him.

Afterwards, there was still one final job to complete. The injured guard had been the one who'd applied the cigarette burns to his genitals. The man with no name had left him alive until this moment. The guard would take a long time to die and beg for death with every breath that remained in his body.

Chapter 35

Same story, different treatment. Better?

'Still not feeling chatty, then?' The sallow-faced guard grinned, savouring the moment as he drew deeply on his cigarette.

He examined the glowing tip with satisfaction then pressed it firmly onto the skin of the naked man strapped to the oak table. His victim's face contorted, but he remained silent. His broken nose leaked blood and the burns to his genitals had merged into a fiery red patch, but he allowed not even a gasp of pain to escape his torn and ravaged lips.

The guard exchanged glances with his two colleagues. They'd worked on this man for an hour, first with fists and boots, then strapping him to the table and becoming more selective. Their job was done. If the man had ever intended to reveal the name of the man who'd sent him, that time had surely passed. What remained was a husk of a man, alive but no longer classified as a viable threat.

The guard nodded and his companions began to unbuckle the stained leather straps that restrained their prisoner. The man lay still, seemingly detached from the reality of his broken body, an almost benign expression on his face. The guard leaned over him, slapped his hand across the ruined face, the large ring on his finger opening a deep gash on the other man's cheek. The prone body scarcely stirred, his expression remained blank, eyes fixed on some distant point.

'He's gone,' the guard announced. 'Take him to the boss.'

The other two men released the naked man, dragging him across the stone floor of the cellar and up the steep flight of steps.

The Turk was waiting, seated in a window seat, glancing at a thick pile of papers with an air of satisfaction. Budget sheets, bank statements. Business was good. In an uncertain and violent world there were always customers for an arms dealer without scruples. The Turk was an equal-opportunity salesman; he didn't concern himself with ethics. If a customer, no matter the nature of their politics, had money to buy arms, the Turk would sell to him. Ability to pay the going rate was the only stipulation.

He frowned as the broken body was dragged into the room and thrown at his feet. The sallow-faced guard shrugged. 'Not a word,' he said.

The Turk knew the quality of his men, knew their ability to make even the most determined men spill their secrets was a matter of record. He shrugged his shoulders. The man before him had been sent to kill him. An occupational hazard in a dangerous trade where enemies abounded. He'd have liked to know the man's employer, but it wasn't vital information. There were many enemies.

'Take him to the farm,' he said, dismissively. The guards smiled. The adult boars weighed over three hundred pounds and could tear a body to pieces in a matter of minutes, leaving no trace. It was a rare spectacle but so much more so when the victim was still alive.

Two guards bent as one, took the man by an arm and pulled him to his feet. He stood, eyes glazed, swaying slightly. The guards exchanged a smile, making him walk would be easier than dragging a body. The naked man bent forward as if about to fall and both guards took a pace closer. Their victim reached out and gripped their clothing, brought their two heads together with a sickening thud. Before the men hit the floor, the naked man was on the move, snatching a pen from the table beside the seated Turk and stabbing the sallow-faced guard in the left eye. The guard screamed, a high-pitched keening that extended the normal range of a human voice, and sank to his knees, hands scrabbling at the stub of a pen that was all that protruded from his eye socket.

The Turk watched impassively as the naked man bent over the unconscious figures of the two guards, removed a knife from the belt of the nearest man and cut their throats. He kicked the kneeling guard to the floor and stood over the Turk, knife held out before him.

The Turk was a fatalist. He'd known his fate from the moment the naked man's eyes had lost their glazed expression. He stood and looked into the eyes of the man who'd been sent to kill him. 'Who was it?' He asked.

'New York,' the naked man replied. 'Brooklyn, to be specific. They weren't best pleased with you. Something to do with a Sudanese deal, I gather.'

The Turk nodded. It could have been any of a number of deals, but he'd wanted to know. The knife flashed, blood spurted, the Turk crumpled to the floor, his papers scattering in an untidy pile. The naked man moved to him, drew the blade across the other man's throat. Confirmation. This was a trade where certainties were the only results that counted.

The sallow-faced guard was still screaming, but quieted as the other man drew near. The naked man knelt beside him, smiling. This man had shown pleasure in inflicting pain upon him. Burnt his genitals with a cigarette tip. He would suffer in kind before he died. The guard tried to speak, but the naked man placed a hand across his mouth.

'Enough,' he said. 'You've lost an eye so far. That's nothing. You'll beg for death soon enough. Don't waste your breath now. I'm about to make you wish you'd never been born. Then, when I've finished, the pigs can have you. That sound like a plan to you?'

Chapter 36

The Back-up.

The Dock Road, running out from the city centre towards Bootle, has seen better days. Warehouses, shabby and careworn, face the sea with an unbroken high wall on the other side of the road, above which a forest of cranes and ship hoists flourish. The pubs are still there; some of them are even open.

I walked through the doors of the Eagle, unsure of what to expect, never been here before. I never got to choose the venue for a meet, a sore point on occasions, but this seemed okay.

Half a dozen drooling mouth-breathers with excessively long arms looked up without discernible interest as I entered. Charles Darwin would have had a field day. There was clear evidence of a separate species right here with Homo Sapiens having negligible input into a very shallow gene pool. Were they all related, I wondered? Perhaps very closely related indeed. Through successive generations. In-breeding didn't do much for the crowned heads of Europe and this particular group appeared to have had very little choice in the physical or mental capacity of their antecedents.

I put my ungracious thoughts to one side as I reached the bar.

'Yeah?' The barman was tall and unkempt, his yellow teeth partly explained by the un-tipped cigarette he was smoking. News of a ban on smoking in public places had yet to reach the Dock Road. I thought it unlikely that anyone in here would be making a complaint. Six pairs of eyes swivelled as one to await my response.

'Pint,' I said, tapping the porcelain tap in front of me. My fellow drinkers lost interest. A single word had been enough. A Scouser, a beer drinker, not given to much chat, looked like I'd passed the test. I took my drink and sat at a table at the side, facing the door.

I looked up as the door swung open, relaxed as a middle-aged man shambled in. Not here for me. His complexion was the colour of wallpaper paste that had been allowed to stand in the bucket overnight. Complete with lumps. He stood in the doorway as if carrying a heavy rucksack, slightly stooped over and a pained expression fixed to his face with an air of permanence. His clothes were dark and faintly musty, hanging in loose fold with random creases at inappropriate points. My first impression was of a sepia photograph depicting some unknown ancestor long since departed discovered while searching through a shabby trunk in the attic.

People watching, putting people into boxes, was an inevitable part of my trade. Sorting out the harmless from the potentially dangerous. This man was harmless, to me at least. He ordered a pint of mild, dark and thick, sat at a table next to three other hard drinkers, clutching their pints obsessively. Nods were exchanged, nobody spoke. This wasn't a debating society.

The landlord shouted a name I didn't catch into the curtain behind the bar and a woman poked her head out. He waved a hand at the room and she came from behind the curtain, surly expression rooted in place. None of the drinkers even glanced at her as she collected the debris from the tables, empty glasses, crisp papers, her expression bleak enough to curdle milk.

As she returned behind the curtain the door opened once more and a man in worn overalls entered. He looked around, eyes flitting past me without interest, and walked to the bar. He ordered a drink, walked to the table next to mine and sat down. The room settled again, each of us engrossed in our common purpose. The new arrival reached across, indicating the Echo I'd left on the table.

'Any chance of a quick look at your paper, mate?' He asked.

'Help yourself, I've finished with it.'

He nodded, opened the paper and was instantly engrossed in the contents. So he should have been – I'd laboriously transferred three pages of notes to the inside margins of each page. He read for ten minutes, whistling softly at one point, never glancing in my direction. I sat and sipped my beer, hoping to forestall buying another. It wasn't a contender for an award from CAMRA.

The other man folded the paper, stood up and tucked it under his arm. He nodded once and walked away, returning his empty glass to the bar on the way out.

I took another sip of my beer, almost finished now. All done for another week. I'd need to make a point at the next meeting – the overalls were right for the venue, but taking glasses back to the bar was the sort of thing that got you noticed. This wasn't one of the poncey wine bars he was used to. Actions that were commonplace in the City Centre bars, even simple politeness, marked you out as an outsider here.

I had a lot at stake here. One five-minute meeting a week with my support was all I'd been prepared to risk and only then on condition we never actually spoke. My predecessor had been a bit chattier, perhaps slightly more in need of support from his back-up squad. I didn't like to think ill of a man who'd never walk again, never be able to dress or feed himself without help, but I'd no intention of repeating his mistakes.

I left my glass on the table, walked to the door without acknowledging anyone. Safer that way. Another weekly report safely dispatched. How many more? I was closer now, gaining the confidence of the man who kept the supply of class A drugs ticking over, maintaining that delicate balance of supply and demand. He was a cautious man. One of the reasons he'd been at the top of his profession for ten years or more was his ability to spot any threat to his liberty and deal with it.

I was a threat.

A very serious threat.

I had to hope he didn't know it yet.

Chapter 37

Saturday Night is Fight Night.

The streetlights were fighting a losing battle against the encircling gloom as I climbed out of the taxi and watched it drive away.

The lads in the distance were just shapes, but their purpose was clear as they bunched together and walked towards me. Three of them. Their territory. Their turf.

Along the length of the terrace a row of doors opened almost directly from the street. Even the most optimistic estate agent would hesitate to describe the width of a single flagstone, which was all that separated the house frontage from the pavement as a front garden. There were lights on behind the drawn curtains and closed blinds, but I'd wait a long time for any witnesses to turn up. Whatever took place on the streets, after dark, was nothing to do with the residents. Safety lay in closed doors and bad eyesight.

The lads were closer now. Confident. Cocky. Sure of themselves. They weren't interested in anything I may have to say, that much was obvious. That was fine by me too – I had nothing to gain from these low-level outriders. The men I wanted to talk to had better things to do than prowl the streets looking for trouble.

I'd learnt the rules of street fighting early, had good teachers, and had learnt how to look after myself. This had always been a tough town and Saturday nights were made for fighting.

The two bigger lads were in their early twenties. Low-level gang-bangers, a year or so past the point they should have moved up. Black tee shirts, black jeans, heavy Doc martin boots. Street fighters' uniform. I ignored them, for now. The third man was younger, slighter, but far more dangerous. He looked directly at me, sizing me up. He was the one who'd give the orders. That made him the priority. I'd discounted the other two because of their size. Big men, big hands, heavy boots – they'd beaten up strangers straying onto their territory before. Many times by the expressions of anticipation on their faces. They'd settle for hand to hand combat, sure of their past records. The smaller, cleverer man was different. If any of the three had a weapon handy it would be him.

I'd worked out my strategy as they approached. I had to even up the odds. I stopped by a lamppost, waited for them to come to me. I already knew what would happen, they only thought they did.

Hit fast. Hit hard. Hit first.

That last one was the most important. Don't wait for trouble to start. Once a fight becomes inevitable, do as much damage as possible early on. Seize the advantage. Always strike the first blow and make sure it does maximum damage. Forget Queensbury Rules and remember that a punch to the jaw is only effective in Hollywood films.

A clenched fist can do some damage but not enough to be worth the risk.

The human hand contains 27 bones, most of them small and delicate. Easy to damage. In a real fight it all comes down to what will cause maximum damage to the opponent while minimising the extent of damage suffered to yourself.

Hollywood never really understood the true nature of street fighting. Toe to toe slugging belongs in Rocky films and nowhere else. Nobody in their right mind should ever consider standing face to face with anyone who was swinging punches at them. Unless you really hate the way your face looks and fancy a change, forget the head-on full frontal method.

'What have we here?' the younger one called out. 'Lost are you? Bad place to get lost, round here. Bad for your health.'

I ignored him, my strategy confirmed.

Nothing else succeeds like the sneak attack. Forget fairness, concentrate on doing the maximum amount of damage with your first shot. Do it well and they go down. Once they're on the floor, do whatever it takes to keep them there. If that means kicking them in the head, so be it. Things get a little easier if you happen to have a weapon handy.

In the absence of a convenient iron bar or snooker cue, the human equivalent of a bowling ball is both conveniently available and massively effective. I leant back slightly, as if in fear, and then threw myself forward, smashing my forehead into the face of the man who had been baiting me. The solid ridge of frontal bone caught him on the bridge of his nose and instantly ended any further interest he may have had in fighting. He crumpled to the floor, clutching the ruins of his nose with his fingers and I instantly whipped round, snapping my elbow backwards, grunting with the effort.

The bigger of the two remaining men saw it coming, but was seemingly frozen in place. He'd opened his mouth in a gasp of astonishment when I'd head-butted the other man and by some fluke my elbow struck him at the hinge of his partly open mouth. I heard the crack of a fractured cheekbone and swivelled in one movement to deliver a sharp kick into the collection of nerves on the inside of his knee. He screamed through the wreckage of his jaw and fell to the ground. I glanced down at the pair of them writhing in pain and grinned. I wasn't even out of breath. The third man looked at me, hate and rage contorting his features and rushed me, arms swinging. I stepped inside, up close, and elbowed him in the throat. He bellowed, enraged, swung around and I used his momentum to maximum effect, grabbing his tee shirt and swinging him into the lamppost. The sound of his head against the metal post was like a chapel bell and he dropped like a stone.

The youngest man was staring up at me, his companions were no longer interested. I shrugged my shoulders.

'If you see Tommy, tell him I was looking for him,' I said. 'He'll know what it's about.' I turned my back on them and walked on, whistling. Word would get back to Tommy. Next time he'd want to talk to me.

Chapter 38

First Person Narrative – Yes, No, or Maybe?

Catcher in the Rye, To Kill a Mockingbird Twilight, Rebecca and Twilight. Four books written in First Person and all seem to have done rather well for themselves, even though I gave up on one of them way before the end.

Oh come on, you already knew the odd one out was Twilight, didn't you?

This narrative style device virtually guarantees immediacy, taking the reader inside the mind of the lead character, but such intimacy has its pitfalls. The writer has to work hard to avoid the over-use of sentences beginning with 'I, while internal monologues and introspection are similarly prone to over-use.

My exposure to fellow writers revealed so many faults in my own writing. One of these was a tendency to 'show' rather than 'tell' and this is even more difficult to eradicate from one's writing when your leading character can reveal everything they see and feel.

In addition, there's the problem of the narrator having to be in every scene – an obvious limitation on plot development.

All this introspection came about when I wrote a series of short pieces in my blog, very loosely based on my own experiences and therefore written in the first person. This worked well, in my somewhat biased opinion, but when considering extending a short vignette into a full novel, I'm far from convinced that First Person is the way to go.

When I started thinking aloud at the beginning of this piece, I pulled some examples of books written in this fashion from my imperfect memory. I've now remembered ' Engleby', a wonderful book that I'd suggest as the definitive example of a novel where a First Person narrative approaches perfection. On the other hand, I'm not Sebastian Faulks!

Chapter 39

The Squash Match.

'The young guy's a far better player,' the barman said, his opinion seemingly based on a single rally as he collected glasses from the shelf of the large window overlooking the squash court, 'but the other bloke wants it more.' It may have been the snap judgment to end all snap judgments, but I suspected he'd seen both men play before and had an eye for talent. I didn't contest his opinion, focusing on the fair-haired Adonis as he moved with an easy grace around the court. His opponent, the man I'd arranged to meet, was shorter in stature, dark where the other man was fair and, crucially, at least ten years older than his opponent.

His whole presence sent out a signal that he was a man entirely at ease with himself. Average height, smartly dressed in plain white shirt and shorts, everything about him suggested the air of a man who played to his strengths and worked hard to eliminate any weaknesses. He moved with an easy grace, covering the court quickly without any hint of strain and yet managing to be in exactly the right place to return his opponent's shot. The other man was at least ten years younger, deeply tanned, a great shock of fair hair and an air of confidence that had appeared invincible when the match had begun as he hit a succession of booming forehands, gliding around the court with athletic ease.

My attention wandered as I ran over my plans for the meeting. I'd never possessed the ability of contemporaneous activity. One thing at a time.

When I returned to the window I could immediately see the game had taken a different tack. The dark haired man was clearly in the ascendancy. Shrewd shot placement ensured that his younger opponent was doing all the running. Each rally was prolonged, but it was the younger man who was working hardest. The man I'd come to meet was practically strolling around the court, nothing flashy just concentrating on dominating that crucial central area.

Forehand followed by backhand, a line drive close to the wall sending his opponent dashing to the rear of the court, followed by a dink to the front wall, it was a master-class in control.

I could clearly see occasions when a winning shot was available, but the opportunity deliberately passed over in favour of drawing the sting from the opponent. It was clever play, this deliberate and calculated concentration on the outcome of the match as a whole, even if it involved the forfeiture of the odd minor victory along the way.

I watched with increasing fascination as the younger man began to falter. Lactic acid build-up in his legs made him falter and stumble and on one occasion stop dead in his tracks as the ball passed by no more than a yard from his rooted stance. Eventually, his legs refused to obey the commands from his brain, even his racket must have felt as heavy as lead as he could barely summon enough strength to return serve.

The points rolled by until the match ceased to be a contest and became a rout. The younger man could barely raise his racket before his opponent's returns zipped past him or landed that tantalising fraction of an inch out of his reach. I was reminded of a great cat toying with its prey, a graphic demonstration of absolute superiority that bordered on cruelty.

I walked back to the bar, ordered another drink, took a seat with a view of the stairs leading from the changing rooms.

When they arrived I allowed them time to have a welcome drink, chat briefly and then shake hands, the younger man noticeably subdued and making only a token attempt at conversation. As he left, his conqueror moved across and sat down opposite me. He shook hands, a firm dry grip, a man confident of his own ability.

'I saw you watching,' he said. I nodded, sipped my drink.

'I like to win.' His voice was a deep baritone, rich and resonant. He looked at me, eyes that demanded everything and revealed nothing.

'So I noticed. I felt sorry for your opponent by the end.'

'Why?' His surprise appeared genuine. 'He had the same chances as me, but he didn't have the same will to succeed, That is his fault, not mine, but not something for which either of us should feel regret.'

I nodded, building on my initial impressions before committing myself to the purpose of the meeting.

This man projected solidity and an overwhelming air of confidence. He would be ruthless, I'd seen that at first hand on the squash court.

'Are we going to do business?' His question hung in the air. I glanced around before replying; there was no one else within earshot, two young women in sweat-soaked sportswear were chatting away in a corner booth, but otherwise we were alone.

'I hope so,' I said. 'That's the plan.'

He smiled. 'I'm assuming you have the necessary finance in place?' His question was rhetorical – I wouldn't be here unless I had the means to do the deal.

'Of course. Cash on the nail.'

He smiled again. This was a cash business, credit terms were never offered. Ten minutes later we shook hands. Three keys of smack at a rate I judged to be fair. Negotiation had been tough, but both parties appeared satisfied with the outcome. It wasn't my money at stake, but I still had to account for every penny. The dealer's bosses demanded rather more from his negotiation skills, his health, even his life, was at risk if the deal went wrong. The men who control the sale of class A drugs aren't known for their easy-going natures. This was the first step towards building a relationship. I needed to take a step further, engage with the men who imported the drugs, but that was for another time. This man would have to vouch for me if I hoped to go higher. I'd taken the first step on the ladder today.

Chapter 40

Kitchen Knives and Questions.

The big man stood in the garden, looking up at the house. Planning was important, whether intending an ascent of the North Face of the Eiger or breaking into a house in Wavertree.

A far more serious crime had already been committed. He was here to investigate, pass judgement, and carry out the sentence handed down.

The police were not involved, hampered as they were by the burden of proof, the requirement to show a raft of solid evidence. The big man had no use for documentary evidence and was not subject to the same constraints as a police officer. When threatened he took immediate action. He didn't waste time looking for evidence; he stamped on the threat and killed it at source.

Doing the job himself wasn't usual; any of his soldiers would happily have done the job. He'd felt strongly enough about this particular betrayal to make an instant decision, this was personal.

Entry to the house had presented few difficulties. He had all the skills necessary, had learned housebreaking while in his teens. Like riding a bike, it was skill once learned remained with you.

A man like himself had no attachments. He'd never owned property in his own name, never had a meaningful relationship, never kept a pet animal, and never had a photograph of himself on display anywhere. He could pack a bag in 30 seconds, close the door behind him and move on, never to return.

It was the way he'd always lived. He'd lived his entire adult life on a diet of constant suspicion and acute paranoia and never regretted a moment of the life he'd chosen to lead.

The chosen methods by which he ran his empire were equally uncomplicated. No records, no paper trail, no data on a hard drive, no documents in a locked safe. Records were evidence and discovery of records could prove a risk to his liberty and make him a pauper.

It was not enough to arrest a drug baron and put him behind bars; nowadays it was about the money as well. The seizure of criminal's assets was highly lucrative and a strong motive to act against a particular target. His assets were well hidden and all records relating to his capital were safely contained within the confines of his skull. He had the capacity to remember numerous account numbers, passwords and locations and never wrote anything down.

Entry couldn't have been easier. No need for subtlety, not with a back- door key clearly visible in the lock through the tiny panes of glass in the door. It wasn't ideal, but there would be no reason for the occupants to return by the back entrance and his work would be complete well before anyone noticed a broken window.

Stepping carefully over the broken glass, he moved on, pen torch held out before him, exploring each room in turn, noting the expensive fixtures and fittings. His income dwarfed that of the owner of this house, yet he had none of the trappings of wealth. They meant nothing to him. He'd not brought a weapon with him, preferring to use objects readily available at the scene. Kitchen cupboards and drawers were usually a reliable source and this kitchen was no exception.

A pair of curved secateurs, used to snip through the bones of a chicken and tasks of a similar nature, was in the first drawer he opened.

Very nice.

The same drawer provided him with a stainless steel blow torch bearing very little resemblance to the Bunsen burners of a school chemistry lab or the tool used by decorators to strip paint from wooden surface. 'Thank God for the middle classes,' he mused. A kitchen could not be considered complete without something to melt the sugar crust on an egg custard. One simply couldn't exist, darling, without Crème Catalan. He took the blowtorch and added it to his collection of tools.

So far so good, but the best was yet to come. The kitchen knives were a matched set, stored vertically on the wall and attached to a magnetic strip. Most of them looked as if they'd never been used, but that could soon be rectified. He tapped each in turn with an anticipatory finger before selecting the most promising. He had all he needed. Now all he had to do was wait.

The man who lived here had been careful. Clever too. He'd not been greedy, only skimming off a small portion of the vast sums that passed through his hands. He'd been trusted, but had betrayed that trust. In different circumstances, he'd have been dismissed. Possibly the police would have been involved, the man facing charges of embezzlement. That wouldn't happen in this firm.

The big man had a system that had never failed. Trust nobody, assume everyone was a potential traitor. This was not simple theft, it was treachery. He'd checked, checked again, until he'd been certain. The man who lived in this house had stolen money from him. A great deal of money. He didn't care about the money. That wasn't the issue. It was a matter of trust. A breach of trust had consequences. Extreme consequences.

Car headlights illuminated the windows, were extinguished. Doors slammed. The big man moved silently from the kitchen into the hall. Not long now.

The woman opened the door, stepped inside, kicking off her shoes. The man behind her was laughing, enjoying some joke. He closed the door, turned around, saw the other man holding the woman, and the laughter died on his lips.

'Derek,' the big man said, 'We need to talk.'

The woman turned towards her boyfriend, too frightened to speak. The big man, spun her around, punched her in the face, lowering her unconscious body to the floor. 'No need to involve the lady,' the big man said, softly. 'We'll just leave her here, shall we? While we have our chat.'

Derek looked at his girlfriend, her broken nose leaking blood onto the cream carpet. He'd have known why the other man was here in an instant, known the futility of escape. He nodded, following the big man into the kitchen where the knives were already laid out on the work surface.

Chapter 41

Beware of People you meet on the Internet.

The thin man smiled. He liked it when they screamed. The girl's face was contorted, terror etching deep furrows into her brow. At this precise moment she could pass for thirty, not sixteen.

'Nobody to hear you, Samantha. We're all alone here. I bet your mum always told you never to get into a car with strange men? She was dead right, wasn't she?'

Samantha stopped screaming and looked at him, her face ashen. 'You said you'd take me to Miles. Where's Miles?'

The thin man leaned forward and slapped her face. 'There is no Miles, you stupid little tart. Just me. You were getting yourself all excited about this lad you'd met in a chat room, good-looking, plenty of money and, best of all, desperate to meet you. Well, sorry to break bad news, but all that was me. That photo you thought was Miles was just some Italian kid I saw on Facebook. I'm better looking, don't you think?'

Samantha said nothing, but she'd stopped screaming, listening to him. He liked that.

'I can untie you now, if you like. It's not like you're going anywhere, is it?'

'Can I have my clothes back?'

'Oh, I don't think so,' The thin man pulled his shirt over his head and placed it carefully on a low rail, then unzipped his trousers and stepped out of them. When he was naked he reached over and untied the cords that held the girl's ankles to the end of the solid iron frame supporting the double mattress. Her arms were still tied to the top rail of the frame above her head and he checked these bindings, but left them intact.

When he climbed on to the mattress, Samantha started screaming again.

Chapter 42.

People you meet on the Internet – Three Hours Previously.

Samantha was sixteen and that was old enough to stay out all night if she wanted to.

Her stupid parents wouldn't agree, but all they ever wanted was for her to stay home like a little kid while everyone else was going out and enjoying themselves.

Everyone she'd spoken to in the chat room had told her the same thing; her parents still wanted to keep her as a baby who liked dressing up and playing with dolls.

That was how they still saw her and it just wasn't fair. Miles said she owed it to herself to get a life and Miles knew everything.

She'd been spending two or three hours a night on-line, supposedly doing a school project, over the last three weeks and when Miles said he'd take her to an all-nighter at the weekend, she'd said okay straight off.

Mum and Dad were so pathetic. She'd told them she was spending the weekend with her friend Melanie in North Wales and all they'd said was don't forget to take plenty of warm clothes.

Miles was eighteen. He had his own car and was just so good-looking. She'd wanted to tell Melanie about him but Miles had said it would be best not to tell anyone in case they accidentally mentioned it to someone else and her folks got to hear what she was really going to be doing. Samantha tensed as a rakish sports car drew alongside. The side window hissed down. 'Are you Samantha?'

'Yes,' she said, a little uncertain.

'Miles asked me to collect you. I'm his brother, Jason. Do you want to sling that bag in the back?' He pressed a button on the dashboard and the hood slid back and disappeared into the boot.

Samantha hopped awkwardly from one foot to the other. 'Where's Miles?'

Jason grinned. 'Back at the house. The lazy bugger's running late as usual, so he asked me to take his motor and pick you up.'

'Is this his car?'

Jason looked surprised. 'Yes. Why?'

'It's gorgeous.'

'It's ok, I suppose. He's had good cars since he was old enough to drive. We both have. Look, are you getting in or not? Miles will think I've upset you if I don't get you back soon and I know he's desperate to meet you at last.'

'Really?'

'Sure. Oh, I know, you're probably thinking who's this guy asking me to get in a car with him? Is that right? Well, how if I tell you your favourite band is Coldplay and you like to eat Salsa wraps and burgers? Would anyone who'd not been sent by Miles know that?'

Samantha grinned and reached out to slide her bag onto the back seat. She stepped carefully over the sill, revealing rather a lot of thigh in the process.

'Buckle up and we'll be on our way. You've got lovely hair, Samantha. Or is it Sam?'

'I prefer Samantha.'

'Samantha it is, then. I must say, I never expected you to be so pretty. What are you, nineteen? Twenty?'

Samantha thought about nodding, but settled for, 'Eighteen.'

'Really? You look so confident I thought you must be older. Is that too tight?' Jason reached over and clipped the belt into its slot. It was tight. Very tight.

'It hurts a bit. Can you slacken it off?' Samantha struggled, but couldn't seem to slacken the belt at all. Jason ignored her, pressed the button that raised the hood and prepared to drive away.

'Keep your trap shut, you little scrubber, or you'll wish you'd never been born.' He showed her the gleam of a razor, its pearl handle winking in the sunlight. 'Behave yourself. If not, I'll cut you. Fancy a nice new face, do you? Just one scream, one move and I'll slice you up and drop you in the gutter where you belong. Got it?'
Chapter 43

A Play Wot I Wrote.

This may well be the worst piece I've ever written. Please forgive me.

A few years ago, following my dad's death, I cleared out his loft where I discovered many long-lost treasures. I also found several notebooks containing poems and other items written by me many years ago.

This opening scene is, mercifully, all that remains of a play 'wot I wrote' in the Sixth Form, oh shall we say quite a few years ago now. It was performed at the Victoria Theatre, Stoke-on-Trent. People with more money than sense paid to see performed by a professional company of actors. Sadly, it did not transfer to the West End after a triumphant tour of the provinces and my budding career as a playwright suffered a fatal blow.

SCENE 1

(Unemployment office in a Northern town. Scene opens in the Manager's room which has a metal desk and filing cabinets. It has no distinguishing features other than it's gloom. The acting Manager, Mr. Machin, is seated behind the desk reading the Daily Telegraph. He is wearing a good quality suit. There is a knock on the door. He hurriedly puts the newspaper away in the desk and straightens his tie).

Machin: Come.

(ENTER Terry Simpson, a new member of staff. He is in his early 20′s a good-looking smart young man).

Terry: (Advancing to desk with hand outstretched). 'Good morning, Terry Simpson.'

Machin: (Shakes his head and looks at his watch while remaining seated) 'Ten past nine, Simpson, not a very good start. You'll have to get up a lot earlier than this if you're going to work here. Leave that lying in bed all day nonsense to our clients.'

Terry: (Indignantly) 'I've been up for hours, I've been waiting outside for twenty minutes, your security man wouldn't let me in.'

Machin: (Heavily) 'Even so. Still you're here now. (He rises to his feet and shakes hands) Machin, Deputy Manager, that's Machin, machine without the 'E'. (He indicates a chair to Terry who sits down, Machin resumes his seat behind the desk)

Machin: 'New to this work aren't you?'

Terry: Yes, I'm here on promotion, but I've been on all the training courses.'

Machin: 'Well you'll soon find it's a lot different in the real world. All that fancy stuff they teach you on courses won't help you round here. Treat the unemployed with the respect they deserve, that's none at all. They're all scroungers, work-shy layabouts or alcoholics.'

Terry: (Protesting) 'Not all, surely?'

Machin: 'Not all no, but they're the good ones. Scum that's what they are, no bloody use to themselves or anyone else.'

Terry: 'Well, I don't know....'

Machin: (Interrupts) 'Dead right, you don't know. I do and I'm telling you.'

(Knock on door)

Machin: (With gesture of annoyance) 'Come.'

(ENTER carpet fitter, wearing overalls and carrying a clipboard).

Fitter: 'Morning, Mr. Machin is it?'

Machin: 'Yes, what do you want?'

Fitter: 'Come to change your carpet, won't be long.'

Machin: 'Whatever for? It's practically new.'

Fitter: 'Question of entitlement. I've got me orders.' (shows papers to Machin) 'See here, Machin, Room 308.'

Machin: 'What the hell are you on about?'

Fitter: (Patiently). 'Well, Mr. Machin, what's your actual grade?'

Machin: (In his most officious voice) 'Higher Executive Officer, but I'm acting as Manager pending the arrival of a new appointment.'

Fitter: 'That's it then, see, H.E.O. grade is entitled to a square of 'C' quality carpet. This is a fitted carpet, quality 'B' what's more. Manager can have it, got the grade see, you haven't so you can't. It'll have to come out, won't take me long.'

Machin: 'But this is the Manager's room, my own room has a carpet square.'

Fitter: (Even more patiently) 'But that's my point innit?'

Machin: (Baffled) 'What?'

Fitter: 'That you're not in your room, you're in this room which has got fitted carpet, quality 'B', won't do will it?'

Machin: 'The new manager's due to arrive next Monday. What will you do then, put it back?'

Fitter: (Nods in agreement) 'First job, got it down in the book.'

Machin: 'I really don't see the justification for all this, it's pointless.'

Fitter: 'Pointless is it? Why do you think there's such a thing as carpet regulations? (He changes his tone and prods Machin on the chest) Look, are you trying to put me out of work? Aren't there enough blokes on the dole round 'ere without trying to lose me my job?'

Terry: (Tentatively) 'Er, perhaps I could get off to my office?'

Machin: (Looks at him as if he has forgotten who he is) 'What?'

Terry: 'My office?'

Machin: 'Oh yes, along the corridor, Room 301, number's on the door. Even you can't miss it. Get along while I sort this fellow out.'

(Terry makes his way to the door as Machin resumes his argument with the fitter)

Machin: (to fitter) 'Now then, were you born without a brain, or are you being deliberately stupid?'

(EXIT Terry, Scene ends on door closing behind him)

(END OF SCENE 1)

Chapter 44

The Old Order Changeth.

The arrival of the Sheehan brothers, irked at the constant disruption to their shipments and angry enough to return to active duty in the face of shortages on the streets of Liverpool, Manchester and the rest of their vast empire, proved to be no more than a brief diversion.

Fat Stan as the elder Sheehan was universally known, although never within his earshot, blustered and bullied for a while, incensed that so little was known locally concerning the identity of whoever had so swiftly exercised dominance over shipments crossing the narrow strip of ocean separating the Moroccan coastline from Europe.

Fat Stan and his younger brother, Dermot, made a serious error of judgement in under-estimating the ruthlessness of Spider and his team. The Sheehan brothers fully expected their little local difficulty to be resolved by the traditional method of seizing the odd shipment and cracking a few heads together.

When this strategy had no effect, Fat Stan put the word out that he wanted a sit-down. Spider agreed to the meeting, but it was to be the only concession he was prepared to make. He stated his terms which were unequivocal; give up your business interests and walk away.

The Sheehan brothers had gone soft after many years of rich living. Their weaknesses were firmly pointed out by Spider. Large extended families, too diverse and numerous to guard with any hope of success.

'You're out of your depth, son,' Fat Stan blustered. 'Oldest rule in the book. We don't involve families.'

'Your rules, not mine,' Spider assured him and responded to their interference in his business affairs by rounding up members of the Sheehan gang and administering old-style Berber justice. Limbs were amputated, testicles removed, eyes gouged out.

As a business strategy it was brutal, brief and effective.

Fat Stan Sheehan became far more amenable after a visit from a dozen men wielding baseball bats while his younger brother, more hot-headed and less likely to listen to reason, eventually got the message in an even more painful manner. Spider pinned him to a row of wooden railway sleepers with six-inch nails before reversing a JCB over his lower limbs. Aware of their legitimate business interests he'd taken the trouble to import the JCB from Sheehan Brothers Plant Hire and attached a thick wad of notes to the windscreen as full payment for a week's hire, even though the machine had only been used for a single day.

The Sheehan brothers elected for retirement to their native Sligo where Fat Stan's nickname would soon be rendered inaccurate. A liquid diet, the legacy of a shattered jaw and ruptured spleen would see the pounds melt from his gigantic frame as he pushed Dermot's wheelchair around the grounds.

Chapter 45

The Grave

The Caravan Park was deserted; closed down for 'essential maintenance' according to the sign outside the warden's caravan.

His breath plumed in the still cold air as he unlocked the chain barring the entrance road and reversed his car out. The warden's van was locked, curtains drawn as a deterrent to casual visitors, but Marcus had no fear of being disturbed. The warden's body was buried in deep undergrowth at the base of the cliff and the man would not be missed until the site re-opened in six weeks time.

The Porsche had served its purpose and would now be abandoned. Granby Street, with the keys on show in the ignition, was the best way to guarantee its permanent removal. A prestige motor like this would be in a lock-up garage within the hour, ready to be re-sprayed, fitted with new plates and documents and shipped out to a new home in Eastern Europe. The new under the counter money was all coming from Russia, Romania and the former Soviet Union satellite states these days. The new consumers wanted only the best and were happy to pay top prices for it.

It had been necessary to use a flashy car, as the girl would not have been so easy to impress if he'd arrived in a family saloon, but his replacement vehicle would be very different. He invariably chose a nothing car, such as a Ford Focus. Decent engine, reliable, but best of all, it would never attract attention. Even the colour would be nothing special. Silver was the most popular colour at present. Safety in numbers.

He didn't believe in taking chances.

Ever.

Only half a dozen or so more deaths and this phase of his work would be over. The method he'd chosen would allow him to complete the task with a minimum of risk. This was vital; his planning always placed avoidance of danger at the very top of the list. This excessive caution was not rooted in fear. Self-interest demanded that he be free. He had been confined like an animal, for many years, would take any measure necessary to avoid a repetition.

Despite him having been officially pronounced dead, someone was actively seeking him out. A hacker. A very good one. A minor concern at this stage, but action would have to be taken eventually. The identity of the unknown snooper would soon be known and discouragement would then become necessary. One decision had already been made: the means would be permanent and very painful indeed.

The body had stiffened since his last visit but was just beginning to become pliable again as the effects of rigor wore off. He removed the hands and head, grunting with the effort it took in such cramped conditions, and placed them in a gunny sack for disposal elsewhere. Working quickly in the early morning chill he lowered the girl's body into the hole and shovelled earth back, tamping it down firmly with the flat of the spade. When he finished, the gravesite looked exactly like the rest of the freshly turned vegetable plot. He collected the sack and locked the caravan door, checking the windows and throwing the keys into the dense undergrowth. He wouldn't be back again.

He drove away from the site, now chained and locked once more, savouring the many pleasures of a cool crisp morning. A shy, breathy wind ruffled the treetops as the sun rose in the eastern sky, pink and violet streaks tipping the distant hills. He swerved slightly as a small rodent scuttled from the hedgerow and smiled broadly at the sound of tiny bones crunching beneath the fat tyres of the Porsche.

Sometimes life was just perfect.

Chapter 46

Berber Justice – Attempted Rapist meets his Accusers

Extract from 'Blood' – the Marcus saga continues.

An hour later, Donna stood next to Jamie and watched the fury of Marcus continue without showing any sign of abating. There was a perverse fascination in being present while such anger raged about their ears, the more so as Donna's would-be rapist was the subject of the verbal assault.

The words were in an unfamiliar dialect, presumably Berber, but their meaning could not have been clearer. The Arab charged with guarding the prisoners had betrayed his master's trust and Marcus was detailing the consequences of such a failure.

The man stood alone, head bowed while all around the narrow gap between the alleyways faces were watching and listening with evident enjoyment. Donna realised that this lecture was part of the punishment ritual: the many shortcomings of the man awaiting punishment being revealed to his peers. When Marcus indicated the slight frame of Donna with a sidelong glance, a hiss of derision rang out from the ranks of the spectators. There would be no help for her from anyone here, Donna surmised, but the attempted rape of another man's property aroused evident displeasure. Even in the centre of this reeking township whose wretched inhabitants were scarcely able to prolong a life of abject misery, certain accepted rules were clearly marked out. Marcus walked forward and slapped the face of the man standing in front of him. The blow was nothing more than a token, but the crowd stirred and edged forward.

Marcus held a knife aloft and Donna recognised it as being the Arab's own property. The man stared back at his accuser, the bruises from Jamie's head-butt standing out clearly along with a deep cut across his cheek that Donna had inflicted. He showed no fear, having seemingly resigned himself to his fate in the Arab manner, and Donna tensed herself to withstand seeing the man killed in front of her.

Marcus spoke softly and four robed figures leapt forward to seize the accused man and hold him securely. Marcus took the knife and walked forward. Staring directly into the face of the prisoner, Marcus reached down with his free hand and tore away the strip of cloth around his waist that had been the man's only garment. The great bunch of his genitals swung free and the spectators drew a collective breath and drew fractionally closer. Still staring into the man's eyes, Marcus seized the man's scrotum and a fresh buzz of excitement rippled around the arena.

Marcus looked downwards and studied the man's exposed groin. He took the knife and made two small cuts in the scrotum he held in his other hand. The Arab gasped and beads of sweat appeared on his brow, but the hands that held him captive prevented any movement. Marcus resumed his study of the other man's face, apparently savouring the terror that manifested itself in the prisoner's chattering teeth and ashen complexion.

Marcus smiled and whispered a few words that only the other man could hear. As his victim began to weep, Marcus reached down once more, then withdrew his hand and held it aloft. In the palm of his hand were two bloody testicles. The crowd went berserk, cheering and stamping their feet. The men holding the recently emasculated figure had not yet released their grip and Donna felt sick to her stomach as she realised the punishment was not yet over. An old man stepped forward, bearing aloft a rusty sword with a massive handle. He handed it to Marcus and bowed deeply as his offering was accepted. The old man, clearly a leader of some standing, grasped the hand of the condemned man and pulled it towards him. Marcus swung the blade in a great arc and Donna swayed as the hand fell into the dust and blood spurted freely.

The man screamed once, shaking as he took a filthy rag offered by one of his erstwhile restrainers and attempted to stem the flow of blood by wrapping the cloth tightly around the stump of his wrist. No one attempted to assist him as he shambled away out of sight and the crowd melted away, bowing respectfully to Marcus as they left.

Chapter 47

99 per cent of the job is just like this

Rain pattered on the canvas awning overhead, Fred Astaire in patent leather taps morphing into a Lancashire clog-dancing troupe in full spate.

The awning sagged alarmingly, struggling to contain the increased volume of water. Warily I shuffled closer to the wall. In the depths of the shop at my back a fluorescent tube flickered erratically, the pale yellow light reminiscent of seedy drinking dens on the Dock Road. A stray raindrop marked its icy passage down the back of my neck as I glared balefully at a red BMW coupe as it swished past, the driver doubtless cocooned in warm dry luxury.

The rain was a real cloudburst by now, an unbroken translucent curtain seamlessly bridging the gap between earth and sky. It felt like I'd had been watching the house opposite forever and nothing at all had happened. Apart from getting chilled to the bone.

According to my informant, Danny should have left well over an hour ago, but I was beginning to question his reliability. Boredom, adverse weather, inadequate or incorrect information were all part of the job and I knew that better than most.

Thick banks of scudding clouds whirled away into the distance. The wind was a full gale by now, howling in from the coast and leaving a tang of salt in the air. It roared between the houses, touching carelessly exposed flesh with icy fingers as cold as a traffic warden's heart as I watched the rain in silent desperation. It was just rain doing exactly what rain was supposed to do, but I wished it would go away and do it somewhere else.

The light was improving with the imminent arrival of dawn, but the house remained dark and the street was as empty as it had been for the past three hours.

I drew back a pace at a particularly virulent gust of wind, but kept a watchful eye on the house through the plate-glass window of the shop frontage as a car pulled up and carefully reversed into a vacant slot over the road. A tall figure clambered out from behind the wheel and ran towards the shelter of the houses, flicking the remote control behind his back to lock the car. The man paused in the porch of the house directly opposite, rummaging in his jacket pocket for the door key. As he opened the door and darted inside, he half turned and I saw his face clearly.

Danny.

I'd been waiting in the dark for three hours in the expectation that he'd would be leaving the house, not returning to it from some place unknown. Another day wasted. I needed to go and have another chat to my informant. It may have been a simple mistake on his part, but I was far too cold now for charitable thoughts.

No more mister nice guy.

Chapter 48

An Interesting Week

'Just down here, mate,' my minder said, indicating yet another corridor far below the point at which natural light has any beneficial effect.

Double swing doors had broad metal bands running across their width at trolley height, presumably a necessary precaution against damage when the trolley pusher was working alone. Despite the protective strips, the paint on the doors suggested that herds of stampeding cattle passed through on a regular basis.

The first door on the left was our destination. There wasn't much to see, even less to impress. Two swivelling typists chairs: a lime green plastic monstrosity without arms that looked potentially lethal and a larger model with armrests, all visible areas covered in a rough tweed material. I didn't fancy sitting on either of them for any length of time. The desk was real wood, not chipboard, but that was its solitary virtue. The top was marred by deep scratches, cigarette burns, coffee cup rings and a complete art gallery of ink stains while four sharp corners threatened the safety of passers- by. A bottle green metal filing cabinet, four drawers, and a Victorian coat stand tilted alarmingly to one side were the only other furniture.

My guide to this underground rabbit warren shrugged.

'Not fancy, is it?'

I agreed. It was very far from fancy. I'd spent the previous night at the Adelphi and the contrast between this room and the city centre hotel suite provided at Government expense could scarcely have been more marked. Several floors above this room the business of the Crown Court was in full swing. I was a witness in a major trial, hoping desperately not to be called upstairs to give evidence in person.

Some weeks previously I'd sat in a room very like this and videotaped twenty hours of evidence, all I could recall from a time long since passed. I'd been assured my evidence would be held in camera, far from the public eye, with only the judge and a few lawyers present. That was the idea. Being required to give evidence in person would be hazardous. Not just for me, but for others who were still working undercover. I was here, waiting, on the off chance that a legal challenge was made to my evidence and it became necessary to repeat elements of it in open court. I wasn't looking forward to the next three days.

'Got to keep you out of sight, see?'

I nodded. It made sense.

The man who'd led me here looked as if he couldn't wait to leave. 'I could fetch a coffee,' he offered, 'and a bacon sandwich, if you like.'

I nodded, as much for his benefit as my own. A drink would be welcome and even if I was stuck here there was no reason for him to be similarly confined. A trip upstairs, to natural light, would do him good. His skin tones had bleached away leaving a pasty complexion heavily scored with deep lines and he wore a weary, defeated expression. As he shuffled away like a walking corpse I wondered if he'd find his way back again. Actually, the walking corpse reference was unfair; I'd seen dead people and they'd all looked better than him. A lot better.

After he left I tried the chairs. Both were equally ill suited to the purpose for which they'd been designed. I perched on the edge of the table, thinking back to the events that had brought me here. Almost twenty years ago yet still as fresh in my memory as the football match I'd watched yesterday.

I looked down the barrel of the gun. My focus settled on the isotropic barrel, a dull grey in colour and, in its own way, a thing of beauty. I forced my gaze away from the gun towards the face of the man holding my immediate fate in his hands. 'You're a fucking dead man,' he said.

His deep and unfathomable eye sockets were those of a cadaver, eyes barely visible, yet burning with the fanatical zeal of someone who loved his work. We'd been mates for the last few weeks. Of a sort. Had got on well together.

In as far as a drug dealer's minder gets on with anyone.

There'd been a leak. The usual method, tried and tested, in these circumstances was to root out the unknown factors. Those without a long history behind them.

The new boys.

That included me.

I tried to stay calm. I'd faced down guns before, but never with a dead body in the next room. The man pointing the gun at my face had shot him. Even without the orders to get rid of anyone who could have passed on information, I had been a witness to a murder. Not a good situation to be in.

'Big mistake, Dan,' I said, calmly. 'You stopped the leak. You need me.' I nodded to the body behind Dan. 'I'm not some bloody kid with a big trap like him. Tommy knows that. He needs me.'

Dan pushed the barrel of the gun against my cheekbone, the front sight nicked the side of my nose and I felt blood trickling down my cheek. He smiled. 'Maybe he does. I could check. Or I could just pull the trigger. Not bothered either way.'

I raised my hand slowly, pushed the barrel of the gun to one side. 'Ring Tommy,' I said. 'Tell him it's done. Problem solved. Then I'll give you a hand with that.' I nodded my head towards the body in the next room.

Dan nodded. 'You're a jammy bastard,' he said. 'Just as well I've got a heart of gold.'

I laughed, slapped him on the back, and we walked through the open door to where the body lay.

Twenty years ago. Now the man who'd pushed the gun into my face was several floors above this room. In the dock, flanked by burly police officers. He wasn't even the main event, just one of the smaller fry caught up in the net when the big fish was finally hooked. I didn't want to see him, or his boss, ever again. The next few days would decide it one way or another. Being stuck in this room wasn't an inviting prospect, but I'd willingly settle for it when the alternative was so much worse.

Chapter 49

Gladiator School

'Gladiator school.'

'Eh?'

'Gladiator school,' Dave repeated. 'That's what we used to call those places. They come in as young kids, first offenders some of them, and go out as fully-fledged villains. This is where they learn their trade.'

'Not a lot of emphasis on rehabilitation then?' My question was rhetorical; I already knew what the answer would be.

Dave looked at me with blatant scorn. 'Not a lot, no. The whole point of a place like this should be punishment. Pure and simple. Make the bastards suffer and they'll not be keen to set foot in a nick again any time soon.'

I just nodded. Best to say nothing when Dave was on a roll. I'd long since realised that most serving and former coppers I'd met had views somewhat to the right of Genghis Khan. He'd left the Drug Squad three years ago, but once a copper, as they say. I'd never been a copper, but I understood where he was coming from.

We'd just got back from an interview with a young kid, one of life's losers. High on crack he'd stabbed another lad from a rival gang, left him to bleed to death in a bus shelter, and then gone looking for trouble waving a bloody knife around in a crowded street. A patrol car had clipped him as he'd run across the road, breaking his hip. He and his victim were both fifteen years old. I'd hoped to learn something new about the gang hierarchy, but the kid wasn't talking. Not now, not ever. Too engrossed in his newfound celebrity.

That symbiotic relationship which had always existed between myself and Dave as a mutually advantageous partnership between two disparate individuals, was under severe strain. There had been raised voices for half an hour and the argument showed no sign of winding down. When arguments are prolonged to this extent, there's very little chance of a reconciliation.

Dave was the classic bigot, all fury and bluster with a characteristic inability to see beyond his own fixed and definite opinions. That didn't mean I didn't like him or respect him. I did. It just made the working relationship difficult. I was probably just as bad, just as determined, probably more so, but deluded myself into thinking I had the ability to see the merits or otherwise of all relevant points of view. It certainly wasn't any lack of opinion on either part that was prolonging the argument.

The door opened and Gemma looked in. Gemma acted as my 'phone contact when I was on a job. Acted out the role of wife, girlfriend, whatever the role demanded. She's a tough cookie, pretty sharp too with her Cambridge law degree. Fancies herself as a peacemaker.

'Problems?' Gemma enquired sweetly. We both glared at her, too involved in our row to bother with a reply.

Gemma came into the office and sat down. She never sat down in Dave's office; at best she perched on the edge of the desk.

'No problems at all,' I replied, eventually 'Far from it. Your boss and I have had a free and frank discussion concerning future policy in the firm and come to an entirely amicable conclusion.'

'Oh,' Gemma ventured. 'Dave doesn't seem quite as enamoured of this future policy as you do.'

'Ah well,' I replied gravely, 'There's a very good reason for that. He's a total arsehole.'

Dave walked to the door, still visibly seething. 'Think it over,' he said. 'Get back to me when you start to see sense.'

He left the room, slamming the door behind him. I blew out my cheeks, grinning at Gemma.

'That went well.'

'Not from where I'm sitting,' Gemma said. 'What's the problem?'

I shrugged. 'Dave wants to go mob-handed, I want to keep it tight. Same old story.'

'In on your own again?'

I nodded. 'Only way I'll get anywhere. More people, more flapping tongues, harder to blend in, less chance of a result.'

Gemma nodded. We'd been over this before. Many times.

'It's a big one, this, isn't it?'

'Yeah. We're losing the battle. Hand over fist. If we don't make a move on this new bloke, we're fucked.'

Gemma swung herself round on the desk, looking pensive. 'Not like you, this. Taking it personal.'

'It's all changing, we need to make a push now or just leave it to the bizzies to mop up the blood in the gutter. Accept it's not a war we can ever win. I'm not ready for that.'

'It's bad now, isn't it?'

'You know it is. When it comes down to life and death, I'd say that was pretty bad. God knows what the life expectancy of lads on the street is around here. About nineteen I'd say. The lucky ones get knocked off and go to jail. Think about that; your chances of survival are increased a hundred fold by getting banged up for a good long stretch. If the drugs or AIDS don't get you first, there's plenty of drive-by shootings and punishment squads around. When drugs are the only business in town, the only choice is to be either a seller or a user. Dealers get rich quick or bleed to death in the gutter because the paramedics won't attend emergency calls for fear of being attacked themselves. Drug users lose everything in even less time.

The ones who survive are tough or lucky. Usually both. A few ex-cons get religion in Walton and come back here to set up needle exchanges or drug advice centres. Putting something back into society, they reckon. They end up like everyone else: disillusioned with the same apathy and resentment they dished out to well-meaning do-gooders in their own youth.'

'Phew!' Gemma said, 'I can see you're still pretty wound up, but you make it sound hopeless. Not like you, this.'

I looked back at her, meeting and holding her gaze. 'Sorry if I'm coming across as a sad disillusioned wanker, it's because that exactly what I am. I started off like everyone else, thinking I could make a difference. I still thought like that until reality kicked in. Now I know we're only playing catch up at best. This squad, Dave's people, are the best I've ever been involved with and yet we're still losing ground hand over fist.'

Gemma shook her head. We talked about the job all the time and she'd usually be the one with the negative vibes. I was supposed to be the positive one. As the bloke at the sharp end I had to be.

Today was different. I felt a deep sadness invade my spirit. Less than a mile from here, no more, there were wine bars, and fancy cafes, delicatessens and tanning studios. Footballers' wives sipped cappuccino in pavement cafes within spitting distance of a war zone.

Dave came back in, glowering. 'I've been on to London, what a bunch of wankers, know fuck all about anything. We'll do it your way.' He held up an admonishing hand. 'My rules though, right? First sign of it kicking off, I want you out of there. No pissing about trying to rescue the situation, they're mad bastards, just get out.'

I nodded. We were mates again and the job was still on. We shook hands and settled down to planning a campaign.

This time next week I'd have a new name, a different identity, Gemma would be my telephone significant other. Otherwise I'd be on my own.

Chapter 50

The Philosophy of Torture

He was unarmed and the other man had a pistol pointed directly at his chest, but he felt no fear.

He had trained his mind, and by extension his body, to seek out fear and indecision in others. He was impervious to bluff and could have been a legendary poker player if he'd not chosen his present occupation. His senses were on full alert, probing for the faintest sign of weakness in his opponent.

The way in which the man with the gun held it in a firm grip that didn't waver was confirmation enough that the gun was loaded. That effectively ruled out the direct approach. It didn't make any difference; he never doubted that he would prevail, even in such a subservient position. He'd had guns pointed at him before and had always been victorious. The other man hadn't pulled the trigger. Which meant that he wasn't dead yet and still had time to plan his strategy.

'I'd have expected more from a man with your reputation,' the other man said.

Indra didn't reply.

He wasn't interested in a dialogue; it was enough that the other man wanted to talk. Every moment wasted in speech extended the chances of a change in the point of advantage. The gun was still rock-steady, but Indra knew from experience how heavy that weapon would begin to feel with the passage of time.

'Nothing to say, eh?' the other man asked. 'No explanations or excuses?'

Indra remained silent. He knew now that with the obvious advantage he possessed, the other man was more interested in scoring points than killing him.

The balance of power was shifting but only Indra knew it.

He kept his attention focussed on the other man's gun hand and was rewarded with a faint tremor. The point at which the opponent should back off a pace or two, re-grip and loosen his fingers while still retaining the ability to point, aim and fire before Indra could get near him. That is what he would have done in this position, but the other man did nothing. Indra felt a surge of adrenalin with this confirmation that the advantage was now firmly on his side.

Indra met the other man's gaze and smiled with chilling ferocity.

'What the fuck you smiling at?'

The pistol wavered again, his fingers gleaming white as far as the first knuckle with the effort of maintaining pressure on the trigger for so long.

Indra knew his opponent by now, certain the other man would not simply step back and empty the weapon into Indra's chest. Over-confident and goaded to rage by Indra's apparent absence of fear, he moved forward and pressed the barrel of the gun against Indra's chest, pushing hard.

'Not smiling now, are you?' he snarled through clenched teeth, raising his eyes to stare at Indra. At the exact moment the other man shifted his gaze, Indra half-turned his body to present a smaller target and simultaneously struck the other man's wrist with the edge of his hand.

The gun bellowed and Indra grimaced as the bullet scored a shallow groove across the full width of his chest, burning fiercely and seeping blood onto his shirt. As he continued his half-turn, pivoting on his left leg, his steel toecap struck the inside of the other man's knee with stunning force. The area is a key nerve centre and the man fell instantly, like a marionette with severed strings, screaming shrilly and clutching at his shattered kneecap. Indra caught the gun in mid-air and threw it away. He had no need of the weapon; the man still screaming on the floor was no threat at all.

Removing his shirt, Indra examined the groove across his chest. It hurt, but the pain was manageable and the bleeding was of little consequence. Nothing that he couldn't deal with himself.

He searched the cupboards and found a clean white sheet that he tore into strips. He breathed in deeply and bound the strips of sheet tightly around his chest until the bleeding stopped. Dismissing the wound from his mind he walked back to where the gunman lay. He needed information.

'Who sent you?' Indra barked. The man on the floor moaned in agony, his face ashen, but made no reply.

'Who sent you?' The repetition of the question was deliberate and when he again failed to receive an answer, he moved forward and stared directly at the other man.

'You should answer me now,' Indra said, his voice clear and in control, demanding the other man's attention. 'It will help you when the time comes for you to die. If you think what you feel now is pain, you are mistaken. The amount of pain you will feel depends on your answers to my questions.'

No response other than a stifled gasp of agony.

Indra shrugged his shoulders. 'Your choice. You've already made one very costly mistake. Don't make another.'

The gunman groaned, raising his head to look at his tormentor, his hands scrabbling on the floor in a frantic search for his weapon. Indra smiled at him, almost benevolently. 'You won't be needing the gun,' he said. 'It cost you the use of your knee. Forget about it, that's my advice. Used correctly, it's a good weapon. The problems come when you think it's all you need. Like just now for instance. You should have kept your distance. The gun could have killed me just as easily from five yards away. You had the gun and I had nothing. You held the power of life and death and it made you careless. Also, you like to talk. Big mistake.'

He looked down at the man on the floor whose eyes remained fixed on his own.

'I can afford to talk. You can't do me any damage and I don't need a gun to prove it. Talking is good. I also enjoy talking. But you can see the difference, can't you? Now I am in control and you are lying on the floor with a knee that will never work again. You can't get up; you can't reach me or do me any damage. This is when it is a good time to talk. But it is time for you to talk to me now. I need answers and you will give me those answers.'

Indra kicked the other man on the inside of his damaged knee. A precise blow that he'd aimed with great precision and heard the crunch of bone and splintering cartilage. The other man screamed once and was silent, losing consciousness and banging the back of his head on the stone floor as he fell back.

Indra left him without a backward glance. He needed certain items from the boot of his car and the other man wouldn't be going anywhere in the next few minutes. He needed to know who'd sent the intended assassin, but he also relished this opportunity to further hone his skills in a field of endeavour in which he believed he had no serious rival.

The systematic torture of a fellow human being requires a special breed. A man able to stand aside from the agony his efforts are causing and watch dispassionately, without pity or remorse, concentrating solely on any revelations of weakness. A sadist will inflict pain for his own pleasure, while a true professional concentrates only on the effect of his actions. No effort should be wasted; nothing left to chance. Torture should always have a purpose and an expert could elevate the most brutal act into an art form.

In most cases, torture was merely window dressing where his victims were intended to be discovered and the means of their death would serve as a reminder of the ultimate cost of betrayal or failure. A mutilated body was a reliable and effective deterrent.

It is a common misconception that torture as a means of obtaining information should be prolonged to the point at which the victim seeks only the opportunity to maintain their life and will provide the desired information in return for a cessation of pain.

Indra had seen many men plead for mercy and knew that obtaining the truth was only part of the package.

His victims always talked eventually.

Some broke more readily than others, but they all broke in the end.

His artistry lay in the means he chose to bring about that end result.

Versatility was the key. He'd studied the acknowledged masters of his craft through the centuries, adding to and refining their techniques until he was absolutely certain that no man could resist his efforts. What worked with one subject would be ineffective with another and it was in this variety of responses that he gained his greatest satisfaction.

The basic tools for cutting, crushing and burning all had their uses and strategically placed electrical current had the potential for dramatic results, but Indra found his greatest pleasure lay in probing for a specific weakness and using that knowledge to inflict overwhelming pain on the subject.

When the end came, all usable information would have been gained long since. A plea for life would have been disregarded; it was only when the victim begged for death that Indra could be convinced that his work was near the end.

The victim would know by that point that his or her life was already forfeit and only the manner of their death was still to be decided. It was at that stage that Indra could allow himself to enjoy his work and proceed in accordance with his own desires. A man seeking only death could still provide pleasure for the dedicated practitioner. This man would be no different.

When Indra had discovered the identity of the man's employer, he would have no further need of him except as a means of passing a message to that person. The message would be a demonstration of his power and the fate that awaited whoever had made himself an enemy of Indra.

The mutilation of the body would have to be extreme for maximum effect and Indra savoured the opportunity to show his skills in keeping the man alive long enough for him to suffer unimaginable agony.

He smiled as he took a clanking bag of tools from the boot of his car and walked swiftly back to where his victim was waiting. The next few hours held the promise of being very pleasant indeed.
Chapter 51

May Your Arsehole Fester

A sudden wind whipped between the surrounding buildings and a loose section of plastic sheeting flapped and undulated like a startled animal waking from a long hibernation as I walked the last few yards to the pub. It was a wild night, storms out at sea battering the Pier Head and making walking difficult, but at least the rain had stopped.

I reached the doorway and ducked gratefully inside. The warm fug of the main bar brought instant relief from the biting chill and a sea of faces turned to acclaim my arrival. These were old mates, good friends from long ago, and I'd looked forward all week to this Friday night get-together.

Two hours later and I was feeling mellow. We'd drifted into a side room by now, just our own group, and the banter was relentless. My face hurt from laughing, I was losing my voice, yet I'd loved every minute. As a few departed on a pilgrimage to the Gents, I had the chance to look around. In the main bar a woman in a business suit stood out. Surrounded by men, and loving the attention by the look of it, she may have been the sole remaining female in an after work drinks session. A much older man was fawning over her, her boss perhaps, and she gave him a playful slap then clamped her shocking-pink lips around the proffered glass, knocking back white wine like a plain wooden fence absorbs creosote.

In the main bar, the décor played homage to the Adams Family and the only barmaid I could see was darting hither and thither as the requests of a sea of punters arrived.

'Who did her makeup?' I wondered. 'Stevie Wonder?'

A stranger wandered into 'our' room, gazed around, then sat down at a table in the corner, nursing his pint. I surmised it wasn't his first of the evening.

The confrontational expression on his face wasn't attractive and it was a face that needed all the help it could get. The big yellow teeth would have been fine in the mouth of a racehorse, but he didn't look like a potential Derby winner.

Even worse, he wanted to talk.

There's always one, isn't there?

'Bloody weather,' he announced, apropos of absolutely nothing, looking directly at me. I nodded, a Pavlovian polite response kicking in despite my inner groan.

'Got the bloody shits again. Always the same when the weather changes.'

Hmm. This was slightly more problematic. I half-nodded, half turned away, certain by now this was not a conversation I wished to continue.

'I've been up the Royal Liverpool three times last week. Bloody doctors, useless.'

I sipped my beer, tried to ignore him, but to no avail.

'Never been the same since I got back from the desert.'

Despite my best intentions I looked at him. Deserts are a passion of mine.

'Oh?'

'Libya. Ten years I did, running pipelines for that Gadaffi bloke. Good money, but no ale and too bloody hot. I packed it in over a year ago, never been right since.'

Ah, back on the medical issues then. I looked deeply into my glass and pretended to be lost in thought.

'I got cursed, see, that's what did it. Egyptian foreman, a right bastard he was. I turned up late once or twice, he bloody cursed me.'

'Ah,' I said.

'Not just a bollocking, I can take that, one of them ancient Egyptian curses it was.'

I couldn't help it. Despite everything, I had to know.

'What was it?'

'Can remember it, word for word. May your arsehole fester and you shit a long black thread.'

I choked on a mouthful of beer.

'Bastard knew what he was doing. This week's been shocking. I'm trying out a few jars of ale. Kill or cure, I reckon.'

'Is it helping?'

He laughed, without a trace of humour. 'Is it buggery. The contents of my stomach went hours ago. In fact, everything I've ever eaten in my life has gone down the pan in the last three days. I'm shitting spinal fluid now.'

Chapter 52

The Drug Scene Lecture

I'd trained a few new recruits and took the job seriously. I preferred to work alone, at the sharp end, but a strong support team was essential. The new girl, Denise, was trying my patience. She was keen, no question, but had yet to convince me she had the right attitude.

Today's lesson, drugs – supply and demand. A massive part of the job, big profits, big risks and always dangerous, especially when undercover. I'd been shocked to find Denise knew more about burgers than she did about drugs.

'Heroin isn't cheap, but when it comes to upward mobility it has to be cocaine,' I said, feeling like a presenter on kids' TV. 'Most cocaine users expect to pay a premium for their drug of choice. The price of fashion.'

'Paying through the nose,' Denise said. Deadpan, her face expressionless.

'The cheap option,' I continued, ignoring Denise's remark 'has to be crack cocaine. Easy to make, cheap to buy, readily available and does exactly what it says on the tin. Makes you feel good for a pitifully short time while it's fucking up your life.'

Denise stopped in her tracks, frowning. 'Look at the state of that lot,' she said. The sorry little bands of nicotine addicts huddling together in a smoke-wreathed group outside the glass and marble entrances of their political correct office block were the object of her attention.

Denise chuckled. 'Sad bastards. These days smokers are about as welcome as genital herpes. Not to mention the poor bastards left inside getting on with their work while this lot are skiving off.'

'Cocaine,' I said, pointedly.

'Oh yeah, sorry. Look I know I'm coming across as a right thickie, but what's crack all about?'

We walked on. It was a good question and I took a moment to work out the best way to answer it.

'Well, cocaine has always been an up market drug. Think media types, think the middle class dinner party set, think high disposable incomes and you've got the ideal end-user for Charlie.

Never likely to be a big seller in an inner city area with low incomes, high percentage on state benefits. Heroin has a foothold, but it also attracts a lot of attention. Not least from blokes like me, not to mention the drug squad. Crack is easy and cheap to make, cheap to sell and highly addictive so your customers automatically become repeat customers. Huge profit margins and yet nobody until now has had the balls to take over the distribution for the whole city and corner the market.'

Denise obviously wanted to ask another question, but said nothing. 'With me so far, Denise?'

Denise nodded. 'Could you just explain a bit more about the difference between...?'

'Crack and cocaine?'

Denise nodded.

'Main difference is that cocaine is a white powder, usually snorted up the nostrils. Crack cocaine comes as a soft crumbly rock. Best effects come from smoking it like pot. Manufacture couldn't be easier. You need a small quantity of good quality pure cocaine. That's expensive, but you don't need a lot. Add water and baking soda, mix together and then boil off the liquid. What's left resembles soft crumbly pumice stone. That's crack cocaine.'

'What's it do? For the user, I mean. They smoke it, right?'

'Yeah. Smoke it for an instant high. Forget your troubles for a short time at least and become invincible. It is incredibly addictive and a good dealer can build up a huge client list very quickly. That means the man at the top is making mega-bucks.'

'That's who we're after? The squad I mean. When you go under, that's who you're after? The man at the top?'

I nodded. 'That's the plan.'

Denise looked thoughtful as we crossed the road towards the pub.

'Are we losing the battle?'

I nodded. 'Maybe. Old style drug dealers, we knew them all. Mostly they lived locally, almost all of them still lived with their mothers. Drugs, at street level, that's a young man's game. Always has been. The new boss changed some of the rules when he moved in. His dealers are all young lads; he looks after them and gives them hope. That's a big change.'

'You make him sound like a bloody social worker,'

I shook my head. 'He's no social worker. He's a ruthless bastard. He can afford to look after his troops, it's good business practice. I honestly believe this guy would have made a success in just about any business he turned his hand to.'

'Tycoon is he?'

'Supplying drugs is a business like every other. A very profitable business. For the first time, a humble foot soldier can advance in a proper career structure. I find that bloody scary.'

We entered the pub, walked straight through to the back room where we were due to meet the others.

Nobody there.

I bought drinks and we sat down to wait.

'You were saying, this new face, he does things differently?'

I drank the top inch of my pint. Not bad. 'The new face as you call him has taken the drug scene to a whole new level in less than a year. He's put most of the old guard out to pasture and we still know fuck all about him. It hasn't been for lack of trying either. Us and the police, we've got nowhere.'

'Isn't this Drug Squad territory? You know, police work?'

I took another drink. 'Yes and no. We do what they can't do. Police undercover lads, they still look like police, still think the same way. Blokes like me, you'd never take me for a copper.

Denise smirked. 'You're right there,' she said.

'Drug squad are good at what they do. Bloody good. They get good feedback from the streets and every time they lift some low-level dealer the first thing he'll want is to make a deal. Swap information for a lesser charge. Mostly, they're users themselves and a night in the cells is a night without a hit. They need it, can't do without it, so they'll shop their own mothers if it means they get back on the streets.'

'What changed?'

'Everything changed when this new guy took over. Young disadvantaged kids make up a distribution network. Fearless, eager to please and greedy. Now they're much younger. Low teens, sometimes even younger. Fiercely loyal, unlikely to be users, far less leverage.'

'Why?'

I shrugged 'Not sure. Think about all those kids kicking a ball against a wall who want to run out at Anfield and be instant millionaires. Only a tiny fraction ever make it, but it doesn't stop them trying. What are the odds against winning X-Factor? There's no shortage of entrants, is there? They all want fame, money, and success. The drugs trade is easier. No talent required.'

Denise sat quietly, said nothing. A man stuck his head around the door, looked at us and went out. The tightly stretched skin on his scrawny face was tinged with a sickly yellow hue. A blank face without expression.

'See him?' I said.

'Yeah. What about him?'

'We weren't who he expected to see. We weren't holding. The man he's looking for would have slim plastic bags of white powder in his pockets.'

'A dealer.'

'Yeah.'

'What's a dealer look like?'

I smiled. 'A week from now, exactly like me. Our friend out there, he'll be a customer. Him or someone just like him. That's my next job. Getting known, moving up the ladder. Getting noticed.'

A clatter of feet announced the arrival of the others. We had a chat, talked about the job for a while. The team leader took me to one side. He wasn't my boss, but he ran the team who looked after me. I liked him, respected him, but tried to keep it as a business relationship. We weren't mates, not as such.

'What do you reckon?' he asked.

I knew what he meant. 'Denise? Not ready, nowhere near,' I said.

He looked relieved. 'Thank fuck for that. Now I can give her one and send her back to where she came from with a clear conscience.'

Chapter 53

Gone to Ground

The trail had gone cold. All his recent efforts to trace the target had come to nothing.

He'd fully expected to have completed the assignment by now. The difficult part, tracing a man who didn't want to be found and with the resources of a Witness Protection Programme behind him, had proved well within his compass in the past. If the rewards were sufficiently tempting, there was always someone willing to talk. Usually a cop.

Cops like to see scumbags put away, not rewarded with a new identity and a comfortable future life.

Nobody in the small market town where the target had buried himself for two years had any idea that a notorious criminal was living quietly among them.

The target had disappeared. Just walked away. Told no one where he was going.

The man with no name didn't know where his target had gone, but he knew why he'd gone. Boredom. Simple as that.

He'd visited the target's adopted hometown. Put himself in the target's shoes. Walked the boring narrow streets. Seen the terraced house where he'd lived. The dismal industrial estate where he'd worked.

The target was a big city boy. Bright lights. Action. Plenty of money in his pocket, and, most importantly of all, he'd been someone. A man to be reckoned with. A player. Now, he was stuck in a boring little town, in a boring little house and a boring little job. No wonder he'd made a break for freedom.

The man with no name was a specialist in his field. There was nothing about his appearance to suggest what he did for a living. He looked completely unremarkable in every way and prided himself on his anonymity. His features were regular, not conventionally handsome but certainly not unpleasing to the eye. His hair was brown, medium length. No distinguishing features. He was of middling height and medium build; everything about him was average. He took great pains to keep it that way.

His carefully presented appearance made him invisible.

Instantly forgettable.

He had no family. No close friends. Indeed, no friends at all. He didn't need the support of any social group. His solitary nature kept him strong. Having other people in your life, caring for others, were evidence of weakness and weakness made people vulnerable. A weakness he'd exploited many times.

His needs were entirely selfish and easily satisfied by money. When he was hungry, he ate. When he was thirsty, he drank. When he needed sex, he sought out a woman. It didn't bother him to pay for a woman. Sexual need was a basic commodity, easily satisfied in any country on Earth. He paid top price and expected the best. He'd never see the woman again, no matter how skilled her efforts to please him.

The man with no name had known from the outset that this would be a difficult job. He'd set the price high to reflect that difficulty. But he'd never allowed the prospect of failure to enter the equation. The target was a man of some importance. He'd given up some major underworld figures, provided evidence to ensure that a large number of men who'd previously been considered as untouchable were now slopping out in high security prisons.

Budgetary considerations would not apply. Not for a witness who had put so many of his previous comrades away.

The new identity and new life weren't a problem. The man without a name had traced witnesses who'd thought themselves safe before. Successful operations and satisfied clients in every case.

If the target had made a break for it, certain facts were not in dispute. He would have funds at his disposal, probably dating from the time before his arrest. He would return to the life he knew best. And, he would change his appearance. He may have been bored; it didn't mean he was stupid.

The man without a name knew where to start looking. The target's first consideration would be to change his appearance. He'd have lost or gained weight, changed the style of his hair, worn different clothes, but none of these changes would be enough if he wanted to return to the old life. The target would need plastic surgery. A lot of plastic surgery. That would leave a trail.

The man without a name sat on a hard bench in a boring little pub in the boring little town and thought through his next step. If he felt a tinge of regret at the target's inconvenient disappearance, he didn't show it. He always enjoyed the difficult assignments best.

All his jobs amounted to the same thing in the end: a man or a woman had to die. Some targets were more important than others. Some targets were better guarded. Some even considered themselves to be invincible.

They were wrong.

No one could make himself or herself impregnable. Anyone could be killed. Means and opportunity. That was all it took. Which was the area in which his special talents proved so valuable to his clients. He alone had the track record to carry out the assignments deemed to be impossible. He alone could strip away the detail until only the solution was left behind. A solution that required only the right man to carry it out. A man without conscience, prepared to suffer any pain, any discomfort, to carry out his plan. A man utterly dedicated to his work.

It wasn't necessary to enjoy the act of killing another human being.

That was a bonus.

Chapter 54

Weather reports, first candidates for the cull when editing.

Editing, such blissful joy. First to get the chop is the 'padding' – the non-essential descriptions. Like this passage here.

Little more than an hour later he was in the mountains, still shrouded in gloom while the sun struggled to break above the towering peaks.

The dawn he'd witnessed at sea level came much later to these high mountains and the first faint glimmer of sunlight was barely touching the surrounding hills and the distant village was silent.

He threw his bag onto the back seat of the car and stood for a moment. The decision had been made and he was ready to go back.

He allowed himself a moment's reflection. Old memories flitted through his mind, some of them pleasant, but most were a constant reminder of unfinished business. The time had come to redress the balance. The boredom he'd been experiencing recently was a spur for the action that he knew he had to take. He'd taken the first step already and it was time to move on. Faces flashed through his mind. Faces of people to whom he'd never spoken; yet he knew everything about them and not a single day passed that he did not think of them.

Sunlight cleaved its erratic way through the early morning cloud cover, the distant hills a shimmering dusky pink while the vast expanse of sky was a vivid lazuli blue. Faint traces of dew lingered on the sparse scrub nestling beneath soft rounded boulders, the freshness of the preceding night soon to be overwhelmed by the impending day.

In the heat of summer every day was the same. With each brilliant shaft of light that invaded the landscape, fresh colours burst into life. By mid-day the heat would bleach the scene to a white glare, painful to the eye, and the valley would bake under a remorseless sun.

Tiny creatures scurried and darted, frantically seeking out shade in meagre patches of sage and bracken. Later still, the encircling hills would turn to gold as the sun dipped lower in the sky until each successive peak was tipped with vivid pink, the lower slopes marked by ever-deepening shades of indigo. Flocks of birds would plunge and soar in a final riot of activity before settling down to roost, the last vestiges of discernible colour slipping away, marking the final passage of another day.

The arrival of each succeeding sunrise pushed the barriers of light and shade to the limit, yet the man standing as still as one of the ancient encircling stones experienced nature's wonders at first hand on a daily basis and it meant nothing to him.

His priorities lay elsewhere.

He opened the car door, climbed inside and moments later the engine roared into life. He never looked back as he drove away from his remote dwelling for the last time.

Chapter 55

The Question

During the day he ate, slept and dealt with the trivial details of life. Reality began when the sun went down and an army of like-minded lost souls came out to party the night away. His kind of people.

The nights were when he came to life. Most of the people born around here, or forced by circumstances beyond their control to live here, dreamt of escape. A new job, money, whatever they thought they needed to better themselves. The dreams were all different but the motivation was the same: getting away from here. The irony of his own situation was blindingly clear. He'd escaped. Got away.

And then he'd come back.

His choice. He'd made the return journey when he'd realised that what he really wanted from life he could find right here, back where he'd come from.

Big men stand out in a crowd, especially if they are smartly dressed, handsome or athletic. Dress the same man in an oversized pair of baggy jeans and add an apparent fifty pounds of excess weight, however, and all anyone sees is a fat slob. The padded out sweatshirt was part of himself by now, along with the slouching posture and the rounded shoulders. People avoided him, usually without realising it, as he passed by, forgetting him in an instant.

The spiral of decay had spun un-checked through this neighbourhood. Terraced houses, three storeys and a basement, magnificent in their day, were boarded up and shuttered. The front gardens were overgrown with weeds, festooned with the detritus of a throwaway society. Even the sign that proclaimed this to be a site for regeneration was shabby and tilted at an unlikely angle.

Forget Glasgow. Forget London. Forget Bath. Liverpool has more Georgian buildings than any other city. Square-fronted rows of terraced houses with classic doors and windows are everywhere. Houses in certain areas command sky-high prices, and rightly so, while a similar property in a different area will attract far less attention. All down to that well-known estate agents' mantra: location, location, location.

This street was a case in point. The houses were architectural gems; but the area had been hit hard by other factors. Even impoverished immigrants looked elsewhere. Anyone unfortunate enough to be born here was looking to move away as soon as they were weaned.

The decline had started with old-fashioned racist attitudes. The first black face sent out alarm signals. Residents rushed to move away as a more cosmopolitan mixture moved in. The phenomenon is not confined to Liverpool; every other city has experienced the same changes. The stratospheric rise in drug-related crime had accelerated the process of decline, turning the area into a war zone.

He hadn't been down this road in years, but the changes had been massive. There wasn't a blade of grass or a tree in sight. The once-proud houses were run down and neglected with peeling paint on the windows, soot-blackened brickwork and litter everywhere. The pavements were empty.

A ghost town.

He stepped down to a basement door and pushed it open. He was expected, it wouldn't be locked. The man standing before him was a stranger, but he came highly recommended. They shook hands and the other man ushered Spider into a well-furnished, airy room which was about as far removed from the squalor at street level as it was possible to be.

Spider sat on the leather sofa, waiting. The other man took a seat on an upright chair and removed his glasses, dangling them in front of him and smiling myopically. Spider couldn't make out what he was focussing on, but it wasn't him. The man replaced his glasses and the smile disappeared.

'I understand you're looking for someone?' His voice was soft, almost gentle.

Spider nodded. He passed over a photograph which the other man looked at carefully, removing his glasses to do so.

'He doesn't look like this now, but it's the same man, I'm sure of it.'

Spider nodded. He'd still not spoken.

'Back here again, after all this time? Must be important,' the other man said, toying with his glasses.

Spider shrugged. 'The photo?'

The other man returned the photograph, his brow furrowed. 'There's a conflict of interest, you see that, I'm sure,' he said.

Spider nodded. 'I know. This man,' He tapped the photograph. 'He'll be a good earner. Always was.'

'There'll be compensation then?'

Spider looked up sharply. His eyes were hollow pools in the blank canvas of his face. The other man appeared disinterested, staring at the wall, at a mark that didn't exist. Without focus.

'There'll be gratitude for a favour,' Spider said at length.

'Ah yes, that. Gratitude. You've been away a long time.'

'I'm back now. Are you prepared to help me or not? Simple question.' He sat back, crossing one leg over the other.

'There've been changes around here. Things are different now. Different ways, different loyalties. Not as simple as you make out.'

Spider smiled for the first time.

'Res ipsa loquitur,' he said. 'Open and shut. A literal translation would be the thing speaks for itself. Same thing. Simple question, you've answered it.'

The other man said nothing. Spider got to his feet, held out his hand. 'I'll look elsewhere,' he said.

The other man took the proffered hand, shook it. 'Good to meet you at last,' he said. 'Sorry I couldn't be of assistance. The man you want is important, you can see that? A valuable asset. I'd be sorry to lose him.'

Spider half-turned, then whipped round, the blade in his hand a blur. The other man reeled backwards, blood spurting from his throat. He fell against the sofa, hands clutched to the gaping wound.

Spider stood over him. 'You'd have told him about my visit, wouldn't you? Warned him. Can't have that, you see? Not helpful at all.'

The other man flinched as Spider leant over him, closed his eyes as he saw the knife.

When he'd finished, Spider washed up in the well-appointed kitchen, rinsing the knife and cleaning blood spatters from his hands.

A dead end.

The man had been offered the opportunity to help, had spurned the offer.

He'd look elsewhere. Another name, another series of questions.

He had plenty of time.

Chapter 56

Like a fresh turd draws flies

A few thoughts, rough draft only, on developing a writing project.

A high granite wall stretched as far as the eye could see in both directions. The only break in the wall was a metal gate, painted dark green and supported by twin upright slabs of stone.

Beyond the wall was a seemingly unbroken forest of trees. I left my car alongside the wall and climbed out to inspect the gates. Solid oak, eight feet high, solid enough to withstand a rocket attack. No joy there.

I took a step back, leapt jumped up to clamp my fingers over the top rail and heave myself up, feet scrabbling for purchase, until I was sitting astride the gate and looking out at the other side. A broad stretch of tarmac bordered by a thick grove of trees on either side led towards a sharp curve fifty metres from my vantage point when it disappeared from view. I swung my other leg over the gate and prepared to drop down to the ground. As I moved a tiny camera swivelled with my movement, tracking my every move. I faced the lens and smiled my most ingratiating smile. So they knew I was coming? So what?

As I set off along the drive, I tried to visualise the house that I was about to see. It would be grand. That much was certain given the surroundings and the impressive nature of the entrance but beyond that I knew nothing.

Five minutes steady walking later and I was beginning to have my doubts that the house even existed. Maybe this was some Victorian folly; a long curving path to nowhere.

The trees on either side merged high overhead muffling the sound of my footsteps to an eerie silence. It was dark enough on the path and beyond the fringe was a black mystery. Anything could be living in the depths of these woods, watching my every step and edging closer all the time. I stepped up my pace as an irrational chill settled in my bones.

Seedpods crackled underfoot like breakfast cereal and stray fingers of fern reached out from the verges. Another long sweeping curve revealed nothing more than more of the same; a gravel drive neatly bisecting dark and mysterious woods.

Five more minutes of brisk walking, practically marching, and still there were only trees and even more trees in view. When the house finally appeared, fronted by a vast expanse of immaculate lawn, I came to a juddering halt.

This wasn't a house as I understood the term, this was a palace. A frontage of soft golden stone with window ledges picked out in a delicate cream, an irregular roof line with great swooping curves above the windows in the eaves and a vast studded central door faced the lawns.

What I took to be the former lodge or coach house, now converted to garages, was larger than almost any house I'd ever seen before.

For all its size and opulence, the overwhelming virtue for any owner would surely have been privacy. The encircling woods and the seemingly endless entrance drive shielded the house and its occupants from the prying eyes of other less fortunate mortals. The site had obviously been chosen with seclusion in mind.

The trees were all mature broad-leaved specimens, surely already in their prime when the original owner commissioned his first architect's plans.

I seemed to have spent an age studying the façade of the house. Actually it hadn't been that long. No more than a climber took to plan the best route up the North Face of the Eiger.

I took a step towards the entrance and for the first time wondered what sort of welcome I was about to face. The occupants knew from their little camera that I was on the way and had plenty of time to anticipate my arrival. Technically I was a trespasser – rather more than technically actually - and hardly likely to be greeted with a welcoming glass of sherry and an invitation into the drawing room for toasted muffins.

I took a second step and my left foot slipped to one side sending me crashing to the ground. It wasn't the most graceful of falls with limbs pirouetting slowly through the air: I fell like a sack of spuds tossed into the boot of a car.

Rising on one knee and in the act of climbing to my feet, I saw what I would otherwise have missed: a slender strand of dull wire stretched at ankle height around the entire perimeter of the lawn. Literally, a trip wire! Presumably linked to some sort of alarm system in the main house. I stepped daintily over the wire and walked swiftly towards the house until I stood at the foot of the steps before the main entrance.

As if by mutual arrangement, the door opened and a man appeared. He was exceptionally tall with broad shoulders and close-cropped hair. His head reached almost to the top of the doorframe and this was a very big door,. I moved forward.

At close quarters he was even bigger. A veritable giant and not a big friendly one either. Large coarse hands with bony knuckles and a shiny scar like knotted rope above his right eye. His jacket strained to contain the expanse of his shoulders. I'd not be picking any fights with this man.

Unsmiling and expressionless, he stood absolutely still in the doorway until I was right in front of him. Still without any change of expression, he turned abruptly and entered the dark hall behind him. I followed, a pace behind, down a long hallway, our shoes clattering on the marble tiles.

A plain door at the far end of the hall was partly ajar. My silent companion inclined his head towards it, moving to one side to allow me to pass by.

I walked into a vast room, dark panelling all around and leather sofas arranged around an Adam fireplace that must be worth more than the average house. The man facing me beckoned me closer.

'You attract trouble like a fresh turd draws flies,' he said.

I nodded. 'Attention-seeker, that's me,' I replied. 'You're not the easiest person to find, Jimmy.'

'No,' Jimmy agreed. 'So I've been told. What's so important you felt the need to put three of my best boys in hospital just to get my attention?'

'Best boys? I don't think so.'

Jimmy gave a bark of laughter. 'No, perhaps not. I should have sent Thomas instead. You met him just now. I very much doubt we'd be having this conversation if I had.'

I grinned. No arguments from me on that score. Jimmy was old school. I was safe enough here. In his home. He looked and acted like a retired schoolteacher, but he had been directly responsible for most of the Class A drugs trade in this city for the past decade. He'd knocked a few heads together in his day, but now that pleasure had been delegated to men like Thomas.

'So, then, what's so important you couldn't have rang my secretary to arrange?' The question was light-hearted, but there was steel behind the words. The next few minutes would determine whether I returned to my car the same way I came in or in the back of a van to be dumped outside the entrance of Arrowe Park hospital A and E department.

Chapter 57

The Dog Fight

The dogs were rigorously checked; standing with stoic indifference while three men prodded and probed their bodies, then washed them down with water from a hosepipe.

'Them handlers are sneaky bastards,' confided a thin man with a goatee beard. 'They spray their dogs with chemicals; make the other dog sick when they get their teeth into 'em. These boys here know all the tricks; watch out for anything dodgy. It's a fair ring, this. Good to know when you're laying out a bet, eh?'

I nodded, distracted by this group of American Pit Bull terriers with hard, muscular bodies, cropped ears and flat, expressionless eyes enduring what was obviously a regular routine in their working lives. Finally the dogs were weighed and any medical items brought along by their handlers were checked over.

I wandered away, squeezing through the growing crowd. Half a dozen hard-eyed women stood together, cigarettes in hand, but otherwise it was an all-male gathering. I saw a few faces I knew: drug dealers, a used-car salesman, the gay couple who owned the city's biggest nightclub, but mostly they were strangers.

I walked across to where Tommy was standing, deep in conversation with a man I'd seen before, but couldn't remember where. Tommy nodded, beckoned me over. 'You know Dermot, I suppose?'

I extended a hand to the other man, finally remembering the last time we'd been this close. Dermot, never heard his surname, had been part of an Irish group come over the water to explore possible ventures in the drug trade. They were from Dublin, eager to show they were no pushovers as I recalled, and the meeting had not gone well. Dermot had been a minor player, certainly not the spokesman for the group, and I'd never heard him speak.

'Good to see you again,' he said, shaking my hand. A cultured voice, soft and refined, the accent held in check. 'Just having a chat with your man here. New people in charge now, worth seeing what the possibilities are.'

'Dermot's the top boyo these days,' Tommy told me, throwing an arm around the shoulders of the other man. I saw his expression darken, whether at the familiarity of the gesture or at the word 'boyo' wasn't clear, and then brighten again. Business was business.

'Easy pickings over there,' Tommy continued, seemingly oblivious to the other man's discomfort. 'Them Mickey Mouse borders they have in Europe, the place is awash with stuff. Dermot's looking to make a bob or two shifting it over here.'

I nodded. I'd worked that out already. The pair resumed their conversation and I detached slightly, seemingly out of the loop but listening to every word. The fight area was a portable structure, presumably erected on site and removed afterwards. Seven or eight metres on each of its four sides with walls about a metre high and double hinged doors on opposite sides.

The broad expanse of earth surround in the ring was ideal for spectators and had obviously been used many times before; the closely packed earth inside the ring deeply stained with blood from previous battles.

The spectators crowded round and Tommy and Dermot's conversation came to an abrupt end with this sudden invasion of their privacy. The doors at either side of the ring opened and the first combatants made an appearance. The dogs, both brindle males, faced each other, glaring balefully across the ring while their handlers kept a firm grip on their collars, leaning over the barriers from their positions of safety on the outside.

The match referee called 'fight' and the handlers released their respective charges. Both dogs rushed to the centre of the ring, clashing together, chest to chest, neither giving an inch. The spectators roared encouragement, but the dogs fought in silence, teeth snapping as they battled for a position of advantage.

I glanced at Tommy, red in the face and bellowing his support for the dog he'd placed his bet on, and caught the eye of Dermot standing impassively at his side. I'd no wish to see more of this barbaric spectacle anyway, but Dermot provided me with a way out. Inclining his head to one side, he slipped away and I pushed my way through the baying spectators to follow him.

'Like ancient Rome,' Dermot said as we walked towards the cars. 'Not my sort of thing at all.'

'Me neither,' I said, glad to be well away from this barbarism.

Dermot stopped, leaning against a sleek Mercedes. 'I remember you,' he said.

I nodded, guardedly, said nothing.

Dermot smiled. 'Careful,' he said. 'I like that. Tell me now, your man Tommy down there, is he to be trusted, would you say, or should I think of looking elsewhere? See, what I'm thinking, the men I report back to have very high expectations. The last man I came here with, last time we spoke with your friend Tommy, he's not around any more. Last seen in the Irish Sea a mile or two out of Dún Laoghaire. A long swim home from there. Even harder when your legs are missing.'

Chapter 58

A New Face on Authors on Show and a week that left a writer gobsmacked!

A while ago now a few talented people set up a website aimed at writers, especially unpublished writers – Authors on Show. I've been an admiring follower and was delighted to be asked to join their team.

Here's my first offering – background to a week that left me gobsmacked.

Jake Barton, multi-talented writer and bon viveur of international renown, his only known fault being a surfeit of modesty, humbly craves your indulgence in an examination of the vagaries of the human spirit.

When I was asked to join Authors on Show, I immediately realized the dilemma facing this band of worthy and well intentioned literary glitterati: a sexual discrimination charge was surely only just over the horizon. Continuing to function as an all-female group is just asking for trouble in these politically correct times and I can only imagine I was regarded as the next best thing to a fellow female yet possessing (just about) sufficient testosterone to redress the imbalance and thereby provide an alternative point of view.

Easily dominated, obsequious by nature, happy to obey orders, I was the obvious candidate. My only concerns are that it took so long to ask me – suggesting that other, better candidates had rejected the offer – and an obvious concern that I'd manage to 'up my game' in order to maintain the stratospherically high standards set by the existing grandees of the site.

So, here you are, stuck with me until wiser counsel prevails. A self-effacing Northern rapscallion, a notorious, but largely ineffectual attention-seeker who enjoys life, albeit with excessive zeal on occasions and pays dearly for it later. I'll attempt to inform, divert, even entertain you, but trading standards legislation being what it is, don't hold me to that rash promise of entertainment.

Here are a few thoughts about the background to a week in a writer's life. Not a typical week. No, indeed. Very far removed from a typical week as it happens, but who'd want to know about the mundane nature of my 'normal' life?

An Unusual Week. Many years ago – 2002 for those of an anal persuasion who need to know every precise detail – I started to write a book.

A novel.

Everybody has a book in them, or so they say.

Whoever 'they' are.

Sometimes, I wish 'they' could learn to keep their opinions to themselves, but that's just me. Anyway, writing a novel. How hard could it be? I'd written poetry, better not mention that again, and had two stage plays performed in public by professional actors. Those actors are presently working as waitresses or kitchen porters somewhere wondering where it all went wrong for them. Best not mention the stage plays again either, not even when pondering the collapse of regional theatres whose artistic directors staked their future profitability on the work of an unknown playwright.

So, I sat down, wrote a novel. It was easy.

If you regard the loss of a year of one's life as nothing of any consequence.

I picked the crime fiction genre. Not because I was a great fan of crime fiction, but simply because it was popular. Crime fiction books sold. People walked into bookstores, handed over cash, walked out with a book under their arm. I liked the sound of that.

So, job done. First novel completed. I passed the manuscript around to friends. 'Hmm!' they said. 'Not what I expected' they said. 'Nastier than I'd expected,' they said. Author's Note – I'm only picking out the positive responses here, why dredge up unpleasantness after all this time? Also, the 'they' referred to here are 'real' people, not the mythical 'they' referred hitherto.

I sent the manuscript, all done by post in those days, out to publishers, (agents? What would I want with an agent?), and waited. In the next few months the thrill of hearing a massive envelope land with a thud on the mat sustained me through a dark and gloomy winter. Yes, the manuscripts were returning home. Many of them still in pristine condition, unread and most certainly unwanted. The attached letters were brutal, but had one aspect in common: rejection. The cruellest word in the English language.

I pressed on, entered the novel in a competition I'd seen on that passing fad, the Internet. Paperbackwriter.co.uk, sadly long since closed down, awarded my novel their first prize, Another site, Golgonooza, also long since defunct, sent me a gold medal. Sadly, it was 'fools' gold,' but the thought was there, I'm sure. The chief buyer from Waterstones, a major bookshop chain, read my novel, liked it. Liked it a lot. He picked out two passages, the suicide of my character, Clive, and a description of a fatal heroin overdose, (I know, gloomy subjects, but it's a dark book), and said 'they shook me to the core.'

Very promising. Even in face of a mountain of rejection letters. Naturally, I did what I always do in the face of adversity – forgot about it, moved on and did something else for a while.

About five years, actually.

I had houses to renovate, wine to drink. I was busy. Far too busy to write. When my knees started to fall apart, making climbing ladders with fifty roof tiles under each arm even less appealing, my long-suffering wife suggested I start writing again.

A three-line-whip would be more accurate. 'Your body's falling apart, your brain can't be far behind, get on with it while you still can' is an approximation of her exact words. I wrote another book, then yet another. Sent the new books off to publishers, an agent or two.

Waited.

The responses were as expected. Go away and don't ever bother us again. Why not consider flower arranging? You get the general idea?

Enter, on a white charger, the Harper Collins site for deluded authors known as Authonomy. I was sat at home, sulking, both legs in plaster – the knees again – when my wife saw an article in a newspaper. Look, I didn't want to admit this, but it was the Daily Mail – okay, just for now, hold that scorn in abeyance. I uploaded my firstborn book at only the seventeenth attempt, thereby demonstrating that mastery of technical skills for which I am justifiably famous, and awaited the inevitable arrival of my old friend, ridicule.

People on the site were kind. Helpful. Generous.

Best of all, I had access to a free library of books written by people in the same position as myself. I read the work of my fellow writers avidly. Some of them were very good. Some were exceptional – and I've been a prolific reader all my life; I know what makes a book work. Yes, some were not very good. Some were terrible. A few were beyond any previous conception of variations on the concept of awfulness. I'll not name names here, but I enjoyed those the best.

After a nervous breakdown or two along the way, my book, then entitled, Mummy's Boy eventually received a Gold Medal as one of the top five books on the site. I received a review from a Harper Collins Editor, which reduced me to apoplectic fury at their failure to see beyond the three chapters they'd read, but there were good aspects in there too. Enough to make me press on.

Post-Authonomy, I submitted the book to agents, publishers, candlestick makers, anyone at all really, seeking the elusive publishing contract, that secret, or not-so-secret, yearning that lurks within a writer's breast.

The responses poured in. United in their negativity, a rejection is still a rejection, but mostly couched in tones of deepest regret. Phrases such as 'we liked it, didn't love it,' or 'loved the book, very commercial, but in the present financial climate...' were common to many of the letters I added to the pile I'd already collected.

In January 2011, a new year, I decided on a different approach. I still had the whole manuscript out, being looked at by an agent and a publisher or two, but I took the plunge and 'made' an e-book. It's the future, isn't it? Books that can be read on a Kindle, an iPad, a laptop, a PC, even on a mobile 'phone. 'Proper' writers do it, why shouldn't I at least test the water?

I had help. Poppet was a tower of strength and gave me wise advice together with massive technical assistance, the saintly Bradley Wind designed me a new cover, Mel Comley bullied me into uploading the book, which by now had reverted to its original title, Burn, Baby, Burn onto Amazon Kindle.

January went by. I sold a few copies. Nothing to get excited about. Although, of course, I did!

February was when it all went mad. I'd done no marketing, through a combination of my habitual lethargy and a complete ignorance of the concept, had no idea at all about publicity, still don't, and yet the book suddenly took off.

I sold twenty, then fifty copies a day, then a hundred copies a day – one day I sold 151 copies. Yes, it was on sale at only 71 pence, or 99 cents, so there was never any prospect of buying a Ferrari, but my humble little book was getting noticed.

People were reading it. Strangers I'd never met.

My book stands at number eight in the Amazon All Books Chart, number three in Thrillers. Wow! I've yet to crack the overseas market – am selling far fewer books in the USA than the UK so far – but almost all the writers surrounding my book in the upper reaches of the charts are household names: Lee Child, Stephen Leather and the like. Stephen Leather is the biggest seller, about thirty novels to his name, and he's now one of my Face Book friends, sends me emails, etc! What were the odds on that a week ago?

I've just added a second book to Amazon; laboriously edited over the past three days, every comma scrutinized – surely every writer dreads this task. Job done, book uploaded onto the site and looking good alongside its elder sibling in my new Amazon 'Authors Page.' The second book is entitled 'Blood,' another crime thriller and in my wife's opinion, is my best book. This makes it my best book, officially. Never argue with a critic who shares your bed, (but anyone else is fair game).

Two books sent out into the world, healthy sales and mingling with 'proper writers' would have been reward enough, but there was more to come. One of the agents who'd 'liked but not loved' my book last year got back in touch, wanting a 'second look.'

This was a major agency who turned me down last November, even though they thought the book was 'outstanding and extremely commercial' due to the 'current financial climate' as they were 'not taking on any more clients.' Ah, the value of never throwing anything away, exact quotes readily available! They now want to see what I'm working on as my next project having had an 'opportunity to consider your work in more detail.'

Two small (ish) publishers, neither specialising in crime thrillers, both UK-based, got in touch and expressed an interest.

Another notable agent, based in the US but with an international client base, requested the full manuscript of Burn, Baby, Burn and has just asked for the full manuscript of my next novel, due out on Kindle in the next few days.

Heady days.

Big changes.

There's a message here for all 'Indie' writers. The publishing world is moving into new areas. Don't wait for an agent or a publisher to discover you. Be pro-active. Put your work out into the world. Let others see it.

You just never know.

Anything could happen.

Chapter 59

Jail Bait

'Come on, come on.' The voice had an air of desperation and he needed no more encouragement. He opened the car door and hurried to join the girl who was already shrugging out of her clothes on the back seat. He fumbled clumsily at the belt of his trousers and she giggled.

'Let me,' she whispered, reaching out and gripping him through the cloth of his trousers. 'I can see you're ready,' and he saw the smile break across her face. In moments he was naked and burying his face in the comforting warmth of her small breasts. The girl pressed up to meet him, raising her hips away from the bench seat and he groaned with anticipation.

'Don't mind me.' The stranger's voice broke the silence as he heaved open the passenger door. The two entwined figures sprawled across the back seat sprang apart, and stared at the grinning face of the stranger.

'Carry on. Don't let me stop you.' The voice was that of an educated man, but muffled by the stocking mask that distorted his features.

'Who are you?' The man still lying across the back seat asked. A stupid question, he knew that, but his befuddled brain was still refusing to accept the sudden arrival of the stranger. They were parked in a disused quarry; miles from the nearest house and in the darkness he'd imagined them to be absolutely alone.

'Trevor.' The girl's voice cracked with fear. 'What's...?' Her voice tailed away as she shifted position and saw the masked face of the intruder for the first time. Trevor fumbled for his clothes, reaching out for his trousers which were lying in the space between the front seats.

'No need for these, Trevor,' the masked man said, placing extra emphasis on the name and pulling the trousers into the front of the car and out of reach. 'Let's have you outside, shall we?'

He reached into a canvas bag he carried and produced a knife. It was not a conventional weapon as such; just a large kitchen knife, but even the meagre glow of the interior light was sufficient to show the length of the blade.

Trevor hesitated, but as the knife came towards him, fumbled for the handle on the rear door and as it opened the girl screamed.

'Don't leave me, Trevor.'

He ignored her and climbed out, the sharp edges of stones cutting into his bare feet. He may have imagined he would have the opportunity for flight when he left the car, but the other man was already waiting for him, the knife blade waving lazily to and fro in front of Trevor's face.

'Turn round,' the masked man said and Trevor immediately complied, any faint idea of resistance having evaporated at the sight of the knife. The other man seized both his wrists and bound them with a slender strip of plastic. Trevor struggled but the plastic strip was ratcheted tight and he could not budge it.

He stood shaking in the cold, naked and utterly vulnerable as the other man pushed him along. Trevor stumbled over the rough ground as far as a solitary tree where his captor told him to halt. A length of thin nylon cord was passed around Trevor's body and tied behind his back, binding him to the trunk of the tree.

It had only taken a few moments, but the masked man gave a sudden gasp of alarm as the door hinge creaked behind them. He left Trevor and ran back to the car where the girl was halfway out of the rear door. She screamed as he touched her and continued to scream as the masked man produced another length of cord and slipped it around her wrists, yanking it tight.

'Scream all you like,' he said. 'Nobody to hear you. Just you, me and Trevor. Enough for a party, eh? Do you like party games?'

The girl stopped screaming, her face a dull mask. She allowed herself to be manhandled back into the car and laid down on the back seat. The man sat alongside her, leaving the door open to give himself enough light to rummage through Trevor's jacket and trousers. He extracted a wallet and flicked through it, removing a small photograph from inside a plastic sleeve and whistled. He opened the door wider and called out into the darkness towards the shape of Trevor tied to the tree.

'What's this, Trevor?' His voice was mocking and sinister, especially when he again stressed Trevor's name. 'Is this lady in the photograph your wife? Don't tell me you're being a naughty boy, Trevor? I'm disappointed in you.' He half-turned and dropped his gaze to the prone figure of the girl.

'Don't blame you for playing away, Trevor. She's lovely, isn't she? Shame you're going to miss out, but there's no need for the little lady to be disappointed, is there?' The girl screamed again as his words sunk home.

'Leave her alone, you bastard,' Trevor called, his voice cracking. The front passenger door was ajar and the interior light shone a feeble beam on the girl still sprawled across the back seat.

'How old are you, slag?'

'Fourteen.'

The man whistled. 'Naughty, Trevor. Very naughty. Like the young ones, do you?'

'I didn't know,' Trevor protested. 'She said she was...'

'You bloody liar,' the girl screamed. 'You never asked me anything like that.'

The masked man grinned. 'Can't get away from it, Trevor. You're a bad lad, aren't you?' He flicked through the sections of the leather wallet he'd taken from Trevor's jacket.

'Wouldn't go down too well at work, would it if this got out? What with you being responsible for young kids, eh? Working at a children's home, no less. What's all this then, Trevor? Homework?'

'Look,' Trevor blustered, 'I'm an educational psychologist and yes I work with disturbed youngsters, but this has nothing at all to do with my work. I don't even know this girl, I just picked her up in the street.'

'Even so, I dare say your employers would be interested in what you get up to with under-age girls, don't you think?' The man pulled a photograph from behind the plastic sleeve of the wallet and held it under the light. He whistled softly. 'Not to mention your lovely wife. Two daughters as well. Nice. Very nice. How old are they then?'

Trevor looked across at the open car door and shook his head.

'Answer me, you twat,' the man screamed.

'Thirteen and twelve.'

'Interesting age, wouldn't you say? About the same age as your little friend here. Wonder what your eldest will think if she finds out about this? Will she think she's next in line? Will she, Trevor?'

Trevor turned his face away, saying nothing.

The other man laughed. 'Well now, Trevor, I don't think you're in much of a position to do anything, so that just leaves me. It would be a shame to get this poor girl all excited and ready and then let her down, don't you think? Good job I'm here. Leave everything to me, Trevor.'

Trevor moaned, his teeth chattering. It wasn't just the icy chill of the wind; he felt vulnerable and terrified. The confident manner in which the other man had pinned his arms and tied him to the tree, giving him no opportunity to escape or fight back, had numbed his senses.

Even the voice was compelling. The constant use of his own name by the stranger was unsettling and the photograph of his wife a chilling reminder of his plight. The other man had him in his power, but for the first time Trevor forgot about the danger to himself and considered a possibility that was even worse than anything the masked man could do to him. His wallet contained a lot more than a few banknotes; all the details of his personal life were also there. As well as photographs of his wife and children, the stranger would find everything about him, his home address, the office where he worked, everything.

The girl stopped screaming when the man looked away from her and continued to flip through the wallet, whistling appreciatively at each fresh revelation.

'Trevor, you're quite a catch. The girl would have been enough, but now I feel a new friendship dawning. How about it, Trevor? Would you like a new friend?'

Trevor said nothing, his chin drooping to his chest, the picture of dejection. The other man climbed out of the car and walked across to the tree. He bent down and stuck the blade of the knife in the ground by Trevor's feet.

'Change of plan, my friend,' he said. 'I'll hang on to your wallet for now and be in touch. Don't worry about your little friend in the car. She'll be coming with me. I've got a few things planned for her that don't really fit in with what you'd got planned. A quick shag on the back seat of a car? I think she deserves more than that, don't you? Best thing you can do is forget about her. I doubt you'll be seeing her again. I've got my own motor parked up a couple of miles down the road.' He raised an arm and pointed over to his left.

'Follow the track, you can't miss it. I'll leave your car there and the rest of your clothes. There's a bit of give in that rope. Enough to let you move around a bit perhaps. I've left you a knife and I imagine you'll be able to cut yourself free eventually and walk to your car. I hope so, for your sake. It's getting cold, too cold to be out with nothing on. Even in bare feet, you'll get back to your car in an hour or two.'

Trevor raised his head and looked at the masked face of the other man. The realisation that he no longer faced death had given him fresh courage. 'You'll not...'

The masked man placed his hand across Trevor's mouth, cutting off his words.

'Oh please don't tell me I won't get away with this. Too late, Trevor. I already have. I've got the girl you brought here to play your naughty games with and she'll be playing a different game very soon. With me. A game she might not like as much, but who knows? She might get a taste for a bit of rough treatment. I'm going now, but don't you worry, Trevor. I'll be in touch in a couple of days.'

He moved a few paces away and then returned.

'One more thing,' he said, leaning in closely so that he was almost touching Trevor's face. 'Not a word. Not to your wife, although I don't think that's very likely, eh? Not a word to anyone. Not to the police. I've still got the girl and she'll be safe as long as you keep your mouth shut. Damaged goods, but safe for now. And just remember, I know who you are. I know where you live. I know where you work. I own you now. Friends don't tell tales, Trevor, and I really want to be your friend.'

He moved away again and returned to the car. The door slammed and the engine fired. As the car moved away, Trevor could hear the girl screaming above the sound of the engine. As he shuffled down, fingers grasping desperately for the knife, he could still hear her faint cries even when the car had disappeared from view into the inky blackness of the night.

A mile down the road, the girl reached over the back of the seat, ruffled the hair of the driver, his mask long since discarded.

'Took your time, you bastard. Thought the sad old fucker was actually going to fuck me.'

The driver chuckled. 'No chance. I'd been biding my time, that's all. Letting him get his kit off. Your virtue was never at risk.'

The girl giggled, slapping the back of his head lightly. 'Bastard,' she said again.

Chapter 60

Closed Minds

I loathe racism, sexism, any broad-based discrimination rooted in assumed generalisations. I judge people on who they are, not on some inappropriate and inaccurate reaction based entirely on race or gender.

It was, therefore, no surprise that I found extended exposure to police officers and the ingrained prejudices that characterise so many of their number to be a real eye-opener.

Starting on the first day in a new district. In the first five minutes. I'd been making a general enquiry about information I'd had from a man who had his own reasons for declining the opportunity to accompany me to the police station. He also happened to be a gypsy.

'Bloody pikeys, more trouble than they're worth,' the uniformed officer told me. 'Can't believe a word they tell you, either.' He paused for a moment. 'All this political correctness crap the bloody do-gooders chuck at us, not even allowed to say gyppo or pikey any more. Might upset their feelings. Bloody ridiculous.'

I wasn't there to argue the finer points of discrimination, so said nothing. Closed minds, what would be the point?

'Can't write pikey in a report these days, not even in our notebook. 'Course there's always the old shorthand, isn't there?' He gave me a conspiratorial wink. I wasn't a copper, but I worked with them when arrests or serious back up were required and he knew my track record from the police grapevine.

'TIB, that's what we have to put now when referring to pikeys. Thieving Itinerant Bastards.'

This was a, relatively, senior officer in a cosmopolitan area of Merseyside, a high crime area. His attitude was by no means unusual.

When I left I thought about the vagaries of police 'shorthand,' much of it being an inventive and fascinating distortion of the English language. Saying one thing, meaning another.

I was working in an area outside the environs of the city itself, not exactly the Outer Hebrides but even so all police officers in that area were termed 'woolly backs' by their inner-city brethren. Any further out and the officers were 'carrot crunchers.'

I'd been told many times that my greater success when 'undercover' when related to a UC – Undercover Cop, was because I didn't look 'jobby' – in other words I didn't look even remotely like a copper. Fair comment.

While occasional drug use, for recreation purposes, was regarded as an 'ice cream habit,' drug addicts, druggies, were 'zoomers,' while the mentally ill were invariably termed 'window lickers.'

I particularly enjoyed the creative minds behind the terms used to describe fellow officers. Any female officer showing the slightest inclination towards sexual activity would be termed 'the station bike' or 'relief bicycle,' a civilian worker was a 'strawberry mivvie' and a 'shiny arse' was a deskbound colleague who ran the risk of excessive polishing of his trousers through prolonged exposure to the seated position or as the 'station cat' or 'Olympic flame' – as in 'never goes out.'

An officer with a poor arrest record would be a 'Ghurkha' – because Ghurkhas don't take prisoners – a fellow officer regarded as a useless liability is termed a 'uniform carrier' or simply 'FLUB' – that's Fat Lazy Useless Bastard.

A car containing armed officers is a 'gunship,' perhaps en route to a house arrest requiring the assistance of 'ghosties,' those officers who specialise in breaking down doors, named after the film Ghostbusters.

I've met many policemen who I've greatly admired and respected, all ranks, all areas. Sadly, they're widely derided in society as a whole, little regard given for the job they do and scarcely any for the protection they provide from the state of anarchy which come about without their efforts.

I've also met many police officers, uniformed or plain clothes, 'suits,' who were unfit for a job that requires constant interaction with the public at large. There's a system in place that's been the norm for many years. Outsiders are just that, outsiders. The only rule here is FIFO – Fit In or Fuck Off.

Chapter 61

The new neighbours

The opening to 'Heat,' a novel set in Southern Spain. Lighter in tone than my previous books, but retaining some of the characters. People die, but not in excessive numbers – I'm mellowing slightly.

The welcome to Spain routine, delivered by a well-meaning neighbour, was not going well. The main problem was Donna's grandmother, Peg, who, at eighty-three years of age, resented being told how to boil an egg by a woman wearing a strapless sundress and scarlet nail polish. The new temporary neighbour and would-be guide, Alison Frobisher − 'Call me Allie, absolutely everyone does' − was explaining the vagaries of an antique cooking range connected by a length of rubber hose to a bright orange gas cylinder.

'Now look here, Alison' – no chance of Peg calling her Allie, regardless of what absolutely everyone else did – 'I was cooking on stoves like that thing there before you were born, so you can save your breath. All this place needs is a good scrub round and we'll be right as ninepence.'

Allie sniffed, then, transparently wishing she were elsewhere, glanced through the window at the red BMW parked on the dirt track which passed for an entrance road. Seated in the driver's seat was a swarthy young man, dreadlocks flowing in the breeze, tattooed arms tilted to catch the sun. In between extolling the cultural charms of the region; concerts, art galleries and even opera all within easy reach, their self-appointed guide had told Peg and Donna the sorry tale of her recently departed husband who'd sailed his yacht away into the sunset with a blonde aroma-therapist firmly ensconced in the master cabin.

The young man in the BMW, whom Alison referred to as her driver, was presumably some consolation for her deserted status. As he was at least fifteen years her junior, and seemingly obsessed with studying his own reflection in the rear view mirror, Donna thought a shared interest in art galleries and opera to be way down the list of possibilities.

'Do you reckon she's living over the brush with that long-haired Herbert outside,' Peg hissed in a whisper that would have been clearly audible three fields away as Alison led the way down a dark corridor towards the bedrooms. Alison hesitated for a moment, and then went on her way, straight-backed. Donna would have laid odds that the first thing Peg would have noticed had been the way in which Alison casually draped her arm across the driver's bronzed shoulders as she climbed out of the car, suggesting an intimacy not solely that of chauffeur and passenger.

Alison quickly showed them over the rest of the house, explained about the need to collect post from the village a couple of miles away, and vainly attempted to deflect Peg's offer of a cup of tea by claiming an urgent appointment elsewhere. She was trying hard to preserve her dignity, but the battle was lost the moment Peg spotted the driver of her car.

Peg grunted, 'I'm having a brew anyway, no trouble to make an extra cup. I've always reckoned it's a poor do when folk are too busy for a spot of tea. You need to learn to spread yourself a bit thinner.'

'Of course, the area is not what it was when we first came,' Alison babbled, seeking refuge in what was obviously a familiar routine. 'No cars then, just mules and donkeys. Now every Spaniard wants to own a Mercedes and prices for us poor Brits have gone through the roof. Everyone wants to live in the sunshine, and we have to pay the price. Not that Spain is perfect, far from it. I mean to say, those holiday programme presenters should just try living here in August. Murder, absolute murder. Far too many people and too bloody hot.'

The three of them pattered across the worn flagstones into the small kitchen and Peg bustled about, reaching down the china teapot with a grunt of satisfaction. No tea bag would ever be dropped into a cup in any kitchen where Peg had power of veto. The skinny little kitten that had been following Donna around since she'd arrived mewed piteously, rubbing against her legs in a desperate plea for attention. Peg put down a saucer of milk and the tiny creature lapped away happily, its persistence rewarded at last.

'Oh, I say,' Alison interjected. 'Do you think you should do that? It's only a stray, and you'll be overrun with the little beasts if you're not careful, and then... I don't want to sound prissy, but there's always the hygiene factor to consider when dealing with animals, don't you think?'

Peg said nothing, but her silence was ominous. Donna said nothing either, but that wasn't unusual; She'd hardly spoken two words all day, content to let Peg take charge. Peg would have done so whether Donna said anything or not.

'I mean, for all we know,' Alison prattled on, 'that cat could have just been licking its private parts.'

Peg wheeled round to face her. 'I shouldn't be surprised if you'd spent half the morning licking the private parts of that scruffy youth out in the car, but I'd still give you a glass of milk if you were thirsty.'

Alison blanched. Donna took her arm, swiftly leading her outside and muttering thanks for the trouble she'd gone to on their behalf. The brightness was a shock after the comparative gloom of the interior, and she felt the sun licking her body like a soft warm tongue. Alison relinquished Donna's arm and climbed nimbly into the passenger seat. Her driver favoured Donna with the kind of salacious leer that really makes a girl feel special.

Yuk!

'In your dreams, pal,' Donna mouthed. He smirked and slammed the car into gear, then roared off in a cloud of dust.

Chapter 62

Interviewing a Legend

This has been a very strange week in Barton-Land. I finally managed to publish my second novel, Blood, to Amazon Kindle and it's doing okay so far. As for its elder sibling, Burn, Baby, Burn, it continues to astonish its creator, along with everybody else who's ever met me in any capacity, or so I imagine. I had high hopes for this novel, dug my heels in, and decided to take the plunge, send it out into the world to sink or swim. NB – please indulge my cliché obsession for a moment, I'm trying to quit and am in the throes of withdrawal this morning!

Back to the book, selling several hundred copies a day at present. That's so far beyond any of my expectations as to be surreal. I've managed to wean myself off the compulsion to peek at sales and ratings every ten minutes, but in the throes of a difficult house sale this has not been a hardship.

Last year, 2010, I met a legend for the first time. Here's some background to that meeting and an interview with the legend herself.

When I joined the writers' site Authonomy I was nervous. Uncertain. In all honesty, way, way out of my comfort zone. I'd hardly looked at the book I placed on the site in years, wasn't at all confident of how it would be received by any 'proper writers' that may be lurking therein.

I was right to be concerned. If my book were ever to reach a coveted top five position, out of many thousands of books on the site, it would take a lot of work on my part. Luckily for me I found a role model. A writer whose dedication put my own feeble efforts to shame, with a background as a professional journalist, Jane Alexander taught me so much.

I had no idea what POV meant until Jane drew it to my attention. Forcibly. With more than a hint of scorn. Yes, really. I just wrote as it came, not giving much thought to the manner in which a professional editor would look at the results. Without ever mastering Point of View, I learnt to look at my own writing in a different, more acute, manner. Jane is a working journalist; she knows all the clever stuff. I learnt a great deal from her, mostly by reading her reviews of other books.

The months went by, we became friendly on the forum, sparked occasional flights of nonsensical fancy between us, secretly mocked the same people, and championed others. Jane's book began to climb and it became evident to me at least that a Gold Star was a formality. For a writer with her track record and sheer talent, however, there's more than a hint of insecurity lurking deep inside.

On occasions, not so deep. After the first 'melt-down' I wrote a long email to Jane.

Told her she was brilliant.

She is.

Told her to ignore the effects of 'tall poppy syndrome.'

She tried.

There's a problem here. Jane isn't the toughest person I've ever met. Would I want her alongside to go into the jungle? Probably not. There's fragility there.

There's also a competitive streak that exceeds that of many a top sportsman. competitiveness – I can relate to that. I've played sport at a high level, mixed with top athletes – they all have that inner desire to excel. Jane has it too.

The occasional supportive messages turned into regular bulletins, sometimes many times daily, with frequent shrieks of unbridled panic emanating from Exmoor, but eventually Jane's book reached the Editors' Desk.

Along with other fellow writers, she stayed to support me through my own book's ascent to the top of the pile. That wasn't easy either.

I'd 'talked' to Jane by email or on Facebook virtually every day for almost a year, but had never met her.

Late last year a fellow Authonomy member, the richly talented Gerald Johnston, author of Dropcloth Angels, announced he was coming over to London. Would I like to meet him? Hell, yes, I replied.

Another fan of Gerry's was well known to me, so I bullied and cajoled Jane into joining us. We had a wonderful few hours in London, chatted away as if we'd been meeting up for years.

In real life, Jane was everything I'd expected, apart from being taller than I'd imagined, five foot eight inches, extremely red hair, no airs and graces – simply wonderful.

When I decided to interview a fellow writer, there was only ever one first choice. Here's my interview with Jane Alexander. Legend.

So, Jane, talk to me. You know you want to. What are you working on now?

Right now I'm working on a pretty much total rewrite of my YA novel, Samael. It's frustrating as I'm itching to start on something new but it has to be done. My agent commissioned two editorial reports to find out why Samael hadn't been bought (despite some incredibly close near-misses) and the consensus was that it was too complicated; there were too many sub-plots and the ending needed considerable work. So, it's nose to the grindstone. It's tough but I want this book published so it needs to make the grade.

Can you remember when you first knew you wanted to be a writer?

I have been writing ever since I could put together a sentence. I have notebooks from when I was at junior school, stuffed with stories (all illustrated as well). I used to write newspapers when I was about eight or nine – and foist them on people. But I never really thought about writing in terms of earning a living. I wanted to be a Blue Peter presenter (children's TV show) – because I also liked making things – and I knew I could do the demonstrations without my hands shaking like Valerie Singleton's did!

Were your parents 'bookish'?

I don't think I ever saw my father read a book. He was a very down-to-earth working class man – his idea of leisure consisted of long walks, the pub and a paper. My mother, on the other hand, came from a family who idolised words – a long line of very strange people fascinated by philosophy, religion, spirituality, literature, politics, art, science.

Tell me about school / university.

What's to tell? I went to the local primary/junior school and was unbearable. Found the schoolwork all easy peasy. Used to write plays and 'entertainments' and would rope in the whole class, sort out costumes, direct them (didn't act, just liked being in charge). Or, instigate huge art installations – enormous collages and so on – get everyone busy and then cheerily donate the end result to some unsuspecting local nursing home.

Then my father died (when I was ten) and it knocked the stuffing out of me. Became asthmatic and depressed and went through most of high school as a wraith.

I loved language though and took French, Spanish and Latin at A –level (though I was still torn between the idea of university and art college). Was put forward to do Oxbridge exams but decided I didn't want to study modern languages after all and switched, on whim, to applying to university to study English. Accepted by Manchester and had three fabulous years living student life to the full (highs and lows). Realised that, actually, I hated dissecting literature (still do) – but loved dissecting language (still do). Fell in love with Old English. Did a crash course in (modern) Italian so I could read medieval Italian.

Hmm, impressive! A nitty-gritty writer's question now. Computer, laptop, or longhand? Which is it?

All three. I wrote Samael in longhand, in three Moleskine notebooks and I am never without a (paper) notebook. Generally though I work on a desktop PC in my study. I have a very ancient laptop which I take on trips.

Hands off knee, please. I know you're besotted, understandably so, but let's keep this professional, okay? I mentioned your 'track record' earlier. I've read a fair number of your newspaper features, what else have you done? Give us some details.

I've written over 20 non-fiction books (mainly self-help) and ghosted four. I write an agony aunt column – yet never EVER follow my own advice.

Are you a storyteller outside of your writing? Can you spin a yarn?

I am a listener, more than a talker. It comes partly from my journalistic years, where the best stories come when you let the person just talk, with minimal prompting. I don't really like the sound of my own voice.

Hmm! Who is your favourite author and is your writing style in any way similar to theirs?

I honestly can't pick just one. I love David Mitchell for his use of words – but I could never ever write like him. My favourite childhood author was Alan Garner and he was my inspiration for my children's book, Walker (one of the high spots of my life was actually meeting him.) But I don't think I write like him either. I read so much and so widely I like to think I don't fall into the trap of subconsciously writing in someone else's style. But if I could have a wish, it would be to write like Margo Lanagan.

How much thought goes into naming your characters?

Names are important. Often they just pop into my head (and I realise later how apt the name is). Sometimes they require more thought. I often use the same names in different books – partly because I'm lazy and partly because a lot of my characters are quite archetypal.

Who is your target readership and why did you gravitate towards them?

Two-fold really. The teen market but also older people, predominantly women, who still feel like teenagers inside. Why? Because the teens are such an intense period – it's all or nothing and I love that. Love extremes.

What's the best thing you've ever written and what makes it special?

Actually I think it's some of my blog posts. I occasionally write about depression – because I firmly believe that we need to bust this stigma over mental health right out of the water. If I can make one person feel less alone through my writing, then it's worth doing. My uncle committed suicide as a direct result of depression. I dunno, maybe if he'd read something that made him stop...just long enough...

I know you'll screw up your face at this, but do you have any advice for an aspiring writer?

Heck. No. Because I'm not a success in my fiction writing. Come back and ask me when I've got a huge deal! My agent always says 'write what you believe in, what you love; follow your passion.' That's fine, if you don't need to pay the bills. My only good tip is to read what you write out loud. Often you can hear where something is going wrong that way.

Tell us how your personal experiences affected your writing.

Walker was directly inspired by my personal practice of shamanism. I wanted to write a book that was exciting but also used 'real' techniques and practices. Samael...well, who hasn't wanted a love that consumes your very soul? It was easy to write because, in many ways, I was Genevieve when I was a teen. And in many ways I still am – seeking for answers, looking for a place of safety (within as well as without).

As a reader, do you limit yourself to only the genre that you write yourself? What are the last three books you read?

Hell no! Last three (fiction) books I read were Dancing Jax by Robin Jarvis, Linger Awhile by Russell Hoban and Exploits by Poppet! A pretty eclectic mix.

I barely ever read 'chick lit' or 'women's fiction' yet a good number of my (real life) friends make a cracking living from it.

Writers' block – what advice would you give to people who 'run out of creativity' when writing?

Julia Cameron's 'morning pages' idea seems to work well for a lot of people. I often write a blog post to 'limber up'.

I'm a big fan of Samael, your latest book. How did you come up with the story?

Well, Samael isn't exactly new but it is the latest. I'd had the basic idea for years, and had played around a few years back writing an adult version as a blog. Originally it was about a woman who is forced to move to the countryside by her husband and hates it. She is supposedly suffering from infertility and yet becomes pregnant (through an affair) and then realises with mounting horror that, not only has her husband been lying to her but that she is living in a place inimical to babies (and their mothers). But I stalled at around 30K.

One day my agent asked me to try to write a teen dark romance (in the Twilight mode) and, on the train on the way back from London I realised that the scenario, reworked, could be perfect for a supernatural chiller/romance.

What kind of research did you do for this book?

Feck all! I write about places I know as I don't have funds for travelling. Anyhow, Exmoor is about as creepy as you can get! The rituals and so forth in the novel are based on Wicca and ritual magick so they were easy peasy too (I used to study this stuff). If I get stuck on detail, I find someone on Authonomy or Facebook will usually know the answer!

What's a typical working day like? When and where do you write? Do you set a daily writing goal?

I write all day, every day. But then I work as a journalist and non-fiction writer as well as trying my hand at fiction. I'm lucky – I have a huge study, lined with bookshelves, with a sofa in the window for the Moleskine scribbling. I do have a desk but I tend to write on a huge table that houses my PC, stereo, litepod, candles, etc. If I'm on a non-fiction/journo deadline, it's easy – I just write until I hit it, whatever the word count. When I'm in the active writing phase of a fiction book, I find a thousand words a day is good for me.

What question have you always wanted to be asked in an interview, but it never happened? How would you answer that question?

You know, I've never thought about it. I'll have to think about it! Funnily enough, when I used to interview people, I would always end by saying, 'What haven't I asked you that I should have asked you?'

Okay, sidestepped that one, how about this? If you were writing a book about your life, what would the title be?

'Loving the Stranger'.

What are three things most people don't know about you? Extra marks will be awarded for indiscreet revelations.

Damnit, I'm an open book. Read my blog and pretty well everything is laid bare. Other than stuff that affects other people. Hmm.

Umm...

1. I came within a whisker of running away with the cowboys to Montana, for a life of horse herding and farting round the campfire. Still have a lingering regret over that.

2. The first book I ever wrote was called Future Sex, back in the 1980s. It was a round up of the many and various ways that sex could transform in the future. Some fabulously weird stuff including, if I recall, virtual reality, nanotechnology, quantum physics, advanced NLP, cyber-tantra and wetware interfaces. First agent I sent it to (from PFD, I think) snapped it up but it was a bit ahead of its time and never got a publisher.

3. I am unfeasibly bendy. Yes, I can do a full lotus and yes, I can wrap both feet round my neck. I have often regretted doing the latter, when alcohol has also been involved.

Interviewer's note: One of the original responses was later rescinded and an alternative answer substituted. Hurriedly, and in my opinion, wisely. The original information is safely stored away in my memory, will always have it in the back of my mind from now on...

As for 'unfeasibly bendy' and 'I can wrap both feet round my neck – I'm still thinking of a response!!!!

Meeting you in person was a major highlight of 2010 for me. I'd emailed you daily, we'd nurtured each other through the angst of the Authonomy Editor's Desk, but it was such a joy to finally meet you. Have you met any other aspiring writers in person? Are there any writers you'd like to meet and why?

Aww, and I loved meeting you too. Half my friends are aspiring writers – and that is hugely comforting, as they understand the struggle and the angst. I also know a lot of successful writers and that is interesting as, for the large part, they are just as angsty and insecure as the unpublished ones.

I'm actually pretty shy (believe it or not!) and I think I make a lot more sense when I write than when I talk...so I don't race to meet a lot of people as I'd hate them to think 'Oh shit, she's a bit of a letdown'. Sometimes it's safer to keep people on the page or online. Having said that, yes, of course, there are people I would love to meet.

Thank you so much. I did indeed think 'oh shit, she's a bit of a letdown,' but I'd never tell anyone else that.
Chapter 63

A Glimpse of Southern Spain. Half an hour from the Costa del Sol, yet a million miles away.

Breakfast on the lower terrace.

I've often thought the Health Service should bottle the view from our finca and prescribe it to depressed and weary patients back home in England. A stone wall, partly collapsed, provided a welcome resting point for a basking lizard, the moss and lichen coating imparting a brindle effect to the ancient stones; bull terrier writ large.

Stealthy invasion by vine and creeper over a prolonged period had softened any sharp edges into rows of comfortable seats. Inter-twined strands of vine and Bougainvillea clambered over rustic poles and old battered beams to provide precious shade.

A more prosaic extension to the beamed pergola, consisted of lengths of scaffolding poles, tied together by rusty wire and painted a vivid green. Above this eccentric structure was a roof of loose-fitting planks, fastened to the scaffold poles with yet more rusty wire, through which dappled sunlight filtered undulating shafts of light on to the rough tiles of the terrace. The very definition of the term 'rustic' and the only part of the finca I'd absolutely refused to even consider as a renovation project.

This was the view I gazed upon every morning. The sun shone for an average of 330 days a year and the sight never failed to lift my spirits.

Refreshed, we drove into the village to collect letters from the post office and buy bread and milk. The dusty track eventually led to the tarmac road and the first signs of other human occupation. The village was busy, all hustle and bustle, in marked contrast to the absolute tranquillity of our finca.

We collected our post, chatted to a couple of friends and after dividing our forces on separate errands met up at our favourite bar, technically Bar Alfonso, but invariable called the Bodega.

By now the village was getting busy and we realised our good fortune in being able to park in the shade when we saw the difficulty new arrivals were having in finding anywhere to park. Cars lined both sides of the narrow road, bumper to bumper. Seemingly, always the same dust-encrusted cars.

Why don't the bloody things ever move?

Opposite, a builder, recognisable as such by the cement dust that coated his overalls and face, was attempting to manoeuvre his pick-up between a gleaming Mercedes and an old rust-streaked van. Modern Spain in microcosm; conspicuous consumption cheek by jowl with the peasant economy. The panel van had been inexpertly painted, endeavouring to remove the name of the previous owner from the side panels. Like the attempt at matching the blue paint with the rest of the bodywork, it had been a dismal failure.

The sound of touching metal brought the builder's progress to a grinding halt.

Literally.

A middle-aged man rose reluctantly from his seat outside a café and walked across to the van, keys in hand. He'd sat and watched the endeavours of the pick-up driver with total detachment until the two vehicles locked horns. He climbed behind the wheel of the panel van and drove forward six inches affording the pick-up driver enough space to extricate himself and drive away with a cheery toot of his horn.

Much later, at the end of a long day, we sat on the terrace, sipping a glass of wine.

There can be few better views on Earth than the view looking out across the terrace to the distant Rif Mountains of Morocco, the Mediterranean glinting in the foreground. All around us, vivid bands of oleander dotted the hills, clumped together where rainwater had scoured deep grooves in the mountainside. The sun dipped below the distant mountains leaving pale rows of lavender and pink across the broad expanse of sky, a gentle breeze following in its wake. A soft bruising as glorious in its own quiet way as any of its vibrant flame-red companions.

As we watched, crepuscular light visibly faded to blackness over the far reaches of the sea and the last vestiges of daylight vanished like party guests who'd just remembered the babysitter charged double rates after midnight. Within moments, the terrace was enveloped in absolute darkness, the faint breeze carrying with it the subtle scent of exotic herbs.

I'd love to be back there again today as I sit here watching the clouds roll in and a typical dreary February day in England unfolds with absolute predictability.

Chapter 64

The Package

It was a rectangular parcel, the plain brown paper wrapping secured with tape at each corner. The address panel was a printed label, aligned precisely in the centre of the package.

Linda tugged at the corners of the parcel, but it refused to tear. She sighed and rose from her chair, leaving the package on the kitchen table.

She couldn't find the scissors that were usually hanging on a hook behind the larder door and then remembered her daughter using them on the previous evening to unpick the hem of a skirt.

She frowned.

Why was she the only one in this house who ever bothered to replace things in their proper place?

A small kitchen knife with a serrated blade, very sharp and ideal for slicing vegetables, was in its allotted slot in the rack next to the bread bin and she plucked it out of the rack and took it with her to the table.

Linda stuck her tongue out as she concentrated on working the narrow tip of the knife under the edge of the tape and drew the blade along the whole length of the parcel. She repeated the exercise with each of the other three sides and saw as the top became free that the package consisted of a small cardboard box. She speculated whether the box originally contained a pair of new shoes for a young child and paused for a moment at a sudden vivid memory, smiling broadly.

She reached out to lift the lid, now free of tape, but a sudden unexplained hesitation took possession of her hands. She looked at the box carefully. She hadn't been expecting anything through the post and when the postman had handed her this small neat parcel she had felt a small tingle of excitement.

Her husband was not the type of man to surprise her with presents; not now and not at any time. He was the epitome of the steady reliable type, certainly not given to impulsive romantic gestures.

But, who else would be sending out parcels addressed to her? Unexpected, surprise parcels.

She couldn't think of a single possible candidate.

How sad was that?

Linda shook her head dismissively. Why was she even thinking this would be a present anyway? Her life didn't extend to surprises, certainly not of a romantic nature.

She lifted the lid and saw a sheet of plain paper, folded once, attached to one side of the interior of the box by a paper clip. The box was full of those annoying little strips of foam that prevented damage in transit. Her hand delved into the centre of the foam and revealed the contents.

A single item, lying right at the bottom of the box.

She removed it, gave a small cry and dropped the object as if it were red-hot.

After a moment, tears misting her eyes, she took the sheet of paper and opened it. With trembling hands, she reached for the reading glasses that hung on a slender chain around her neck. The message was neatly typed in block capitals, large enough for her to have been able to read without the use of her glasses.

She read the brief message, then read it again and slumped against the back of the chair.

A fat tear rolled down her cheek as she allowed the sheet of paper to slip from her fingers and flutter softly to the floor where it touched but didn't overlap the child's finger which had been the only other object in the box.

Chapter 65

Oh, the pain of editing. So many words that don't survive the final cut

Just a few examples of the dozens, make that hundreds, of passages that don't survive the cull of editing. A decent enough piece of observational description, but as it doesn't add anything to the story – out it goes. Lost forever. So many are 'weather' images, the sort of thing I made a note of in an idle moment – back when I used to have idle moments – Here's one I threw out yesterday, then decided I may have an opportunity to use it elsewhere. Possibly.

'A patch of shade that was scarcely more than an un-substantiated rumour'

Three more discarded passages that received a last-minute reprieve. Descriptive passages are what I most enjoy reading, and writing, but in crime thrillers they slow the pace and lead to accusations of overwriting. One day, I'll find the courage to write something and call it 'literary fiction' where I can indulge myself. Courage? Cojones? Whatever.

1. 'A band of cloud lay across the horizon like a dirty purple scarf. Donna looked out to sea and shivered. The ominous spreading clouds, turning blue into battleship grey, were a reflection of her sombre mood. As she leaned on the railings, a faint drizzle began to fall.

Donna sighed. The rain was no more than an apologetic trickle, but she knew she'd be soaked to the skin if she didn't seek shelter soon. Despite the worsening weather, Donna remained rooted to the spot, still staring morosely out at the waves.

A single fat raindrop landed on the top of her head and she looked up at the sky in sudden alarm. The drizzle was no more and within seconds rain was teeming down, soaking her clothes within seconds. Swearing profusely, she ran for the safety of her car, splashing through puddles with every step. As she reached the car and flung herself inside like a wet sack, the rain stopped. Instantly. It didn't even make the effort to gradually peter away; it just stopped.

Like turning off a tap.

Donna sought inspiration in swearing. Within a minute she'd managed to get wetter than she'd have been if she'd stood fully clothed under a shower for the same amount of time and the moment she'd reached shelter the bastard rain had stopped. Even the weather was conspiring against her. She scowled ferociously at a herring gull as it settled on the bonnet of her car, its feathers impervious to the elements. All right for some, she thought.

She glared resentfully at the cosy domesticity all around her. In the house beyond the pavement the lights were on, children were running around, laughing. Warm, dry, happy children.

The house was in the centre of a Victorian terrace with a view of the sea from the upstairs rooms. A decent enough house, but in need of a bit of refurbishment to judge by the exterior. The path was sprouting weeds but a pair of large terracotta urns, each containing an immaculately tended shrub, flanked the entrance door. An incongruous touch as they were such a contrast to what was otherwise a bit of a scruffy house. The shrubs resembled miniature trees and were identical in every respect.

Donna admired the end result without having the faintest idea of the species she found so pleasing. She mentally added horticulture to the already daunting list of subjects about which she knew nothing at all.

2. The sun dipped below the distant mountains leaving pale rows of lavender and pink across the broad expanse of sky. A soft bruising as glorious in its own quiet way as any of its vibrant flame-red predecessors.

3. Clumps of vivid pink oleander provided a vibrant contrast with the gleaming low houses that dotted the hillside like grains of rice thrown at a wedding. Bright splashes of colour amidst the dull green of olive trees and wrinkled outcrops of rock on vine-clad slopes. As the engine note died away, the silence was immense. Like entering a sound proof booth as a quiz show contestant. Below their vantage point the land fell steeply away to the valley bottom far below. Behind, and on either side, were mountains, ranged in great sprawling clusters, each peak thrusting defiantly skywards until, softened by distance, they merged together as a dusky smudge below a cerulean sky.

Chapter 66

Random thoughts on editing, critics and the apostrophe.

Editing. A thankless task.

I'd hesitate to claim improvement as a writer, that's for others to say, but I've seen a distinct difference in the manner in which I approach the soul sapping process of making a book ready to go off on its travels. This one is bound for Kindle where it will, hopefully, reach an end consumer – which is how we best-selling authors refer to readers.

Oops, irony overload.

Third book edited. To what passes for satisfaction when an author is reading his own work. No obvious spelling mistakes anyway. As for the content, as I say, that's not for me to judge.

Reviews, comments from readers can help an author, but they can also confuse, annoy, irritate or even enrage as well. Just lately I've had a couple of emails from people I've never met, and have no wish to meet, pointing out where I'm going wrong as a writer. As far as I can see, neither of my self-appointed literary guides has written anything themselves.

Okay, I can cope with that, but it does make a difference to my perception of their comments. If you're reading this, some of you are probably writers as well as readers.

Being optimistic, all three of you are writers.

You understand the writing process. I've shovelled coke into a blast furnace for twelve hours at a stretch, faced up to thirty-five blank faces all convinced that education is a waste of their time and mine, had a gun pushed into my face, on two occasions – all areas of my former employment that stand out as not being particularly enjoyable. Writing is nothing like that, but that doesn't make it easy. If taking an hourly rate of pay as a point of comparison, writing has to be the worst job in the world.

We write in our own individual style. I'm beginning to doubt my style is suitable for the genre in which I write. Too many words, perhaps. I chose to write crime thrillers because crime thrillers sell. Simple. As a reader, I prefer something more than the 'this happened, then this happened' type of book. Books with imagery, descriptions, sentences that make me think, that's what I like as a reader. Books that I'll read a second, and then a third or fourth time. Not always present, indeed rarely present, in crime thrillers.

I wrote a couple of pieces in my blog recently, thoughts on a new novel, and it was this that prompted the emails pointing out my deficiencies as a writer.

I wrote this, for instance – 'A faint glimmer of light entered the room with all the stealth of a trespasser.' What's wrong with saying, 'it got light?' my literary advisor asked. Hmm!

The next passage was decried as 'Just a weather report. Get on with the action. Who needs to know all this. What's wrong with just saying it was raining?' Here's the offending passage:-

'The rain was a real cloudburst by now, an unbroken translucent curtain seamlessly bridging the gap between earth and sky as thick banks of scudding clouds whirled away into the distance.

The wind was a full gale, howling in from the coast and leaving a tang of salt in the air. It roared between the houses, touching carelessly exposed flesh with icy fingers as cold as a traffic warden's heart.

The wind snapped at her face and she flinched and hunkered down into her jacket wishing she were somewhere else. It didn't have to be a sun-drenched beach resort. Anywhere else but here would do.

She watched the rain in silent desperation, not really expecting it to do anything out of the ordinary; it was just rain doing exactly what rain was supposed to do, but she watched it fall with a fierce intensity.

The light was improving with the arrival of dawn, but the absence of definition on any visible object meant she still had to maintain a fierce concentration to keep the object of her long vigil in view. The house remained dark and the street was as empty as it had been for the past three hours.'

Another correspondent took exception, violent exception, to 'padding' such as this: -

'Conscience was a word as far as he was concerned. Nothing more. Meaning an awareness of the difference between right and wrong and the ability to act in accordance with that awareness. For most people, this knowledge is learned at an early age and determines their behaviour to a greater or lesser extent. Awareness of right and wrong does not imply a particular individual will slavishly comply with that knowledge. He knew all about conscience, but used the concept as a means of exploiting situations. The meaning of the word was an alien concept. Conscience was something that applied to other people and their foolish adherence to the idea that behaviour could be decided by whether an action was right and wrong was a weakness he could exploit.'

Now there's a case to answer here. Fair enough, and I'd have probably removed, or at least cut down, this section, but this was only ever a rough draft, not the finished article. I was prepared to accept this person knew what they were talking about, until he told me this next piece was 'completely redundant.' It isn't necessary, so he said, 'to have a picture of a character in your mind as a reader. Let the character's words and actions set the tone of the reader's perception of a character.'

Well, I violently disagree with that simplistic view. I want to see how other characters perceive a character as well. Here's the offending passage. I will almost certainly never use it anyway. Or any of the other examples I've chosen here to illustrate some spurious point or other.

'She walked in and stopped dead in her tracks. Her new assistant had arrived. The glowing computer screen lit up the face of the person sitting in a swivel chair, her swivel chair; a fat youth dressed in the clothes of someone three times his age.

'What have they sent me, a bloody Sunday school teacher?'

White shirt, plain tie, tweed jacket, stay-pressed trousers and sensible lace-up shoes with black socks. He must have bought the jacket a while ago when he'd been about three stones lighter as it stretched almost to bursting point across his back and shoulders and the top button of his shirt had popped open.

Ruddy cheeks, farmer's boy complexion. No facial hair. On cold days he probably wore a trilby.

He must have sensed her presence, turned round, looked at her. Sullenly. A brooding silence spread throughout the room like an oil slick from a beached tanker.'

Oh well, back to editing. Confused. Uncertain.

Should I be writing the Historical novel I really want to write? The one where research will be extensive, and yet massively rewarding? The one that will take a year of my life and never sell a single copy? Or should I persevere with writing in a style that doesn't suit some reader's perceptions of a Thriller novel? If only I had the audacity to think I could write in that most enigmatic genre of all, literary fiction. Overwrite to my heart's content, spend three pages describing a falling leaf or the precise nature of sprouting nasal hair – oh, come on, let's not get carried away here!

A final observation on those kind souls who devote their time to pointing out the failings of others: when you say 'your a shit writer' did you mean to say 'you're a shit writer?' Not wishing to be picky, of course...

Chapter 67

I had an idea for a blog post today. A rather sweet idea.

Then I wrote this thoroughly nasty piece instead.

Un-named characters, out of context, just a rambling piece that occurred to me as I walked along the sea wall last night. You often hear advice like 'needs to get out more.' If a simple stroll produces thoughts like this, perhaps I need to get out less.

Incoming waves were dancing and prancing like circus ponies strutting their stuff in the Big Top. Grey, tipped with white foam, pounding endlessly at the sea wall. Plumes of spray rose from each assault as successive rows of waves rushed headlong towards the shore like packs of wild dogs attacking a defenceless flock of sheep. The mighty wall of water crashed against the sandstone barrier and retreated to re-gather their forces and swoop forward once again.

A dull boom signalled the arrival of a particularly large wave, which spilled over the lip of the sea wall and merged into a seething shallow pool spilling over the promenade and into the gutter alongside the road where she lay.

The roar of the pounding sea assaulted the ears making conversation impossible, but he'd no intention of speaking. Actions speak louder than words. He drew back a booted foot and kicked her again, twice more and then walked away.

She heard his car move away, clamping her teeth together, trying desperately to stop them chattering, until her jaw ached with the strain. A stabbing pain over her eyes made her want to moan aloud, but she kept her jaw tightly clenched.

She had to hold herself together or she would be lost.

Her breath came as a series of tormented gasps, her pulse raced producing a relentless pounding in her ears as blood raced through the veins and arteries of her head. What she felt was way beyond fear. She'd been afraid before and this present situation was a whole new experience. She was terrified. An incorporeal sound broke the silence; surely not human. She heard the sound again and belatedly realised it came from her own lips. Her hands fluttered like a trembling captive bird.

From her prone position, the dark stain on the road looked like a giraffe running. She turned her head to the left, but a wave of pain hit her and made her cry out. When she looked at the stain on the floor again, she couldn't make out the shape of the giraffe any more. It just wasn't there because the stain was spreading. Meaning, she was still losing blood and that wasn't good.

Not good at all.

Chapter 68

One of the Most Remarkable Women I've Never Met. An interview with the Enigmatic and Utterly Fascinating Poppet. Writer, Blogger and Force of Nature.

I first noticed Poppet during my early time on Authonomy. She both talked the talk and walked the walk, never backed down in the face of an opposing view, no matter whether reasonable or otherwise, and was very evidently not to be ignored.

I kept my distance, for a while. Until she fell victim to an uploading glitch, all too common on the site, and lost all her backings and comments. I pushed for her, supported her, along with John Booth, if memory serves, and got her back in business.

I'd read her book, read several of them actually. Not for the faint-hearted. S and M, in a literary context. Not an easy genre in which to write. A writing style that took the reader by the throat – in my case, on occasion, by the gonads – and wouldn't let go.

Erotica, but with sharp edges. Horror and Fantasy with elements of delicious insight.

Not always comfortable reading, but never less than compelling.

My conversations with her revealed a woman with a sensitive aspect to the tough exterior; there were aspects of her life that were far from ideal. She controls this by keeping her distance. It's a method that works for her.

As she says herself, 'trust no one. That's good advice.'

I must declare an interest here – I'm a massive fan. I can't do what she does, can't work with her intensity, haven't even one per cent of her drive and dedication. Yet, she's been there for me when my many inadequacies threaten disaster. Always helped out.

The final stages of my time on Authonomy, the last 6 days of the critical month my book spent on the Editors' Desk, were traumatic. A family emergency took me away, leaving my book under severe threat. Along with a few other treasured friends, Poppet kept my book on the Desk.

Poppet had offered to read my book and I sent her the full manuscript with some trepidation. It came back to me, accompanied by masses of comments and observations, but she'd loved the book. That was obvious, and very pleasing.

I'd had advice before about the book, plenty of it. After a time, advice becomes counterproductive. Change this, change that, editors don't like to see that – so much advice. Poppet's advice was simple. With a few tiny exceptions, change nothing. Be yourself in your writing. Best advice I've ever had. I don't lack confidence in my ability, but writing is such a subjective business, everybody has an opinion, it becomes confusing. Stick with what you're doing, it's working. That's what any writer wants to hear.

An interview though. How to persuade this most private of women to reveal herself in public?

Tricky.

Anyway, here it is. An interview with the inimitable Poppet. 100% writer, 100% of the time.

Q. What are you working on now?

A. A classical horror.

Q. Can you remember when you first knew you wanted to be a writer?

A. About the age of 13. But I was already well known for telling scary stories by then.

Q. Tell me about school / education / life before the emergence of 'Poppet.'

A. There's nothing to tell, other than I'm a female jock driven to excel at everything she tries.

Q. When did 'Poppet' arrive on the scene, and why?

A. Poppet is my nickname, and I joined Authonomy under that name. I prefer the anonymity and chose to publish under my nickname too.

Q. Yep, I can relate to that. A nitty-gritty writer's question now. Computer, laptop, or longhand? Which is it?

A. Computer only. I scribble poetry sometimes, and notes (pencil), but the writing happens at my Apple. If I had a pen I'd be tempted to stab people with it.

Q. Do you find writing the easiest and best form of expression, or are you someone who can keep a conversation going all night?

A. I only speak when I have to. I don't have a lot to say, I prefer to listen to people making idiots of themselves. If I open my mouth, it's because what I have to say is important. I am able to converse easily (in any setting with anyone – social standing and education matter not. I am not intimidated by people), am unafraid of crowds and public speaking, but I am most eloquent in the written word because then I can use the vocabulary I like, and use lots of delicious metaphors and similes. My pet peeve is the loud types who have to be heard across a room. I want to surgically remove their larynx with a chainsaw (and yes I own a chainsaw small enough for me to handle with ease). I find people who speak for the sake of speaking utterly annoying, and it inspires many a murderous scene in a horror novel. Oddly, people can manage this feat online too. Shoot them on sight, I beg you.

Q. Er, okay, right. Who is your favourite author and is your writing style in any way similar to theirs?

A. My favourite author is Charles de Lint, and no, my writing style is nothing like his.

Q. Agree with that! What about your readership. Did you seek out a specific genre? If so, why did you gravitate towards that genre?

Q. I prefer horroresque. I'm not into bows and butterflies. Life is cruel, why can't fiction mirror life? I prefer writing supernatural thriller type books, but when pushed can pump out tense relationship novels based on relationships undergoing stress. Most of the men I've known haven't been very nice, the inspiration pool is deeper than the Bermuda triangle. If I could, I'd say my genre is tension. I like to give my readers an emotional roller coaster and a lot of twists.

Q. Be honest, what do you consider to be the best thing you've ever written, and what makes it special?

A. It's hard to pick one. They're all favourites in different ways. Always my latest book is my favourite, as each new book I write I outdo the last one. I'm in a competition with myself, I'm trying to best – me.

Q. You helped me enormously after my book reached the top of the tree on Authonomy – not to mention quite a lot of help to get it there in the first place! Summing up the advice you gave me – 'to thine own self be true – keep your own style, don't allow anyone else to change your book so that it becomes 'their book' not 'your book'. Advice you follow yourself?

A. Aye that I do. And there's nothing I won't do to retain that integrity.

Q. Any more wise advice for an aspiring writer?

A. Edit edit edit. Take away every surplus thing. Craft every sentence. There shouldn't be a single sentence in your book without a purpose to the plot. If there is, take it out. And for sanity's sake, please stop using so many *had*'s and *that*'s

Q. 'Had' and That' – the 'avoid wherever possible' words, yes, I remember from an earlier lesson! How much of 'you' makes it into your books?

A. I think my sense of humour is what goes into my books. Although I write what other people consider thrillers, I am not freaked out by my books and have a ball writing each one. I do draw on the people around me and the people I've known for inspiration. I have an incredible memory and remember uncanny details from my entire life, this becomes a mash of traits sometimes used in my fiction, but my imagination is quite capable of conjuring people and scenes without needing to draw from my own life.

Q. What are the last three books you read? Any comments?

A. Gathering of Rain, by Elaina Davidson. A brilliant fantasy novel of epic proportions. I gave it 5 stars.

Hellogen by John Booth; well written but I didn't like the ending.

Switch by Scott Norton – a brilliant book which will inspire a new type of Adam's family cult following.

Q. Have you ever 'run out of creativity?' Stared at a blank page for hours?

A. No. I find if I force myself to write 200 words – it just starts to flow (I usually go back and delete those 200 words)

Q. I know you're a prodigious worker. What's a typical working day? When and where do you write? Do you set a daily writing goal?

A. I pendulum between writing and editing. I do this every single day without fail. I don't take holidays or weekends off. It starts with morning coffee and continues until bedtime. I only break for meals and my bath. I will steal an hour here and there to get chores done and the odd weekend morning to attack the garden. But I do this 24/7 365. Laziness is for wimps. I once couldn't use my body, I'll never waste another day of my life again. As for goals. I set monthly goals and will forgo sleep in order to keep to my self-imposed regime. Life is short, don't waste it fannying about. I write in my gym, and workout when taking 10 minute breaks (now that's time used effectively).

Q. Absolutely awesome reply. I've rarely felt so inadequate. I know you like your music. Not my taste at all, but I'm sure the fault lies with me! What else fuels your life away from the keyboard?

A. Dreams. A lot of my work comes from dreams I've had. (As in nightmares). Music energises me, so I use it to remain focused and working long past my endurance point (including exercising).

Q. Is there a particular question you'd have liked to be asked? If so, how would you answer that question?

A. The ultimate question would be, 'Can I fly you over for Horrorcon?' The answer would be, 'Oh how thoughtful of you, that would be delightful.'

Q. I'll bear that in mind. If you were writing a book about your life, what would the title be?

A. Cracked, but the glue's holding.

Q. Hmm! I can see that one working. I'd buy it too. You've helped me, yet again, with my pathetic attempts to get to grips with formatting my books for publishing to Kindle. Patiently holding my hand through a process way beyond my scope. Without losing your temper at my stupidity. Not once. So, I can officially confirm you're a saint. Possibly the first time that's been said in public! But, there's more we need to know.

Q. What are three things most people don't know about you? Extra marks will be awarded for indiscreet revelations.

A. I'm softly spoken, but have stage training, so can project my voice across a room without raising it.

I like to punch things when I'm angry, and swear like a sailor having his nipple pierced. I don't react. I tend to engage everyone and everything with a poker face. I am very much a closed book, even though I write them.

Q. What would you like to be if you hadn't become a writer?

A. An actress. That was my first dream and I spent a lot of time aiming for that goal, but was thwarted by the tiny community I live in. I draw on my acting training for my writing, to put myself *in the scene* and the emotions of that scene. (So yes, I've acted many scripts and will probably write one some day).

Q. Finally, what's next for Poppet? Next project? Any news about publishing or further developments?

A. More books will be released this year. As for contracts and publishers, I'll surprise you later in the year. You must surely know I do not rest, there is plenty going on behind the scene that I won't disclose until the ink is dry.

Well, in all honesty, I didn't expect a definitive answer to that last question. I know you well enough to be aware of how closely you guard news of your successes until all is done and dusted. Thank you so much. For this, and for everything.

Jake, you are a lovely host. Thank you for having me (why does that sound like I was ravaged somewhere along the way?) and keep up the good work, don't let me catch you slacking

Slacking? Moi? Perish the thought!

Chapter 69

The Command Structure

She thought back to yesterday's conversation. Her question. She hadn't expected confirmation of the answer so soon.

The copper had wanted to help. Point her in the right direction. 'First question, who's in charge? Who's running the show? They'll have the answers to your questions. Whether they'll tell you or not; that's another story. The top bloke, he'll know everything. Has to if he wants to stay as top dog. Always someone after the job.'

She nodded. 'Who gets to be top dog?'

The cop shrugged. 'Depends. No set rules. The leader can have the IQ of an Oxford Don or he can be barely able to write his own name. I've seen both get to the top and stay there. What matters is wanting it enough.'

'Wanting it?' She asked, intrigued. She'd not given much thought to the command structure.

'The top job, it's not for everyone. Power, but with a lot of risk. Like a wolf pack, you know? There has to be a leader and the leader keeps the job by being the toughest nastiest bastard in the pack. The minute he shows weakness, he's history. Same principle.'

She'd nodded, reckoning the analogy was a good one.

Now, a day later, it wasn't so cut and dried. The man sitting opposite her held the power of life and death. It was evident in his every gesture. Part of the fabric of his being.

'Looks like I found the boss,' she said. 'Or he found me. That's you, is it? The boss?'

He stood and looked at her. Curious. Mildly intrigued. His bleak expression revealed she wasn't regarded as a threat. Not even much more than an inconvenience.

Yet, here she was.

On his turf. Mouthing off.

He was curious. More than she could ever have imagined.

He looked at her, evaluating. Her eyes twitched.

Nervous!

He smiled, inwardly. She was right to be nervous. On impulse, he decided to answer her question.

'There's two ways of doing this job. Being the boss. There's the zero tolerance method. Don't get too close. People who work for me are a work force, not mates. Come the day someone has to be let go, it's a damn sight easier if they don't see you as a mate. Or, you can be one of the boys. All friends together, work and play. All part of one big happy family, getting the job done together.'

'Which one are you?' She looked as if she already knew the answer.

'I've got no fucking mates,' he growled.

Chapter 70

The Missing Files

Mainly dialogue. The missing files. Could be helpful. Could be padding. Useful, or not. Too early to say.

'Who knows the details of his new identity? You?'

'God, no. Come on, you know what it's like. Need to know basis. Wouldn't have it any other way. I'm assuming you wouldn't either when you're undercover.'

I nodded. He had a point there. 'Just his control then? No clerical support, nothing like that?'

'No. Just his control. Who's no longer with us, sad to say.'

I shook my head. I didn't like the sound of this. Accidents had a habit of becoming rather more than the sum of their parts when known killers were involved. No matter how indirectly.

My source appeared troubled. Reluctant to take this further or just unsettled by the nature of my questions? I didn't know, but I was about to find out.

'Okay,' I said. 'The only person who knows his new identity was killed in a freak accident; fell off his balcony while adjusting his satellite dish.'

'Coroner's verdict. Police satisfied. End of story.'

Blood out of a stone stage approaching fast. I pressed on.

'I don't like accidents, particularly so-called freak accidents. You say, officially, no question it is an accident, but I've asked around. On my own. Dead man, adjustable spanner in his hand, fell off his balcony. Satellite dish hanging off the wall. No witnesses, but there's an obvious explanation. That the gist of it?'

My source looked troubled. He nodded.

'That's bollocks,' I said, trying to stay in control. 'I've asked around, like I said. Didn't service his car himself. Had a window cleaner, every fortnight. Got a man in to mend a dripping tap. That say anything to you?'

'Not a lot.'

'Well, to me, it says there's not one chance in a thousand he's going to be hanging off a bloody balcony fiddling with a satellite dish.'

'Meaning?'

'Meaning he'd have got someone in to do it. Meaning you can forget any ideas it was an accident. Meaning somebody threw the poor bugger off his balcony. Poor bloody Harvey, he's dead, can't tell us either way.'

He shrugged. Not convinced either way, or unwilling to commit himself. I couldn't tell.

I pushed on. 'Harvey. The late Harvey. What about his cases? Where are his records?'

'He only had three cases on the go. Winding down to retirement. Running down his caseload. I can't give you details, you understand? Not even in very general terms.'

I held up a hand. Not pushing. Not on this matter. 'Just out of interest. No details. Was everything as it should have been?'

He frowned. Looked uncertain for the first time.

'So far, without going into details, there does appear to be a little confusion. I can only find details of two cases. I've not had much chance to over everything yet. I took the files from the safe personally. They're not allowed to leave this office, ever.'

'Who keeps the key?' I knew the answer, but wanted to hear him say it.

'The control. He has the only key. Kept on his person at all times. No exceptions.' He pulled his jacket to one side, showed me a key on a thick chain attached to his belt. It was familiar. My own control had an identical key. 'This is the key to my safe. I never let it out of my sight.'

'What happened to Harvey's key?'

'It wasn't found. Very bad form. It should have been with...with the body' he finished lamely.

'And it wasn't?'

'No. We had to break into the safe. We retain a chap who does that sort of thing. It took him almost an hour. They're very good safes.'

'Were you there?'

'Of course. When he'd got it open I sent the locksmith on his way and removed the contents. Had to sign for them of course and placed them in my own safe. Harvey's files and also his premium bonds. Not strictly allowed of course, but not unheard of. Pretty secure place to leave one's valuables after all.'

I stood a little closer. Crowding him a little. He looked uncertain. More used to being behind a desk than mixing with the boys from the sharp end of the job. I knew that. Played on it.

'You've got Harvey's files then? Safe and sound. In your safe.'

He looked uncertain again. Unsure of himself.

'He definitely had three cases logged out to his care. I've checked. I know who they are. I even know who two of them are now. The other case. The file wasn't in the safe. I've got full info on two cases.'

'But not the third?'

He shrugged. 'No. Not as such.'

'Who would know?'

'Only Harvey.'

'And he's dead.'

'Yes.'

'Not a living soul then.'

'That's the whole point of this system of course. Absolute security.'

I grinned. 'Somebody knows. The fucker who threw Harvey off his balcony. He knows. He'll have that missing safe key as well. I'll ask him about that when I find him. Theft of Government property; can't be having that, can we?'

Chapter 71

Primitive Man in His Native Habitat

'Spend any significant period of time here and you become institutionalised. And I don't just mean the patients.'

The white-gowned doctor grinned as he spoke, but received only a scowl in return. I wasn't enjoying my time here.

'An hour would be long enough for me. No offence, but I'm never comfortable in places like this. Hospitals, prisons, they're the same, but this bloody place seems worse somehow.'

'Put that down to the regime. Everything has to be done in a precise way or you end up with anarchy. Especially here where there are a great variety of very disturbed individuals. Treat them all the same and the job gets easier. That means regular mealtimes, usually at times they've not been used to before they came in here. Early breakfast for a start, just like in a hospital or a care home.'

'Or a prison. It's a secure unit, after all. Has to be.'

'Indeed. Some very dangerous individuals in here. Security has to be rock-solid. We go for a refined system of control. It's all in the interest of building a structure. Not only drugs. That method of control will only work for a while. We have other methods. Keeping them busy for want of a better explanation. Food is the trigger.'

'Like animals in a zoo, you mean?'

'Well, I wouldn't go that far, but there are certain benefits to the smooth running of the system from adopting a regular and structured regime.' Looking across the room I watched the queue forming at the closed serving hatch. Loose baggy clothing and flip-flops suggested a day at the beach, but there was a palpable lack of anticipation on their faces. Nobody met my eye, they ignored my presence completely; even though a stranger was a break in their routine.

Or so I'd have imagined. The neat rows of passive, submissive men were waiting without speaking or even acknowledging each other's presence. It was un-nerving.

'Why does everyone dress the same?'

'A fresh start, everyone equal. That's the theory anyway.'

'But it takes away any sense of identity. Outside these walls, clothing gives a hint of personality at least. In here, everyone looks the same. Like a herd. Standing in lines waiting for the highlight of their day, a great dollop of stodgy unhealthy food.'

I'd expected a reply, even a defence of the system, but the expression on the face of the doctor seemed to suggest that everything I said was right on the money.

Nothing to add.

The man I wanted to see wasn't here. Would never be allowed to mingle with other residents. He was far too dangerous.

An unreconstructed primitive.

I'd been killing time, waiting for the staff to go through their routine. An essential routine.

Last time the man I'd come to see had a visitor, it hadn't gone well. That had been his solicitor. A man who'd tried his best to keep the man out of prison. I'd watched from the gallery when sentence had been passed. Detained indefinitely in a secure unit at a prominent mental hospital. 'At her Majesty's Pleasure' as the archaic phrase said. He'd not showed much gratitude at the time. Even less at that last visit when he'd blinded his lawyer in one eye.

I wasn't his lawyer. I'd had a big part in putting him in here. By now, he may know this. I was in no rush to see him. It had to be done, was part of my job, but even sitting here, watching these inmates, patients, whatever the correct term was, salivating outside a closed serving hatch was preferable to what I'd be doing next.

Chapter 72

The Writers' Group Experience.

Dead addicts and suicides.

The unseemly concerns of a writer, afflicted by shyness for the first time in his life.

I say 'shyness' rather than 'inadequacy' – not prepared to go that far. Dangerous assumptions could be made, my very masculinity questioned. Oh no, we'll not go there!

This newly discovered reticence has no basis in common sense. It's just talking. Public speaking. And, yes, I've done that before. Many times. Given speeches, briefings, given evidence in High Court, many a time. What about talking about a subject as personal my own writing though?

To strangers.

Daunting.

I've not been well. Feel awful. The request I'd agreed to months ago had arrived and I look, and feel, like death warmed up. I said I'd do this, so I will. Just hope I last the evening out. I have to talk, in public. Socialise afterwards. Take questions.

Agghh! I can't do this, but I must.

I gave my word.

It's nothing important. Not really. I was asked, ages ago, if I'd read some extracts from my book to a Book Group. Not a Book Club – this is the Cotswolds where 'club' has connotations of vulgarity, a suggestion that just 'anyone' could join. A 'group' is a closed order, invitation only. Far more appropriate.

I'd wondered whether the person making the request had actually read anything I'd written. 'Oh yes, rather,' she replied. Genteel, well that's a given but also enthusiastic. I have weak moments, far too many of them, and this boost to my fragile ego made me say 'yes.'

Months later, I'm regretting it. Arrival at the venue, a living room the size of an aircraft hanger in a 16th Century Manor House near Chipping Camden, did little to quell my misgivings. Twenty-two members, all but one of them female, ages ranging from thirty-something to God knows how old. Expectant. Eager. Welcoming. I can't fault them in any way, but what about me? Am I really going to be able to offer them anything worth their trouble in coming out on a bitterly cold evening?

We chat for a while. They chat, I listen. They're lovely. Interesting, alert, knowledgeable, love books, what's not to like? Our hostess is dressed for Royal Ascot. Slim with great cheekbones, she looks thirty-five, at most. Then she introduces me to her daughter who could be her twin sister and yet has a son at Sandhurst. It's another world.

After coffee, biscuits, three slices of homemade cake – I know, I'm a pig, I blame it on nervousness – it's time to sing for my supper. I've thought about this. I can't give them three pages of description about a tree in full leaf, they'd nod off, but if I read something stronger, will they send for the smelling salts?

I go with what I'd planned. Hit them hard. The worse that can happen is they won't ask me again. I can cope with that. My wife nudges me. She's here because she's loyal. Wants to support me. I'm sure of it. Being a guest in this incredible house, mixing with the local gentry, eating even more cake than me, has no bearing on her presence. None at all.

I start with a reading from my first novel. I explain it's now available as an e-book. That doesn't go down well. These are traditional book buyers. Nobody here would even contemplate buying a book from Amazon. They go to bookshops. Browse. Choose a book at leisure. Have it wrapped. Take it home and after reading donate it to a charity shop or a Church bazaar.

I move on. Hurriedly. Read my first extract. Here's a sample from my first novel, Burn, Baby, Burn.

'He removed the hypodermic from its container, the needle still blackened with scabs of dried blood, pushed the needle into the ball of cotton wool and lowered it carefully into the bowl of the spoon, soaking up the liquid.

The veins in his arms and legs were useless, covered in scabs and ulcers. He had started with the small veins on the soles of his feet, hoping in those innocent early days to avoid the obvious bruising and heavily tracked arms of the addict, but all were useless now, veins receding from the threat of the invasive needle, retreating into flesh. He removed his shoelace and tied it round the stem of his penis, pulling tight, wincing as he slapped the prominent vein to make it stand proud. He muttered to himself, lost in the precision of a familiar routine.

'Make sure you're in the vein, always check for blood. Miss the vein it's a fucking waste.' There was no one around to hear, but the sound of his own voice soothed him.

He never felt the needle, but as he pressed the plunger, his eyes widened as the rush began. The kick was instantaneous. Never like this, he thought as the veins behind his eyes burst and he slumped to the floor. His heart seized instantly as the pure grade uncut heroin flooded his blood stream. Snake was dead before his head hit the cement floor, needle still jutting from his penis. One more drug culture victim.'

There's a momentary hush, then an outrush of reaction. Yes, a nervous giggle or two, but it's positive. I had intended to read another piece, at least, but questions come thick and fast. 'How do you know about this? Have you actually met heroin addicts?' Well, yes I have. On many occasions. Seen a drug overdose as well. I don't give them too much detail, there's the family silver to consider and I've no wish to stress my past working associates. Even though I was one of the good guys.

Eventually, it calms down. I decide against my second choice, give them a dramatic suicide instead. They can take it. Here's a section from the second reading.

'Clive sat on the hard chair that he'd placed against the wall with no other furniture within reach. Grunting with the effort, he bound his own feet together, then tied them securely to the legs of the chair that was firmly screwed to the floor, leaning into the knots until he could no longer feel his feet. Smoke was filling the room now, but he remained absolutely calm. This final meeting with Marcus had been envisaged for some time and he worked with total certainty. Pulling the plastic bag over his head, he tied it securely with the slim nylon cord. He grimaced as the binding cut deeply into his skin, but the pain was immaterial. It would not inconvenience him for long. His next breath would also be his last as he sucked the plastic against his mouth, using up the air trapped in the bag.

Working quickly now, he slipped his hands into the thick rubber gloves and doused them with the contents of the cooking oil and dropped the empty container at his feet. He'd expected the panic that came with his next attempt to take a breath, but the strength of his reaction surprised him. Hands scrabbling vainly at the knots securing the bag in position, oily fingers failing to find any purchase, his lungs burned and his temples pounded like a kettledrum. From what seemed a vast distance, he heard the voice once more. 'Clive, are you coming out to play?'

Even as his open mouth sucked at the unyielding plastic, teeth ripping his lower lip, he was exultant at this final cheating of his tormentor. Hot salty blood from his ravaged lips trickling down his throat, Clive slumped, his upper body pitching forward from the chair. His bound legs twitching, he fell awkwardly, head slamming against the floorboards with a sickening crack.'

They loved it. Lapped it up. I read three more pieces, the last at random, by request. 'Just pick a page, any page, and read from it. A sex scene, as it happened. Well, it would be. That's the perverse nature of random selection. They liked that too. Even the lady with the collection of congratulatory telegrams from the Queen.

We left at eleven-thirty. I felt better than I'd felt for days. The voice had gone, but I'd loved the experience. I'd even agreed to come back. Read from one of my other books. I know what to look for now. Dark and dirty. Violence, in its place, is okay. The only other man there explained it very well. 'It's escapism, isn't it? A different world. I've been missing out on this.'

My wife told me on the way home how she'd dreaded the implications of it all going horribly wrong. Being snubbed in Waitrose, perhaps, I wondered. Not seriously. Social standing has never been an issue. No, it was the prospect of them not liking what I'd written. Being critical. Damaging my fragile sense of worth, as a writer. Only as a writer – my sole weakness in matters of self-regard. In every other aspect of life I have a ludicrously high opinion of my own ability. An opinion far beyond reasonable grounds.

'That was great,' my wife said. 'Be even better next time. Princess Ann will be there.'

I gave her one of those looks that a marriage of many years has refined to perfection. 'Yes. So I believe. That'll be a treat for her, won't it?'

'Hmm!'

Chapter 73

Grassing up the Big Man

Major cities are not a single united mass but a series of disparate villages and hamlets all clustered together.

In reality, a particular area would have very little in common with its neighbour.

Two areas of the city may live cheek by jowl but be separated by the width of an entire continent as regards a dominant language or mode of dress. Africa and Asia for instance.

Then there are the buildings. Georgian architecture segues into sixties concrete, Victorian gothic merges into Post-Modernist chrome and smoked glass. A single street can encompass entire centuries. In this freshly colonised area of the city, English is a second language at best with most of the residents unable to speak the language of their adopted homeland. I pondered on there being a case to be made for the premise that most residents of Liverpool speak a different language than the rest of the country.

Residents here are deeply suspicious of outsiders, clinging to what is familiar, even when what is familiar is now also worthless. Changing what could have been a war-zone into a demilitarised zone by applying that age-old principle – don't shit on your own doorstep. Reinforcing that close-mouthed mistrust of external authority that characterises the fabric of life in the area.

A major criminal, like the one whose dossier I had in my possession, could operate here with impunity. His people recognised one of their own and kept his secrets closer than a child protecting a treasured favourite toy. Isolating him from his power base would be difficult.

The man sitting opposite me was nervous. He was only talking to me at all because of what I knew. Not just who he was, but who he used to be. That knowledge made him nervous.

Understandably so.

'How do I know I can trust you?'

I shrugged. 'You don't. It doesn't work like that.' I grinned. You don't have to talk to me at all. You could always give yourself up. Ask to be looked after. It worked once. Could work again.'

He shook his head. 'I'm like you,' he said. 'Never give up. It's not in my nature.'

'Just a thought, go back into protective custody or whatever they want to call it. Of course, they'll not be as keen as they once were. You skipped out, didn't you?'

'Yeah. They'll have a bit more on me than last time and I've got nothing to offer in return. I could give them the names of a few drug dealers, but it wouldn't be enough. Not this time.'

He grinned wolfishly without a trace of humour. 'Anyway, what makes you think the boys wouldn't find me? I disappeared once, changed my name, my face, everything and you still found me. Fuck knows how you did it, but here we are.'

'Here we are. Who are you these days anyway? Back to being Danny?'

He shrugged. A name was only a name. I hadn't known his new identity, hadn't wanted to.

'Good question,' he said. 'Who gives a fuck?'

Two old friends chatting. That's what it may have looked like. Anything but the case, in reality. We knew each other from way back. Five years at least. I'd been his mate once. A good mate. Or so he'd thought. When the big man went down, Danny had ensured he'd not gone alone.

I'd brokered the deal, looked after him, kept him out of the picture until the court case wrapped it all up. He'd taken what was on offer, a new life, slipped out of sight.

Until now.

Now, he'd done a runner, made his way back to familiar ground. People were looking for him. Both sides of the fence. In his shoes I'd prefer the police to the alternative. One faction would lock him up; the other would be rather more creative. There would be pain. A great deal of pain.

When night fell, we'd done a deal. I had a good lead, fresh information; he got to walk away again. He didn't look thrilled at the prospect. I didn't expect to see him again. I'd keep my side of the bargain, but I'd found him. Others would also be looking. Looking hard.

I listened to his footsteps as they faded into the darkness, leather soles making a faint slapping sound with every step until the night reclaimed the silence and he was gone. By now, the darkness was overwhelming. Not even a single star overhead. No streetlight glowed. Nothing.

I shivered. Fear of the dark was irrational. A throwback to primitive times when our distant ancestors lived in caves and life expectancy depended on whether you found food or not on any particular day. A time when the human race was just as much prey as predator. It made no sense at all to be afraid of the dark in the Twenty-first Century.

The darkness closed in, forced me to my feet.

Alert. In the shadows, feral youths kept watch. I couldn't see them, but they were there.

A hundred thousand minors, technically children being under the age of eighteen, go missing every year in Britain. The vast majority of these missing persons turn up safe and sound within a couple of days, but the rest just disappear. Usually because that was precisely their intention when they left home. Many live on the streets, sleeping rough, and it only takes an average of three weeks for street life to become a way of life.

I'd seen the numbers, studied the graphs. Statistics are only as good as the data which underpins them and Home Office figures only include those reported as missing. Families split apart by mutual consent as well. Kids leave when home life is intolerable, both for themselves and the adults who are supposedly caring for them. In such cases there is no record on Police files, no ongoing search. Nobody cares.

These disconnected kids, in their teens but lacking any family structure, form the bedrock of recruits to the cause. Dealers look for them, find them, put them to work. Keeping lookout was a low-level job, but an essential one. Nobody moves around here without eyes watching.

I moved away, walking quickly but with purpose. Looking like I belonged.

In the distance I heard a scream, the sound of scuffling feet. Once more the same person screamed, stopped abruptly. I took a shortcut across a kid's playground, taking a different route.

It looked like Danny's luck had run out.

Not my concern. Not any more.

He knew the rules of the game, the risks he was taking. A night of pain lay ahead of Danny.

He'd live. At least until the big man gave the word.

Category A prisoners find ways of getting word back to the streets. Danny would be glad enough of the bullet in the back of the head when the time came. The situation required a statement. The penalty for grassing the big man was understood, but also had to be visible.

Danny would turn up. I'd see him again.

In the morgue.

By then, he wouldn't look anything like he had an hour ago.

Chapter 74

So Much Blood

Her clear dark eyes were deep liquid pools, full of promise and hinting at a fierce intelligence. A wide generous mouth confirmed my first impression; this was a shrewd and clever woman.

An untidy mane of glossy brown hair spilled over the collar of her shirt. She wore no makeup or ornaments. No rings, no jewellery. Her clothes were inexpensive, no designer labels, plain black leather pumps on her feet. Decent quality shoes, but lightly scuffed. A woman who didn't need to try very hard blessed with an effortless sense of style and confidence. She didn't need fancy clothes; good bone structure and the bloom of health would mark her out in any company.

An almost imperceptible indentation bisected the bridge of her nose.

'No glasses today?'

She looked at me sharply.

''Broken. Trod on the bloody things actually. My own stupid fault.' She paused. 'How did you know?'

'I'm psychic,' I said, tapping the bridge of my own nose. 'There's a mark there.'

'Oh. Very good. I'm impressed. I can manage without them actually, just can't read car number-plates or anything like that.' She stopped talking, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. I let her take her time. She'd talk to me when she was ready. I knew that now.

She sighed, made eye contact. 'You know it all. I know you do.'

I nodded. 'Maybe. I'd still like to hear your version. You went down for this. You didn't kill him, did you?'

She shook her head.

'No.'

'But you were there.' It wasn't a question.

'Yes. The police found...' Her voice tailed away.

'Yes,' I said. 'I know. You were there, but you didn't kill him.'

She took a deep breath. 'What does it matter? It was all so long ago. His wife killed him. Sharon. She knew what he was doing. He'd done it before. She didn't mean to kill him. There was a screwdriver behind the seat. She reached over and stabbed him, in the neck. Just sort of poked him with it really.'

'Why take the blame?'

She shrugged. 'She had two little girls. She knew he'd start on them eventually. Like he did with me. She couldn't let him do that. And what would happen to her girls if she went to prison? For defending them. They'd be in care, fostered perhaps. I couldn't risk that. It was all my fault anyway. She knew what he'd done to me. She'd suspected it all the time. I told her to get away. Told her what a bastard he was.'

'What happened?'

'He was still sitting there. He was bleeding but it was nothing much. Slumped over the steering wheel. Carrying on all the time saying he was bleeding to death. He propped himself up and hit her. He'd hit her before. I could tell because of the way she just took it. She just looked at him. Never said a word. Then she picked up the screwdriver again and stabbed him. In the chest. Three times. This time she meant to hurt him.'

'Kill him?'

'I don't know. Whether she did or not, that's what happened. He just sort of flopped down and didn't move. She told me to get out. Say nothing.'

'Did she say anything else?'

'No. She took his wallet and his watch. Make it look like a robbery, you know? She put his coat on over her clothes. The blood. So much blood. It was on the back seat, his coat. It swamped her. She said she had to pick up the girls from school. She's a good mother. Protective, you know?'

I nodded.

'The police came. I was outside, blood on my dress. They took me away, put me in the car. I said I did it. Killed him, you know?'

I nodded.

'I did, in a way. Kill him. If I'd stopped it when it started.'

'You were what, sixteen?'

'Fifteen. When it started. I could have stopped him. Stopped it all. My fault as well as his.'

I looked at her. Saw her courage evaporate like mist. She bent forward, sobbing.

'That bastard,' she said. 'He fucked up everything.'

Chapter 75

Search for Sanctuary

I wrote this in 1992, after leaving England in an intemperate hurry. Work related problems. I'd been knocked about. Quite badly. It could have been worse. If I stayed put, the situation would have become even more serious. Time to move on. Seek new pastures.

I hadn't even considered writing a novel back then. I'd written half a dozen stage plays, seen a couple performed before a paying audience – to no great acclaim, poems aplenty and even a cook book. Novels? Nah! They were for 'proper' writers.

Looking back now at this piece, untouched, exactly as it was written nineteen years ago, I'm very pleased with the opening paragraph.

The rest, not so much. A very long way from any thoughts of writing an entire novel, that much is evident.

We were looking for a house. We didn't know where it was, had never even seen it, but we knew it was there. Waiting for us.

We were giving up, had given up, our jobs. In my case, rather abruptly, following a security scare. It needed to be a house where we could live on a restricted, indeed minimal, income. It also had to be in an area where nobody knew anything about me or what I used to do for a living.

Scotland came to mind. Great scenery, but climate would be a major consideration. Intending to look at likely prospects, we rented a remote cottage at the head of Loch Awe while my cuts and bruises faded. It was late October. The mountains were awesome, the autumn colours spectacular, the weather was the pits! After a week of incessant rain, my skin turned as white and wrinkly as a prune, and the cottage reeked of wet dog. We didn't have a dog.

We collected our 'morning' paper from the village shop every afternoon. It was a very small village and, like all other commodities, news arrived late. The man behind the counter, completely bald, but with an immense red beard through which strange sounds filtered was kindness personified. By the third day my soggy English ears were able to recognise some of the sounds as words. He was very sympathetic, or as sympathetic as any man with an up-side-down face could possibly hope to be.

'Och, more than your share of rain', he grunted. 'Not at all usual, this. Plenty of fog, mind, but not rain like this. It's nearly as bad as last year.' I blanched at the thought of last year being even worse. 'It'll probably clear up for a wee while, before the snow sets in.'

I managed a feeble smile.

'Last summer it hardly rained at all', he went on. 'Eaten alive by the midges we were'.

So, that was Scotland crossed off the list.

'What about France?' My wife enquired.

What about France, indeed?

Our search across the Channel search began with chocolate éclairs and a flatulent boxer. (That's a reference to a breed of dog; images of flatulent pugilists are too weird to contemplate.)

We looked first at the area around Roscoff in Brittany, which resembles Cornwall with its rugged coastline, secluded villages and undulating countryside.

Our appointment was with an agent in a small market town. A charming receptionist regretted that Monsieur Mappin, the agent, had been delayed, but that his wife, who was English, would be delighted to speak to us, pending his arrival. We were ushered into a back office and introduced to the English wife, late of Bolton in Lancashire.

'Hello, loves, park yourselves down', she said, indicating an over-stuffed sofa, presently occupied by a fat boxer dog. 'Don't mind Bertie, love. He'll shove up a bit if you give him a nudge'. I nudged, Bertie duly shoved up, and we sat down.

'There you are, told you he'd budge up, didn't I? He's Mummy's special boy, aren't you Bertie?'

I adore dogs, but 'Mummies special boy' was to tax my fondness to the limit. He was unmistakably a boy, but I was unable to understand what it was that made him 'special'.

Bertie was repulsive. His sagging jowls oozed a particularly un-appetising slime, he was grotesquely fat, and, worst of all, he farted constantly.

'Oh baby, don't trump!' shrieked his mistress as Bertie broke wind, thoughtfully turning his hindquarters in my direction. A series of long, rasping, moist farts rang out, like a tugboat steaming through dense fog.

The noise was incredible, but became insignificant, when the accompanying smell arrived a moment later.

The truism that dogs grow to resemble their owners, and vice versa, was never better illustrated than in the person of Bertie's greatest admirer. Thirty-something, dressed in a voluminous and quite hideously patterned caftan; she reclined against a large velvet cushion, a box of chocolate éclairs close to her right hand. The hanging jowls and double, no, make that treble, chins formed a mirror image of the flatulent animal alongside her.

We were regaled with stories of Bertie's fabled pedigree; a Crufts supreme champion on his mother's side, no less, and the indignities he suffered whilst being transported in a crate from England to his new home in France.

We listened in respectful silence to the litany of Bertie's attributes. Unfortunately, the subject of these praises was not blessed with the gift of silence. Bertie broke wind at regular intervals, punctuating the conversation with a variety of sounds, the like of which I had never imagined a dog of such relatively small stature might be capable of producing. Shrill trumpetings, rapid fire pops, reminiscent of a particularly noxious firework, deep rasping farts like very slowly torn calico and, worst of all, the long whistling hiss of expelled air, shortly by a stench which would not disgrace a sewerage farm.

Madame beamed indulgently at each assault on our senses.

'He's got a bit of a tummy upset, haven't you, precious?' she cooed, stroking his unlovely head. Bertie shuffled closer to me and farted once again.

'Poor love, he's had this for a day or two now'.

I shuffled along slightly, but Bertie followed. 'Will your husband be long?' I enquired.

'Oh no, I shouldn't think so, any minute I imagine'.

I heaved a silent sigh of relief.

'I met him at a séance, in Bolton, you know, my husband, I mean, not Bertie'.

'Really?' my wife ventured, cramming a wealth of meaning into a single word.

'Oh yes, he was studying in England and he was interested in English life, so, of course, he came to one of our meetings. I have the gift, you see'.

I didn't really see, but nodded anyway.

'I helped him reach his father, it was very moving'.

I nodded again.

'Yes, I see beyond the veil, it's a gift, but such a responsibility, you know'.

'It must be'.

'Oh mercy me, such a responsibility. I see such things, it's such a great strain on my nerves. That's where my darling Bertie is such a comfort'.

The 'comfort' shifted on his cushion and broke wind once more. She patted him gently.

'Perhaps it's his diet. I can't seem to get it right. It's difficult, what with him being so highly bred. My husband says I spoil him, but I think he is a teeny bit jealous of my little treasure'.

The pleasant receptionist came to our rescue by announcing the arrival of Monsieur Mapin who was double-parked and awaiting us outside the office. We said goodbye to his wife and her 'little treasure'. Bertie bade us farewell with his most virulent contribution to date, a deep rumble ending in a shrill squeal.

'Bertie!' his mistress shrieked. 'That one really pongs,' and hugged his portly body to her ample bosom.

We dashed outside, inhaling pure country air in grateful gulps, and introduced ourselves to the agent.

'You've met my wife?' he enquired and, without waiting for affirmation, added, ' A very stupid woman, I regret to say'.

I was tempted to agree wholeheartedly with him, but kept my counsel, contenting myself with a non-committal inclination of the head.

'I don't know which is worse, her or that animal', he continued. 'Of course she feeds it the wrong food. Both, the dog and her, eat only chocolate and cake. Is ridiculous, yes?

'Yes', I said.

'Of course, she is English and, Les Anglais and their dogs, poof!' He snorted dismissively and strode towards his car. 'We go now, I think'.

Chapter 76

A French Christmas

Another long-lost offering, written in December 1992. Untouched, unimproved, unimaginative, unworthy – I could go on. Not quite twenty years ago, seems a lifetime away now.

Two days before our first Christmas in France, and the house was in chaos when the newly installed telephone sounded its strange chirrup chirrup.

It was Josette, our neighbour and closest confidant since our arrival in France. We'd arrived in France knowing little of the language, and even less of the inhabitants of this rural community tucked away in the Loire Valley. From the first day, when she'd called at our gate with enough food to last us a week, Josette had been a one-woman welcoming committee. She lived at the farm perhaps half a mile along the single-track road that ran behind our barns.

'English people in the next village. You must call on them,' Josette ordered. We'd been adopted as her pet foreigners and were now well accustomed to being given instruction. All had been organised and we were to call on the new arrivals the following morning.

We arrived at a shabby old house the following morning and were met at the gate by our host. 'Welcome,' he boomed. 'Theodore Alfred Forbes, what a mouthful, eh what? Just call me Taffy, everyone does.'

Introductions over 'Taffy' quickly ushered us inside and put the kettle on. A bunch of mistletoe was pinned to a massive beam overhead, but that was only the first indication that Christmas day was imminent. The main sitting room was decked out as Santa's grotto: a massive tree, groaning under the strain of innumerable baubles and festooned with tinsel dominated one corner while exotic streamers crisscrossed the room at a height low enough as to make any further progress on my part impossible. Stooping awkwardly I shambled to the relative safety of a vast sofa.

'You'll have to excuse the wife, she's not at her best in the mornings,' our host said, bustling off again to the kitchen to seek out biscuits.

While tea and biscuits were laid out Taffy told his life story in graphic detail. Nothing was spared and I could only conclude I was in the presence of the most unfortunate man in the world. The final insult had been the crushing blow of redundancy. Flush with cash, the ruine he he'd chosen as a project to begin a new life needed a great deal of sympathetic renovation. That much was clear.

It was also evident that his efforts to date had severely diminished most – no better make that all – of the house's value and appeal. A wonderful bread oven, now reduced to a heap of rubble, had been gutted and replaced with a Formica topped bar, original granite fireplaces had been torn out to make room for modern electric fires and just about every available surface was covered in stencilled cherubs. Taffy was inordinately proud of his workmanship and took pains to explain each project to me in vast detail; all delivered in a voice one would normally expect to find on the parade ground.

He did not speak to my wife at all, apart from the niceties of the tea ceremony. On these occasions his speech was at a normal level. Perhaps he considered me particularly dense and thought I would understand better if he shouted at me.

'Look at the bevel on that work-top', he bellowed, indicating a perfectly hideous strip of fake marble. 'Took me hours to get it just right'. I nodded in apparent appreciation. 'Mind you', he confided, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial roar. 'It's a damn sight easier to work with no bloody women cluttering up the job.'

I nodded again and kept on nodding at regular intervals as we examined each and every area of the house. My poor wife was abandoned with the tea and biscuits as we men discussed the relative virtues of power and hand tools, sandpaper versus sanding blocks, paint brushes or rollers and every other subject known to the modern handyman. Perhaps 'discussion' is the wrong word for this was a lecture, a master class from a supreme craftsman, delivered to a particularly retarded apprentice. My only contribution was to impersonate a nodding dog.

Hopefully, my instructor took my silence as fascination with the subject and reverential awe at his abilities, rather than the shell-shocked trance into which I had plunged.

Upon completing the tour of the ground floor, he led me upstairs, steps swaying away from the wall and creaking ominously and, in the absence of any handrail, a precariously sheer drop to the tiled hall floor below.

'Not quite finished the staircase, but it's safe enough,' he declared as we reached the upper storey. Three velux roof windows had been inexpertly fitted, each with a large damp patch beneath, testament to the inadequacy of their seals. Light shone through the walls and I could see blue sky through much of the roof space. In the far corner a huge pile of rubbish: two car windscreens, a dozen or so old pallets, bales of straw and general builders' rubble extended across the whole width of the attic almost as high as the roof. Removal would be an enormous task, even more so now that the only access was the rickety staircase. Taffy drew my attention to the floorboards, several of which were ominously stained.

'Quite a lot of these are new; rotten as a pear, you see? Obviously I've poly urinated all over the floorboards. That wet part over there is what I did last night'. I could clearly hear my wife's hysterics in the kitchen below as I traipsed after my host and the tour continued.

'I suppose you're completely bisexual by now, damn handy that'.

I was too taken aback even to nod. I felt sure he meant bilingual, certainly hoped he did, but then again...

' Yes, damn handy. I know the words, well most of them, but I'm not dramatically correct, know what I mean?'

'Grammar?' I said in a daze.

'That's the fellow.' I went back to nodding. If it ever becomes an Olympic sport, I was ready to nod for England.

Back at ground level, at last, the lady of the house finally put in an appearance. 'Poor old Mavis, been on the lav all night, haven't you, pet?'

Mavis gave a brave smile and proceeded to describe her symptoms in graphic detail. I tried to ignore the battering my ankles were taking as my wife's evident, and understandable, desire to leave manifested itself in surreptitious kicking beneath the table.

Mavis paused for breath, finally, and changed the subject. 'And then there's Christmas and all. They don't really have Christmas, do they? The Frenchies, I mean.'

'Are you on your own for Christmas?' I asked, belatedly realising my polite enquiry could be construed as an invitation to join us on the following day when the assault on my ankles reached the point of meltdown. We'd waited many years for a Christmas on our own, risked the ire of family and friends to ensure we could enjoy a special day together in our new home.

'Oh, good heavens, yes,' Mavis replied. 'Just as we like it. I'm really excited, actually. This has every sign of being our best ever Christmas.'

Taffy waved us off at the gate, bellowing his farewells and admonishing me to drive carefully. My ears were humming and I was suffering from shell shock, but even when he was completely out of sight I could still hear that amazing voice.

I just about managed to drive out of sight of the house before hysterics set in. I parked up with one wheel hanging over a deep ditch while we howled uncontrollably for a good ten minutes, tears streaming down our cheeks.

The following morning, our French Christmas was ushered in by clear blue skies. We opened our presents and were about to start preparing the long-anticipated feast when the telephone rang.

'Your mother,' I said, anticipating yet more recriminations on our failure to be in England for the traditional family get-together. When my wife finally replaced the receiver, I knew it was bad news.

'Josette,' she said, 'She was on her way back from Christmas mass when she saw the police car outside the house and stopped to see if she could help. Mister Forbes died in the night, just after midnight, apparently. That means he died...' Her voice tailed away.

'On Christmas Day,' I said. 'Shit.'

Chapter 77

Carl and His Sister

The girl was talking. I pretended to listen. She wasn't very interesting. I wanted to ask her about Carl. Now, Carl interested me. Carl was the reason I was here.

Last chance before they locked him up, threw away the key.

I already knew Carl's future. A secure unit. Chains. Locks. Drugs.

What interested me was his past. The girl was part of his past so I talked to her. She didn't know anything. Only wanted to talk about Carl as a boyfriend. Not Carl, the man who'd told her to go and kill people. She was talking, so I listened. Pretended I was interested. An intelligent girl. Nineteen, a week ago. The day she went out and hacked two people to death. Some people have strange ways of celebrating a birthday.

Carl's idea. Clever, manipulative Carl.

'I had a personal wish list. Tall, dark and handsome. Conventional and not very original. I suppose I could have added more qualities to the list, but where do you start?'

She looked at me, expecting a response. I shrugged. 'What matters to you?'

'Rich? Well-endowed?'

I laughed. 'Do me a favour!'

She grinned. Two mates chatting. Cosy. 'Yeah. Why be greedy? I was what most people would call choosy; certainly all my mates did, until I met a lad called Terry Hermiston and all that went out of the window. Terry was a million miles away from my wish list: small, skinny, and about as good-looking as a bulldog. But, he made me laugh and kept me laughing for six months. Until he dumped me for a fat girl who worked in a shop. The bloody sweet counter no less.'

She stopped talking. Fiddled with her hair, swept it back, then continued. 'I was devastated at the time. There's nothing so painful as being dumped, especially if it's your first time. Then I met Carl and my whole world changed.'

She stopped talking. Almost as if she realised I would be interested now.

'Get your retaliation in first. That was Carl. He taught me all that stuff. I already knew how to fight. Much more useful was learning how to fight dirty. Don't punch if you can avoid it. Knuckles are fragile. A knee in the balls, an elbow in the throat, a finger in the eye, maximum damage for minimum effort.'

I nodded. I knew all this. It was second nature. She shook her head as if at a private memory.

'I'm good at it. Fighting. Know how to use my boot on the inside of a knee, how to stamp on an instep. No question about it, I'm dangerous. It's the only thing I'm proud of.'

She flicked at her hair, a savage spiky crop with a bleached fringe, lightly gelled.

'I had to kill him. Terry. Him and the fat cow he'd gone off with. You see that, don't you? No other choice. Carl made me see there was no choice. Not really. Self-respect, see? Gotta have self-respect or you've got nothing.'

She stopped talking. Turned away. That would be all I'd get today. It wasn't enough.

I went next door, talked to Carl.

He was sitting with his legs crossed, eyes closed. At peace. Being here, locked up, didn't bother him.

Nothing seemed to bother him.

He opened his eyes as I came in.

'Been chatting, has she?' He appeared interested for a moment. I'd not seen this side of him before. Interested.

'A bit.'

'Right.'

'Want to hear what she said?'

He smiled at me, eyes crinkling. 'Not really.'

'What about you, Carl? Feeling chatty are you?'

This time the smile never reached his eyes. 'I could chat,' he said. 'Nothing better to do. Not sure you'd want to hear it.'

'Try me.'

Carl leant forward, as far as his restraints would allow. 'What they want me to talk about is boring. The police, the doctors, all of them. I could talk to you, if you like. You're a good listener. My choice though. I pick the subject.'

I nodded. Carl Harker was a dangerous man. As dangerous as any man I'd met and I had twenty years of exposure to dangerous men behind me. The girl, she was different. One of many who Carl had manipulated over the years. She'd been charged with murder. Two counts. Carl hadn't been charged with anything. Yet. Carl was insane. I had no expectations he'd start telling me any secrets. Not this man. His IQ was off the scale and this was all a game to him.

'How about I tell you about my childhood?' His voice was soft, gentle even. 'Let you work it out. Nature or nurture? I was never a happy child. Remember that. It's important. Do you want to tape this?'

I shook my head. The answer should have been yes, but I reasoned he'd be less forthcoming if I made it an issue. The room was live anyway. Contrary to regulations, anything said here would be inadmissible, but this was my shot at taking my own case forward. I wasn't interested in Carl. Or the girl. Letting them rot in prison sounded a good plan, but other than wishing to see them off the streets I had no feelings either way.

Carl could help me. He didn't know it yet. Didn't know who I was. Who I worked for. If he thought I was a policeman, that was fine. I hadn't said so. Not in so many words.

'Don't interrupt, right? I'm not looking for conversation.'

I nodded. That was fine by me.

'Why don't I start at the beginning. I had a sister. A year younger. My earliest memory is of hating her. I begrudged the attention she received, fairly normal behaviour for a child. Sibling rivalry, they call it. She disappeared. All very sad. Never turned up either. Not all of her anyway.'

I felt as if the air had been sucked out of the room. His eyes were like stones in a riverbed. Hard and unyielding. Lacking any feeling. I knew he'd never admit anything that would directly incriminate himself. Better interrogators than me had spent untold hours working away at him. Without success. But this was a new departure. Talking about his personal life. I said nothing. Waited him out.

'I picked things up early, understood the concept of reading, for instance, after about an hour of A, B and C. When I realised it made my mother happy to see how clever I was, I pushed it for all it was worth. I could read practically everything by the time I was three. I read in secret. Newspapers, novels, anything I could get hold of. I'm not saying I understood it all, I was only three, but I stored it away until it fell into place. That's something you should remember; I never forget anything. My sister was ordinary. Not like me. I didn't miss her. Not at all.'

He stopped talking. Sat back again.

'Good,' he said. 'You know when to keep quiet. Hoping I'll say where my sister is, are you? Or some of the others?' He tapped his long, slim fingers on the table. 'Not very likely, is it? Not after all this time. Secrets are such fun, don't you think?'

He waved a hand towards the door. 'You might as well fuck off,' he said. 'Nothing more here. Come back tomorrow. We'll chat.'

I stood up, walked towards the door. 'I'm busy tomorrow,' I said, over my shoulder. 'Having my hair cut.'

'You fuckin' get back here,' he screamed, spittle flying, his rage instant and uncontrolled.

I stopped at the door, turned back. His face was contorted, fists clenched.

'Why?' I said. 'I've got better things to do than talk to fucking losers. See you in a day or two. Maybe. You're not going anywhere.'

I closed the door behind me, walked along the corridor. Three men in uniform watched a monitor. Back in the locked room, Carl thrashed against the chains that secured him, eyes rolling back in his head.

'Fuck me,' the senior man said, grinning. 'You wound him up big style.'

I grinned back. 'I'll try again in a couple of days. See how he is.'

'Rather you than me,' the same man called after me. I nodded.

Carl knew things. Things I needed to know. Things he wouldn't tell me. I'd have to find a way of getting him to talk to me without him knowing what I really wanted. Today had been a start.

Chapter 78

A Novel That Didn't Make It

The beginning of a novel, long since abandoned. I started this ten years ago, forgot about it, wrote Burn, Baby, Burn instead.

Joe approached the park entrance breathing hard now, a faint sheen of perspiration on his brow. A motorbike was parked near the gate, policeman astride the powerful machine. Bulky, helmeted, yet strangely comforting. The man pointed to his watch as Joe approached.

'Twenty minutes yet, mate,' Joe called out. The officer nodded. Joe ran through the gates, striding out. Twenty minutes were plenty time enough for a full circuit before the gates were locked for the night.

He ran hard, breathing heavily now, sweat stinging his eyes, completing the circuit. He slowed as he approached the exit, darker under the trees, wary of turning an ankle. Deep in concentration, eyes on the uneven surface underfoot, the bulky figure came from nowhere. The collision of two heavy bodies sent both men crashing to the floor.

Joe started to stammer out an apology; not knowing whose fault it was, just the standard reaction. The other man leapt to his feet, knife in hand. He held it to Joe's throat, motioned him to walk along the side path back under the shadow of the trees.

'I've got no money.'

The other man made no reply but pricked the skin of Joe's neck with the blade.

'I've got a watch,' Joe babbled, scrabbling at his wrist. 'Here, take it.' The other man dashed the watch from his hand.

Under the trees it was dark. Forbidding. Joe shivering as the sweat dried on him, held his head high, away from the blade.

The man prodded Joe along the path, towards the dim silhouette of a shelter by the lake.

Night had closed in. The park was deserted. He forced Joe down, onto the floor, face down. Laid an open newspaper alongside Joe's prone body. A match flared and by its light Joe saw the article he'd written a week ago. A dramatic piece, exposing the growing influence of drug dealers in the city. Scum, he'd called them. The word leapt out from the headline in the instant before the match burnt out.

The knife touched Joe's neck, drew blood. Just a nick, but enough to prompt a whimper of fear. Joe closed his eyes.

The blade was removed. He didn't hear a sound, but when Joe opened his eyes again, turned his head, he was alone.

At the park entrance the police motorcyclist, astride his machine, stretched and yawned. A figure shambled from under the trees, shaking the iron gates. The policeman struggled to free the lock, hampered by Joe's fierce grasp on his arm.

'Help me...' The policeman interrupted Joe's garbled explanation. Even behind his visor an air of quiet competence transmitted itself.

'Easy, sir,' he said. 'Take your time.'

'I've been attacked. In the park. A knife...' His voice tailed away.

'Let's get you home, sir. Take some details, eh? You're shaking like a leaf. Do you live far?'

'No. Just the end of the road.'

'Come on, I'll walk you back. Best get you indoors so we can have a chat.'

Joe fiddled with the door, keys jingling as he vainly tried to find the right one. Finally, the door swung open and the policeman, still in his bulky coat and crash helmet, motioned Joe to go ahead.

Joe stood in the hall, shaking. Heard the door close behind him, then the pain hit him like a tidal wave as the policeman stooped and hit Joe on the inner part of his right knee. The crack of splintering bone was stunningly loud in the narrow hallway. Joe screamed and crashed headlong to the floor. The other man, leaning over, leather jacket creaking, brought the claw hammer he held in his hand down with tremendous force onto Joe's other knee.

The pain caused him to black out for a moment. When he came to, the other man was sitting alongside him, on the floor.

'Wrong,' he said. 'Going to the police. Bad choice. You've been writing about me. Scum, you said.'

The voice was cultured. Urbane. Very calm. It came from right next to Joe's head.

'I run this city. You should get your facts straight. Nobody forces these people to take drugs, and as for crime, like the poor, it has been with us always. You write about crime as if it's a new fashion. Don't you remember how it used to be? There is virtually no random senseless crime in this city any more. It's all controlled. Yet you don't give any credit for that.'

Joe moaned as the man gripped his shattered knees, dug his fingers in.

'I'm quoting you here. Word for word. Verbatim. Blame the parents, you say. What sort of mother would allow her child to grow up with no human feelings, you say?'

He paused, leant closer. 'You dare to write this about my mother? My mother?' His voice was a scream now, spittle splashing Joe's cheeks.

'Lesson time.' The voice was calm again now, passion spent. 'You had an accident. Fell over. Say any different and I'll come back. Won't be so gentle next time. Maybe have a word or two with your wife. Your kids. Two lovely boys. You must be very proud, and their mother, such a warm giving person. Lovely complexion, I thought. Be a shame to risk all that.'

The man stood, stepping carefully to avoid the blood. Tucked the hammer inside his jacket. Joe looked up at him. He'd still not seen the man's face, but he'd met powerful men before. Newspaper proprietors, movers and shakers. The man above him was of that ilk. An alpha male. Accustomed to command.

'The bike,' the man said, over his shoulder. 'You know nothing about it. Right? If anyone asks. Carelessness, letting someone walk off with it. Shocking that.'

He walked to the end of the hall, opened the door. 'I'd get those knees looked at if I were you,' he said. 'Dangerous place, that park. Give it up, mate. A lesson learned.'

He went out, closed the door behind him. Joe curled into a ball, his shattered legs sending out waves of pain. Two hours before his wife came home from her yoga class. He could last that long.

Chapter 79

Beggars and Buskers

I've had three requests for interviews in the last couple of days. Magazines. Not the ones on the top shelf. The porn star days are behind me now! They all want to know about my marketing strategy. Erm...

Marketing. Publicity. These are words I never expected to use. I'm a non-corporate person – have no use for jargon, buzzwords, management –speak. In my working life I heard plenty of it, managed to let it flow over me. Like sitting in a café in Prague, listening to conversations ebb and flow all around, without understanding a word.

Just after Christmas, I published my debut novel, Burn, Baby, Burn on Kindle. I was happy with it, had edited it half to death, liked the cover – thanks, Bradley – so I sent it out into the wide world to sink or swim. It swam, is still swimming. Holding its head above the water in some style. I'm a successful 'Indie Writer,' or so they tell me.

This baffles me. I'm easily baffled. Life baffles me. Very little concerns me. Not one of life's worriers. Been there, done that.

How did it happen? What's the secret? I get asked.

I have no idea.

What's your marketing strategy?

Er, I don't have one.

Where do you target your publicity?

Eh? I'm a lummox. Know nothing about marketing. Nothing at all.

In my time on Authonomy I met some lovely people. I also experienced massive levels of frustration. Got very annoyed. Often. With hindsight, I was probably being unreasonable. Who am I to question the methods of others? What I perceived as 'spam' was merely a marketing ploy. It worked. Not with me, but with many others. I never did it. Never pushed my book, un-asked, to strangers. I can't do it.

I'm told I should be 'tweeting' links to my books, sending them out, every hour of the day, using Social Network sites to push my books. I don't do it. It feels wrong. I'm sure I'm being precious here, but it's the way I am.

I send out links to my blog. I add a different piece to my blog every day. If someone goes to my blog, reads what I write, likes it and decides to take a look at my books – I'm fine with that.

The analogy of a beggar and a busker comes to mind. I don't often give money to beggars. Occasionally, usually when there's a dog involved. Even though I know the poor animal is there for that very purpose. Buskers are different. They're offering a service. Good, bad or indifferent, I'll probably pause for a moment. Add a few coins to a hat. In central Liverpool recently I gave £5 to a young couple. He danced, she played the violin. They were both fantastic. They'd gone when I walked back or I'd have added a further donation.

Not begging; offering something in return. That's how I reconcile suggesting someone look at my blog. They don't have to do anything. Like what I write, hate it, all the same. Costs nothing. I'm fine with that.

I'm a busker, not a beggar.

Put it on my tombstone.
Chapter 80

Another Chat with Carl

Carl smiled. His eyes remained fixed on mine. There was no warmth there. No humour. No humanity. I held his gaze. A reptilian stare. I looked away, glimpsed his smile again. Another battle won. I'd allow these minor triumphs; attention on the big prize.

'Go on,' I said. 'Chat away, big man. I'm listening. Still waiting to hear anything worth listening to.

Carl leant forward, his restraints holding him back. 'Oh, I can tell you things,' he whispered, his voice low and compelling.

I shrugged, half turning away as if disinterested.

'I decided to get rid of my father. He was unlikely to leave home of his own accord and showed no signs of ill health. Killing him was an obvious option.' Carl paused. I felt his eyes burning into me, but kept my face averted, letting his frustration build.

'I had reached the end of my tether as far as he was concerned. His efforts to mould me in his image appalled me. Why would I want to be like him?' His voice was calm. Unhurried. Entirely without expression. I cast my mind back over his dossier; couldn't recall a reference to his father.

'He undoubtedly thought I was retarded. I didn't see much of him. He wasn't very interested in me. I remember that.

I'd overtaken him intellectually before I decided he had to go. It amused me, watching him struggle, pencil tucked between his teeth with his students' work. He was professor of mathematics at the university. He thought he knew it all, pompous fool.'

He stopped talking. 'You can take notes,' he said.

I shrugged. 'What's the use? You've not told me anything. Just some tedious stuff about your father and you, the poor misunderstood kid. Heard it all before, Carl. Many a time.'

Carl sucked air through his teeth.

'My mother,' he continued, in the same dull monotone, 'was different. She never talked down to me and she certainly never stimulated my intellect. I must have overtaken my mother in intelligence when I was still sucking her disgusting breasts. They were not pleasant at all. I can remember that quite clearly.'

He stopped talking, apparently lost in a memory.

I'd studied Carl's dossier in detail. Seen the results of all the tests. Scientists, doctors; they all loved Carl. He was an endless source of interest. His IQ tests were off the scale. On quite another level to any presumed area of comparison. That made him fascinating as a scientific study. I'd read their conclusions. I didn't find Carl fascinating. He was a vicious killer, entirely without conscience.

'Not much good at school were you?' I asked, baiting him. 'I've seen the reports. A bit slow, they reckoned.'

His expression didn't change, but I was watching for a sign and saw a flickering pulse at his temple.

'I was bored with school from day one. I switched off, repulsed by the sheer vapidity of it all. Why should I play their stupid games? I thought my own thoughts and let the lessons pass me by. While my classmates struggled to master their alphabet, I would be calculating how many wall tiles would be required to cover the surface area of the moon. Sufficient mental stimulus to pass the time, but still well within my compass.'

'Showing off, are you, Carl? Think you're impressing me? Dream on, sunshine.'

For a moment, I thought I'd miscalculated. Sent him into his shell. Then he laughed out loud, a sharp bark of laughter that hung in the fetid air.

'Oh, you can come again,' he said. 'I may get to like you coming round for a chat.'

I shrugged, waited him out.

'My father,' he continued. 'Getting him suspended from work was easy enough. I typed an anonymous letter to the Dean alleging sexual impropriety with his students, both sexes to be on the safe side. Planted the seed. I practised until I could imitate the voice of a terrified female to perfection, and then rang the police, telling them I was a student and had been raped by my tutor. No names, no details. Keep them guessing.'

I'd intended to let him talk, but a question sprang to mind. ''Why would anyone take any notice?'

Carl looked up, sharply. Obviously annoyed at my question.

'I'd made plans in advance. My father had regular tutorials with a student named Jessica. A tall willowy girl, no brain to speak of, but pleasant enough. I suspect he really did fancy her. I used to hang round his study and listen in sometimes. I was quite the little favourite with Jessica. She was always asking about me. She went with me for a walk, down to the village for an ice cream. Do you know about Jessica?'

I shook my head.

'Jessica was my first stranger. Outside the family. Very special.' He stopped talking, looked at me, apparently expecting a reaction. I held it back; tried not to think about the disappearance of Carl's baby sister.

'She's never been found. Jessica. I took some clothing, a rather grubby bra, a small piece of her tee shirt and some hairs. Long blonde hairs, not her natural colour, by the way. They weren't trophies. I wedged them under the passenger seat of my father's car.'

I looked at him, trying to keep my expression blank.

'The police arrived next day,' Carl continued. 'A girl was missing, last seen going to her tutorial. My father agreed she had been there for her regular tutorial but had left at her usual time. 'She took my son to the shop', he remembered at last, and I was sent for. I told the two policemen how Jessica had taken me to get ice cream, then she came back because she'd forgotten a book or something. They went away again, the police. Came back the next day. Must have pieced together the phone call, the letter to the Dean by then. They searched the house, the grounds. Found the clothing in the car.'

Carl was on a roll now, eyes closed as if drinking in memories. I kept very still, reluctant to do anything that would break the spell.

'They arrested him, took him away. Questioned him for two days, eventually released him. Lack of evidence. He hadn't been charged but was suspended by the university.'

Carl smiled, opened his eyes. Three days later they came for him again. Took him away. He'd not said a word to me, or my mother. Locked himself away. He was crying when they took him away again. Further questions, they said. He hanged himself that night. In the cells. Nobody ever said how he'd done it. That made it all neat and tidy. Remorse, they all said. Never found a body. Never found Jessica.'

I said nothing. I hadn't come for this, but Carl wanted to tell me. Reasons of his own.

'It was better after he died. Easier. My mother let me do anything I wanted, have anything I asked for.'

He stopped talking, placed both palms flat on the table. 'Enough for today, he said.

'How old were you?' When this happened?

Carl's eyes blazed, showing a degree of emotion for the first time. He looked at me, making me wait.

'Eleven,' he said.

Chapter 81

The Start of a French Adventure

The House Search continues...

The approach was by a narrow road through fields of tournesols, a glorious mass of brilliant sunflowers at every stage of their all-too-brief life, from riotously golden flaming yellow to the wilting stems and drooping heads of their eventual decline, the colour of burnt chocolate, their desiccated seeds awaiting the mighty harvesting machines.

The main house, viewed from the road, was impressively solid, weathered by a hundred or so hot summers to a rich blend of honey and terracotta. Facing south, the shutters on the main door and four windows were bleached of any discernible colour, gloriously distressed by time and climate and great swathes of lavender, rosemary and thyme under the windows.

A stone barn, rambling and massive, ivy-covered to such an extent that the huge arched doors were partially obscured, stood at a right-angle to the house forming a barrier to the road.

When the owner came to meet us at the gate, we were somewhat disconcerted as, at first glance, he appeared to be naked. On closer inspection we saw that he was dressed in wellington boots and a pair of ancient swimming trunks, very brief and pale orange in colour. Although in his mid-sixties, he looked very fit indeed, bronzed a deep mahogany and carrying a quite ferocious scythe over one muscular shoulder. We shook his calloused and grubby hand – he had the grip of a bear – and made introductions.

'Maurice' talked at a ferocious pace, spitting out words as if from a machine gun, and not appearing at all concerned that we often did not understand him.

He told us that the house had been built by his great-grandfather, a hundred or so years previously, and that the family had lived there since that time. It was with obvious reluctance that he was now obliged to leave. The house had been empty for almost a year, but he had been visiting almost every day to look after the garden. Maurice's fondness for ribald gossip, and his insatiable curiosity concerning Les Anglais, delayed matters to such an extent that it was a good half-hour after our arrival before, at last, we entered the house.

The dark entrance hall led into a large kitchen with a magnificent granite fireplace. The tiled floor was chipped and uneven, but shone with a rich patina imparted by great age and generations of passing feet. Maurice swung the large oak shutters apart and the sunlight streamed in through a venerable half-glazed kitchen door. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, and a thick layer of dust covered every exposed surface, but we hardly noticed. We stood in the centre of the room, gazing about in wonder. All of the original features were intact. Wonderfully solid dark oak beams on the ceiling. A large porcelain sink with two ancient taps sticking straight out from the wall, positioned under a window with views to the garden, the possibilities were endless. I looked across at my wife. She raised her eyebrows and I knew she felt the same as me.

'La cuisine', said Maurice, wiping a thick coat of dust from the edge of the sink with a stubby finger.

Maurice opened a magnificent oak-panelled door at the far end and led the way into a large room, perhaps eight metres square, totally empty of furniture which made it appear even larger.

The original tiles covering the floor would not have been out-of-place in a palace! Discreetly patterned in grey, white and maroon, virtually un-marked and absolutely beautiful.

We passed through, entering a further room dominated by an immense bread-oven. In times past, Maurice told me, this house used to make bread for the local villages, and the oven remained in perfect working order. Upstairs were three huge bedrooms and a separate stairway led to an enormous grenier, extending the entire length of the house. Below was a room used by Maurice as a workshop, fitted out with a saw-bench and lathe, together with all his tools and other paraphernalia.

Maurice indicated a door at the far end of the workshop. Chuckling away to himself, he motioned me to enter. I opened the door, walked down three steps, and entered a room for which nothing could have prepared me.

This was the heart of a French farmhouse, the cave, or wine store. Wooden racks filled with bottles lined three of the walls. The fourth wall consisted of two stone tanks side-by-side, each capable of holding many thousands of litres of wine. In the centre of the room were a winepress, and half a dozen oak casks.

'Formidable, oui?' Maurice asked, his voice lowered respectfully, as if in a cathedral. The analogy was appropriate; this was a place devoted to the worship of Bacchus, the god of wine.

I nodded my head in agreement, momentarily speech-less. Maurice understood and gripped my arm tightly as if recognising a kindred spirit.

'Much wine was made here,' he said. 'Enough for a whole village. Not now. Only just enough for myself.'

I looked at the hundreds of bottles lining the walls and indicated my admiration. Maurice roared with laughter, selecting a couple of bottles for us to drink after we had finished looking over the property.

We trooped outside, the sun startlingly bright after the relative darkness of the wine store. My wife took hold of my arm. 'I want it,' she blurted. Maurice looked surprised. 'But, this is not all', he said. 'You must see the barn. C'est magnifique!'

The jovial Maurice led the way across the field to a huge building, even larger than the house, with double doors high enough to admit a double-decker 'bus, the pale washed-out blue of convolvulus clinging to the stone walls.

When the doors were opened, we saw that the barn would easily accommodate a whole fleet of double-decker 'buses. 'Magnifique', indeed. The roof towered 40 feet over our heads, supported by immense oak beams, the rafters joined by wooden pegs in the traditional manner. A platform, piled high with straw bales, extended over half the barn, with yet more oak casks, dozens of them, stacked under the platform.

At the rear of the barn, through another pair of doors, were two stables, complete with mangers and rough-hewn granite sinks and feeding troughs. A further barn contained a venerable tractor and an ancient Citroën van, fitted out as a cattle truck, its exhaust held together with flattened-out tin cans and copious lengths of baling wire. Further along, two open-fronted barns, and a range of outbuildings, the smallest of which would make an ideal garage. Underfoot were great drifts of wild mint, spreading un-checked and at will, together with nodding purple-headed chives running riot amongst clover and meadow grass, each step marked by a lingering trail of scent.

The views from the rear were, if anything, even better than the frontal approach. In front of the beech hedge, a patch of un-cultivated land filled with flowering thyme, rosemary and gorse. Beyond, open fields led the eye to a small hill, an incandescent riot of broom and myrtle amongst random clumps of purple and white iris, their delicate stems and flower heads fluttering in the faint breeze.

My initial impression that it was, 'A lot of house for the money', now appeared the under-statement of the century. This was just what we wanted and the price was right, well within our budget. We must own this house!

Bonus Addition - The Wedding. What fun we all had last weekend.

Number of brides 'given away' - 1

Number of fights at wedding reception – 3

Number of interventions by myself as peacemaker - 2

Number of punches received in return for peacemaking interventions - 5

Number of fights without my intervention - 1

Number of pints of blood shed by said peacemaker – 5, well, it felt like it!

Number of speeches intended to be given by 'father of the bride' - 1

Number of speeches actually given - 2

It started well. Very well in my case Smartly dressed, immaculately shaved, shoes polished, I looked at myself in a mirror and saw a stranger. The bride looked lovely. Don't they all? The dress, source of so much angst and uncertainty, fitted perfectly and we arrived at the church not more than two minutes late. Enough to satisfy the purists, not enough to give rise to concern.

My own duties were easy enough. Escorting a bride down the aisle is a simple enough task. All that effort on my own appearance wasted; not a single pair of eyes gave me even a fleeting glance. The woman on my arm was the one they'd come to see.

Exactly as it should be.

I'd done the 'giving-away' duty before. Twice. I'd been 'best man' on three occasions. A bridegroom, just the once. Quite enough experience to know the fleeting nature of any mere male on these joyous occasions. This is the bride's day.

Service over, photographs taken, off we all trooped to the reception. The venue was the ballroom of a Georgian Manor House. 'Must have cost a pretty penny, this,' a complete stranger confided to me in an aside that could have been heard in the next county. 'Still, I reckon they can afford it. Bloody toffs.'

'Hmm,' I muttered.

'Waste of bloody money, if you ask me,' my new friend continued. Not that I had asked him. 'We'll see how long it lasts.'

I muttered some spurious excuse, hailed an imaginary acquaintance across the room, moved away.

The seating plan was chaotic. All that planning ruined by the perfidious nature of human beings when instructed where to sit. I could see the objectors' point of view. There were people there I'd not have wished on my worst enemy.

A fight broke out. Two men, both strangers to me, jackets off, ties loosened, exchanging blows with a mixed chorus in attendance. Some shrieking admonishment, most bellowing support for one or the other combatants. Nothing to do with me. Not my business. So, I did what I always do: waded in, inserted myself between the two men, breaking them apart. The fight fizzled out. At some cost to myself. A blow from each man, neither serious, but enough to open a small cut above my left eye. A few drops of blood dribbled onto the snowy perfection of my shirt. I was the only one bleeding. Naturally.

An hour later, shirt sponged, I rose to deliver my speech. The last duty of a long day. It went well enough. As a substitute 'father of the bride' not much is expected. It's the boring speech anyway. Packed with platitudes about the bride's finest qualities. Easy enough.

The groom was flushed, had drunk the offered champagne with enthusiasm, but was seemingly in control. I'd never met him, or his best man before and it was only now that I realised the best man was one of the men involved in the recent scuffle. He gave every impression of being on the verge of collapse, swigging away at any wineglass within reach. I ignored him as the groom began to speak. It was a good speech, as speeches go. Witty, gracious, mercifully short, all anyone could wish for. Better than my own speech, in every respect. The only slight concern had been the antics of the 'friends of the groom.' Fellow members of the local football club, they were a tad rowdy, but within acceptable limits.

Just about.

Just the best man's speech left, then. Ah! I realised at once this could be a problem. The swaying as he rose to his feet, the greenish tinge to his complexion, were obvious clues. 'It gives me great pleasure,' he announced, notes held aloft.

'I bet it does.'

'Dirty bastard.'

'Wanker.'

The football lads were all on their feet, bellowing insults and ribald encouragement. The best man grinned, offered an unmistakable hand gesture in return, and then slid back into his seat. The room fell silent.

For an entire minute we waited.

Only a minute.

I checked.

It felt longer. About an hour longer.

He rose again to a muted cheer. He didn't look well. Opening and closing his mouth, no identifiable sounds emerging, swaying from side to side, he made a valiant effort. To no avail.

Thrusting several pages of notes in my direction – 'Here, mate, you read this for me' – he dashed away in search of the nearest available facilities.

He almost made it. Diners at the table on the far left were privileged to witness a spectacular display of vomiting at close quarters. They didn't appear to relish the spectacle.

I looked at the packed room, the notes in my hand, rose and delivered my second speech. I cut most of the references to the groom's sexual organs, with the exception of a single explanation of his football nick-name – 'donkey dick' – hey, credit where it's due - and managed to complete the script without resorting to the scribbled end-piece, 'if it's not working, tell the shagging joke.'

Later, the DJ was in his element. 'Agga-Doo' was blaring out, the Birdie Song had made an early appearance, and the second fight of the evening escalated into a mass brawl. The football lads were settling a minor dispute in the traditional manner.

Sighing, I inserted myself into the melee, mouthing the usual 'settle down, lads' platitudes. Three punches this time, plus a head-butt that, just, missed its mark. The cut above my eye re-opened. Blood poured out.

It all settled down again. I went off to sponge my shirt. Again.

My wife collared me as I returned from the gents. 'Stay out of it,' she hissed. 'Always has to be you that breaks it up.'

I nodded. Lesson learned.

The third fight was inevitable. I stayed well clear.

The groom's mother came over to me after the dust settled. 'Thanks for nothing,' she said. 'Couldn't you have stopped them? There they are, ruining the whole night and you sit on your arse doing nothing. Typical man.'

I sipped my diet coke and said nothing. What was there to say?

Chapter 82

Pubs and Nonces

The pub was not noted for its atmosphere and certainly not for its décor or comfort. The beer was nothing special and the landlord was a miserable bastard. Despite these apparent deficiencies, the place was packed out.

I scanned the room, looking at faces, getting a few nods of recognition in return. 'Closest boozer to the local nick,' I explained in response to Helen's puzzled expression. 'If he's anywhere, he'll be here.'

Helen nodded. Now she'd had a chance to look around, it must have been pretty obvious that most of the customers knocking back pints with the ease of long practice were coppers.

'Not a copper, not my patch,' I explained, 'but I can see the odd familiar face.' As I spoke a stooped man detached himself from the scrum at the bar and came over.

'Deggsie?' He said. 'Long time no see. Can I get you one in?'

I shook my head. 'No thanks, Tommo, just looking for someone. Seen anything of Ramsey?'

Tommo nodded, looking at Helen for the first time. He just about managed a token leer; no small feat as he was as pissed as a fart.

'Ramsey?' I repeated.

Tommo nodded vaguely towards the rear of the room. 'In the snug,' he said. 'What about you love? You thirsty?'

I took Helen's arm and shepherded her away. 'She's with me,' I said over my shoulder.

We stopped as a group of men exited a side room, pints held aloft out of harm's way.

'Deggsie?' Helen said, a suggestion of a smile playing across her face.

I shrugged. 'Used to be. Long time back. Used to be a lot of people back then. Liverpool Eight, that would be Deggsie territory.'

'Is it hard? Being someone else?'

I grinned. 'Depends. Three months as Deggsie was okay. One of the good guys, Deggsie. Everybody's best mate. That feller back there,' I indicated the main bar area, 'was just out of uniform back then. Keen to impress. Looking for a source on the streets that would get him noticed. He found me.'

Helen grinned back. 'Meaning, you found him?'

'Yeah. Played one end against the other for a while. Tommo was a big help. Not that he ever knew that. The boys I was after were up and coming then. Just starting out. Very handy having a tame bizzie to drop the odd word to.' I stopped talking, nudged Helen. 'There's our man,' I said. 'The fat bastard in the corner. That's Ramsey. Still a DS, apparently. Wouldn't be drinking in here if he'd moved up.'

Ten minutes later, Ramsey was in full flow. I let him talk. Softening him up. Helen had done well: fetching drinks, listening without speaking. I was revising my opinion of her by the minute. She may just make it.

'Section One,' Ramsey was saying. 'Bastards want their knackers ripping off with pliers. That'd sort 'em out.'

I nodded. 'Section One offenders have a tough time inside.'

Ramsey nodded. 'So they should.'

'Yeah.'

Helen looked at me. 'Section One?'

'Nonces.' It was Ramsey who enlightened her. 'Kiddie fiddlers.' He looked back at me, grimacing. 'Remember Norman Grant?'

I thought back to a different time, different place. Back when I'd been someone very different.

'Oh yeah. Ran a drinking club in Tockie way back. Few girls in the back room, bit of a chancer?'

'The very same. Moved up to demanding money with menaces. Fancied he could run a protection firm out of his poxy little club. Went down two years back and got a fair few other charges tagged on at the same time. He was knocking off one of his working girls and it turned out she was only fifteen. Fair play mind, I saw her when they brought him in and I'd have sworn she was at least nineteen.'

Ramsey chuckled, took a long pull at his pint. 'Enough to get him classified as Section One. Nice result. He got three years, didn't last the first month out. Sharpened teaspoon in the kidneys. Nobody put their hands up for it, but it could have been any of a hundred. Somebody got to him. Once you're in with nonces, you're fair game.'

I nodded. In truth, I found Ramsey difficult company. An old-style copper, checks and balances, whatever got the bad lads off the streets was a result. His attitude was fairly typical. But, I needed his input. Listening to war stories was part of the process.

Helen looked as if she'd rather be having a bikini wax than sitting here. I didn't blame her. Ramsey was hard going, but no more so than most inner city coppers. She'd learn. Everything has its price.

Chapter 83

The Job

'You want someone killed?'

'Why else would you be here? Yeah, I want someone killed. That's part of the job. Not the most important part. I need to find out who killed my son, that's the first job. Then, I want him to talk. All I need to know is what happened to my son's body. Find out and then kill the bastard. Simple. Can you do that?

The other man nodded. 'You want the best. That's me. Only thing is...'

'What?'

'You don't have any idea who killed your son? Or even if he's dead?'

'Of course he's dead. People like Gary don't just wander off. That's why I've come to you. If I knew who I was looking for, I'd have sorted it by now. Gary being dead isn't a worry to me. He may have been my son, but that don't mean I'm all cut up about someone topping him. Gary was asking for trouble getting himself involved. He was told but he never listened. He was an accident waiting to happen. Fuck him. History.'

The other man said nothing but his eyes questioned.

'You're maybe thinking I should have done it myself? At the time?'

The other man said nothing, sipping his drink reflectively. He shrugged. 'Not for me to say.'

'Too bloody right it isn't. Look, my son was a waste of fucking space. I wouldn't risk getting banged up, or worse, just to save his worthless skin. I wouldn't cross the road to save the little bastard. He'd been asking for it and he got what he deserved.'

'So?'

'You mean why am I bothering now? Not rocket science, sunshine. He might have been nothing but he was still my son. His mother wants closure. His mother needs closure. A Christian burial. Say her prayers over the coffin. All that. Means a lot to her. So, find the man who killed him, find where the body is, then kill the fucker. Job done.'

'And that's it?'

The fat man laughed mirthlessly. 'Oh yeah. And one more thing. Whoever did kill my son, they knew who he was. Knew who his father was. Knew it and still went ahead and killed him. I can't have that. Make sure he dies screaming. Damaged. Visibly damaged. Got it now? Got the fucking message? Now fuck off and do the job.'

The other man rose to his feet. He drained the glass of its contents and set it back on the coaster. He nodded once but didn't speak, then walked away.

Chapter 84

First Glimpse of the Target

Not a word of dialogue here. Obviously, nowhere near the finished article.

Memories, random thoughts and observations, something or nothing. Too early to tell. I suspect this piece won't survive the next cull. My wife, however, loves it. That's significant – she has great intuition. She's not a style pedant either so the absence of dialogue doesn't send her rushing to criticise the lengthy prose passages, even in a work in progress. It happens – you know who you are!

With a new job starting I frequently found comfort in the solitude of the deserted promenade. Particularly at night when the loneliness of whatever my new identity's place in the community happened to be was the only alternative.

The Marine Lake was quiet and still. In the faint glow of moonlight, its placid surface suggested dark and mysterious depths, but inside the encircling sea wall, it was no more than four feet deep at low tide. These calm conditions with barely a breath of wind were unusual enough to be an annoyance to sailors and windsurfers, but golfers on the Royal Liverpool links half a mile to my right had basked in calm conditions for a couple of days. Behind the sand dunes, the golf course had used up its annual ration of calm weather during the sun-baked week of the British Open and this calm spell was a throwback to those balmy days.

The tide was approaching its peak and the dark water slapped unseen at the rim of the sandstone promenade. I took a step backwards and then another as a sudden gush of inky-black water with a white foaming tip cleared the lip of the wall. Even in such calm conditions, the relentless surge of the waves was enough to send me hustling to the safety of the car and back to the dingy flat from which I'd escaped an hour ago.

The interior of the flat was remarkable. Not good, not even okay, but remarkable.

The colour scheme, a lot more colour than scheme, had vomit as the dominant shade. A blind person would have difficulty living in this room without feeling nauseous. It would do. It had to. The man I was supposed to be wouldn't even notice his surroundings; let alone find them unsatisfactory. A small seating area, two vinyl armchairs, kitchen, table, two chairs, bathroom, bed, wardrobe, even a television – this would be luxury for some.

Sombre shadows lurked here. In the room and in my mind. I removed the photograph from the slim file. Looked for a long time at the face of the Target. Looking for a weakness? A way in? Maybe.

The myriad disappointments of a lifetime were etched into the seams and hollows of his features. A hard road travelled and many miles behind him. Deep shadows below his eyes imparted a melancholy appearance. Dark, purple shadows, hinting at great sadness or long-endured pain. His prominent nose was undamaged, a rarity amongst men who'd come up the hard way. Hard and fast. Interesting.

The likelihood was that he fought with his mind rather than his fists. A talker, not a fighter. Nowadays, he had other men ready and willing to break limbs on his behalf, but it hadn't always been the case. He'd risen to the top of a dangerous profession without any evidence of damage to himself.

I'd never met him, but probably knew more about him than anyone else alive. I still didn't understand him. He had a distorted view of the world that would have tasked the imagination of Salvador Dali at the height of his surrealist period. An irrational man. Unpredictability made him dangerous.

The rain made a renewed assault on the windows. GBH committed by Mother Nature. I sighed; put the photograph back in the file. Time to go.

An hour later I was sitting in the main bar of the Hard Day's Night Hotel. A few business-suited men, winding down after work, glasses piling up on the low tables, a middle-aged woman, head bowed over a laptop, the lighting dimmed for optimum effect. I sipped my drink, watched the two men at the bar. The younger man was of no interest. I'd seen him around the pubs and clubs often enough. A minor dealer, on his way up the ladder, but not yet worthy of Target status. I suspected he would never get that far. He had the chat, the contacts, but there was more than a hint of weakness in those pale eyes. He'd fold under pressure. I knew it and if I could see it, others would have noted it too. He was useful, for now, but I suspected he'd not be around for the long haul.

I'd never seen the other man before. Not in the flesh, so to speak, but I knew him. I'd committed every aspect of this man to my memory over the past few days. His photograph didn't do justice to the man. The grey suit was stylish and evidently expensive. A classic style in lightweight wool, good enough to grace any occasion. The gold watch on his left wrist was wafer thin and had in all probability cost more than the car in which I'd driven here. I looked at the chunky Rolex adorning the wrist of the man's companion and the contrast couldn't have been more marked. The Rolex was probably fake anyway.

The Target spoke to the girl behind the counter, smiled at her as he ordered a fresh drink. His teeth were film star quality and the lines around the smoky grey eyes deepened as he smiled. It changed him; made him appear less threatening, but the girl moved away and the moment passed.

I knew with absolute certainty that behind those hooded grey eyes lay a razor-sharp mind and a ruthless nature. A palpable air of menace was evident, even across this vast room.

I finished my drink, walked out. I didn't look at the bar again, but suspected he'd watch me leave. Men like that don't miss much.

I was a stranger, but that was about to change. I had to get close to this man, gain his confidence. As yet I hadn't the faintest idea how to break into that inner circle. I knew it wouldn't be easy.

The last person to make the attempt had given me a rare insight into the nature of the Target's suspicious mind. We'd spoken for almost an hour. Until the nurses arrived to wheel him away for some treatment or other. Stoke Mandeville isn't the ideal place for a cosy chat. A room full of spinal injury patients, men who'll never walk again, makes for a sombre background.

Chapter 85

Looking for TWOC-boy

'From the first night spent on the streets it takes an average of four weeks before the homeless person accepts the situation as the norm. A way of life. That's not made up; they're figures provided by Shelter and they know what they're talking about.'

I nodded. I already knew this, but this was obviously a man who liked to hear the sound of his own voice. Pontificating.

'Of course, many of them, even the very young kids are addicted to drugs or solvents' he continued. 'Glue sniffing isn't just confined to glue, you know? Anything containing a volatile substance will have the same effect. The substance that produces the high is called Toluene. Nail varnish, lighter fluid, hair spray, de-icer, rags soaked in paraffin and petrol, all widely available and cheap to buy.'

I knew this too. His knowledge had been gleaned from official reports; mine came from experience. I very much doubted whether he'd spent last night in a shooting gallery, surrounded by addicts, needles, syringes, the detritus of that offshoot of society all around. I had. Three nights now and I was still not yet fully accepted by the regulars, still a casual. Not unwelcome, but nowhere near to full acceptance.

I switched off as he continued talking; nothing of any use here. The office furniture was antique dark wood, long since broken-in and softened by the passage of time. A huge battered and scuffed desk with a leather-bound blotting pad in the exact centre. Green blotting paper, pristine, no doodles or scribbled telephone numbers. Three pens lined up precisely on the right side of the blotting pad. Ordinary cheap functional ballpoint pens, each with their ends well chewed. The man who sat at this desk had an orderly mind, but also worried a lot.

He stopped talking, looking pleased with himself. I nodded my appreciation; his apparent gratification almost made me regret I'd not been listening to a word he'd said.

'TWOC-boy?' I asked, again. 'David Marshall?'

David Marshall had earned his street name from his penchant for car theft and joy riding. Taking without owner's consent appeared on any number of charge sheets. He was a minor player, but his elder brother was a different story. David hadn't been seen around for a while. The man in whose office I sat was his probation officer. I'd hoped he'd have a contact address on file.

'David? Oh, yes, he's dropped out of sight, I'm afraid. Done it before. Missed the last two appointments.'

'Do you have an address?'

He withdrew a buff folder from his top drawer, studied the contents. 'Only address I have on file is Dainty Street. That's from a while ago.'

I nodded. Wrote down the address. Even though I knew it was a dead-end. I'd already been there.

'Ever have anything to do with the brother?'

'Sean, you mean?'

I nodded. 'Yeah.'

'Not officially. Never a realistic candidate for probation, that one, but I've heard all the stories. Always in trouble, parents chucked him out. Was an urchin, apparently. Do you know about the urchins?'

I nodded. If you'd grown up on Merseyside, especially if you supported Liverpool, you knew about the urchins. The pernicious urchins they called themselves. Some very bad lads used to run with the urchins. Those bad lads were running great swathes of the city now. Another possible lead. I knew a couple of former urchins. Back when football hooliganism was rife, they'd formed reputations that had stood them in good stead in their future careers. Enforcers. Persuaders. The actual wording of the job description was unclear, but there was always a demand for a proven hard case.

Outside, a reluctant glimmer of light seeped down from leaden skies. Matching my mood. TWOC-boy had disappeared off the radar and his brother was proving equally elusive. Sean Marshall was an evil little bastard; not a Mickey Mouse car thief like his brother.

The Probation Service offices were tucked away behind the Courthouse. Last chance saloon it may have been, despite the best intentions of most of the people who worked there with such selfless dedication, but from my vantage point the only callers were the dregs of humanity. Bottom of the food chain.

A couple on the steps, stood out. They were arguing and apparently enjoying trading insults, but that wasn't what attracted my attention. The girl, about nineteen or twenty, was wearing what appeared to be a narrow strip of pink cling-film stretching from halfway across her breasts to mid-thigh. Shocking pink. It clung to every curve like a determined limpet attached to a rock in an Atlantic storm. Incongruous anywhere outside a club in Ibiza, it was a ludicrous choice for a drab day on Merseyside.

The man pointing fingers, shouting insults in return had less flesh on his bones than a greyhound in full training. Eyes blazing, he stormed off, abandoning her in the midst of a fresh tirade. He walked away, not looking back and I followed. I didn't know him, but I'd recognised him immediately. He was an errand boy for one of the big men. Their patch was outside the city itself and it would have to have been a good reason to bring him here from Kirkby. It wasn't my case, but rival gang members only strayed onto another's turf when a big job was in the offing. I'd heard rumours about a link between the two gangs; not given it much credence. Until now. The go-between in the negotiations was said to be none other than Sean Marshall.

I let him get a hundred yards ahead, matching him stride for stride, but his agitation was obvious. Even in broad daylight he was taking a chance just by being here. Far from his own turf. He crossed the road, re-crossed it again a minute later, stopped abruptly, looked into a shop window, moved on. He was wary, looking for pursuers, but not sufficiently attuned to look any further than his immediate vicinity. I kept my distance, strolled along in his wake.

As the crowds thickened in Church Street I closed up a little, saw him turn off, heading for the Bluecoat Chambers. When I reached the side street I saw him sitting on a stone bench. Alone, but two lads in hoodies were standing at the far end of the road, glancing back. They split up, running, one to the left, the other to the right in an obviously pre-arranged manner. I broke into a run, drew level with the man I'd been following. Saw the blood, watched him slide off the bench to the floor. A single glance was enough. He wouldn't be any use to me now.

Chapter 86

Did I really write this?

A thoroughly nasty episode from 'Blood.'

Tania perched on the marble balustrade surrounding the pool, arching her back provocatively and giggling as Marcus approached. He smiled appreciatively at the scanty bikini accentuating her high breasts and tiny waist and stooped to press his lips on her shoulder as gently as the breeze from a summer zephyr.

Leaning forward, he flicked his tongue into the shallow declivity of her navel as Tania shivered in anticipation. She never saw the fist that broke her nose or the second punch that split the tender flesh above her right eye. Marcus grasped her arms and dragged her away from the drop down to the terraces, her legs twitching in shock and her open mouth gasping in silent agony. Inside the bedroom, pinioning her arms above her head and wedging her thighs apart with his knee, Marcus raped her and then beat her until black marks covered most of her body.

The translucent nature of her skin excited him; bruising was always spectacular on such a pale background. If sex was all he wanted, he could have had the woman by now and discarded her, but his desires were far deeper and darker than such a basic need. The manner in which the woman had offered herself to him, a stranger, had been the catalyst for the pain that was to be her reward.

El Jaffeh, his skin creased like old leather, had been recruited from the nomadic tribes of the desert. His ancestors had valued the pale flesh of captives since the time when only the nomadic tribes who alone could tame its savagery knew the great expanse of Barbary. Such men were loyal unto death and would die rather than betray a comrade.

El Jaffeh looked at the sprawled limbs of the woman and smiled. Below the hem of his burnous, his skeletal legs resembled twin sticks of liquorice, riven with rope-like sinews and sharply defined bones, but he could march for three days and nights without stopping through pitiless terrain that would defeat a highly trained athlete. It was for this capacity to survive in the face of overwhelming hardship that Marcus had recruited him and his followers.

As a Bedouin, El Jaffeh was bound by a strict code. The death of a young boy while in his care was unfortunate, and the circumstances of the boy's death even more so. The boy had belonged to a tribal chief whose certain displeasure would have had only one outcome. El-Jaffeh had travelled for many days before he could feel safe and had been eager to put himself under the protection of such a powerful leader as Marcus. Men such as El-Jaffeh and the others he recruited in turn were of great value. Impervious to suffering, steadfastly loyal and with a natural distrust of anyone in uniform, they formed the beating heart of a smuggling empire that would transcend anything that had gone before.

To a desert Arab, the sea was alien, but the new recruits learned swiftly and were now as adept at making the short crossing between the two continents as the fishermen who had plied their trade in these waters for a lifetime. Provided with EU passports and valid documentation, the couriers had no fear of a random check, but in the event of being captured in the actual course of their illicit duties, it was then that the true value of the Bedouin became evident. These men would never inform on their employer or any of their companions. Marcus had spelt out his requirements and had seen the expression on the face of the men. Any suggestion of disloyalty was an affront to their pride and their response had surprised even Marcus.

Invited to choose a man at random, he'd indicated one of the younger members of the small group. The man accepted his selection with apparent stoic resignation. He had taken four hours to die at the hands of Marcus, watched by an encircling group of his companions. Fingernails had been pulled away, hot irons placed on his exposed flesh and only when his testicles were crushed between two boulders did he utter a faint cry of agony, instantly suppressed. Marcus would have spared the man for his courage, but his former companions insisted on torture being prolonged unto death. The point had been made and Marcus had gained a work force whose loyalty was beyond reproach.

Marcus gave his orders and left the villa. Tania opened her eyes as the car engine started and looked at the face of the man who knelt by her side. El Jaffeh opened his mouth revealing broken and stained teeth in a grotesque parody of a smile. His hand caressed the pale skin and long limbs of the woman. Truly, she was a gift from the Gods. His men would work with a will on their next journey across the straits with the memory of such pleasures as this to sustain them. When he removed his robe, revealing the great bunch of his genitalia, and reached out for her, Tania wailed in terror, her cries echoing unheard around the lonely canyons surrounding the villa.

Chapter 87

The Informant

'Ever wonder about that? You know, choosing to end your own life? Top yourself? Knowing you're never going to wake up ever again. Never see another sunset, another dawn, lambs in a field, nothing. Ever again.' He puffed out his cheeks. 'I could do it. Think about it a lot.'

I shrugged. 'Thinking about it usually means you won't do it. It's spontaneous, or so I've always thought.'

'Maybe.'

I looked at him, eyes red-rimmed, skin drawn tightly across his cheekbones. 'When was the last time you were up at dawn, watching lambs running around fields?'

He barked with laughter. 'Yeah. Suppose you got a point there.'

Danny possessed a wry sense of humour as dry as a pile of bleached bones in a desert and the creases under his eyes bore a perpetual hint of mirth. He was also a heroin user, although claiming not to be an addict. I'd known him for three years and he was still around which gave some credence to his claim. He appeared to have no visible means of support. No job, didn't claim benefit, lived between the cracks of society. People like Danny are survival experts, living hand to mouth. He knew his way around; knew when to keep his head down, kept his eyes open, storing up information. He never informed to the police; had made it a point of honour to tell me that on our first meeting.

I'd never worked out why he spoke to me. Told me things that would ensure he got a good kicking if word got out. I'd not let him down. Never revealed him as a source. He didn't know what I did with the information he gave me, didn't want to know. I was a mover and shaker, knew all the right people. That's all he knew. It was enough. A discreet word here and there could prove useful. Ensure his safety. Keeping the wolves at bay.

'You'll have heard about the lad from Kirkby?' He asked.

'Yes,' I said. I'd been there, just after the event, but kept that to myself. I'd seen two lads in hooded tops, that was all. I hadn't hung around for the police to arrive. Being hauled in as a witness was not part of the agenda.

'Silly,' Danny continued. 'Way out of line. Dissing, they won't stand for that.'

'No.' Dissing, showing disrespect by entering the territory of a rival gang, was more than enough reason to earn a death sentence, such was the warped nature of the underclass who ruled the interlocking groups of gangs.

'Must have been important,' I said, probing a little deeper. Danny heard things.

'I reckon he'd been setting up a meet between the big boys. Big deal on the way. I heard Spider was involved.'

'Spider? He up to this?'

'Come a long way very quickly. He's ready to move on. Move up. I heard a rumour about a contract. May be nothing.'

'A contract? On Spider?'

'So I heard. May be nothing.'

I said nothing, but my mind was racing. I'd not taken much notice of Spider. Small-time, I thought. Ran his estate like a tribal chieftain, but nowhere ready for the big time. Not yet. It may be time to make more enquiries.

'Out of town job, they reckon. No names, not on this.'

An out-of-town contract where the chosen assassin has had no previous connection to the intended victim is the most efficient system yet devised for the elimination of a targeted individual.

In and out.

Nothing to link killer and victim, leaving any subsequent police investigation up against a brick wall. Contract killers weren't cheap, but no other system worked as well.

This raised the whole job up several notches. Contract killings were rare. Most of the locals preferred to settle scores personally. If Spider was considered worthy of a contract I'd better take a closer look. Danny's info muddied the water, but I daren't take the chance of ignoring it.

I thought back to the murder I'd happened upon a couple of days ago. Two hoodies running away. Different directions. Organised. From what I knew about Spider he used teenage youths as soldiers. The arrival of hooded tops as a fashion item had been a boon to gang-bangers. Spider insisted all his troops wore hoodies. The omnipresent CCTV cameras couldn't be avoided, but their effectiveness could be blunted. One hooded youth looks very like another, makes precise identification difficult. Banks and building societies refuse admittance to their premises unless items of clothing which mask the wearer's features are removed, but that was never going to be a problem. Spider's capital was never going to be invested in a building society.

'Spider's going places. So they reckon,' Danny said, eyes glinting as he saw my interest. 'Good organiser. Efficient. Hard as fuckin' nails. Shaking up some of the old guys. They're not too happy about it.'

I knew change was on the way. This job was only a few weeks in and I'd noticed the differences. Less respect for the established order. I'd been expecting it. The old days were on the way out. The old men too.

Old style gang leaders still thought themselves hard. The days of straighteners – one on one bare-fisted fights, without weapons, to settle disputes – were well and truly over. It didn't matter how hard you were, or thought you were. Not when a ten-year-old who can point a gun and pull the trigger is a match for any hard man of the old school. That's what being hard is really about; the new realities of life on the streets.

There'd been a big power vacuum at the top. Some of the big men were dead, some were banged up for life, some had taken the money and opted for a safe life in the sun.

Drug barons were always top of the tree. Men like Spider started small. Built a power base. Cheap ciggies, drugs in holiday resorts, lucrative and yet under the radar of the barons. Rock, Ibiza, easy to move in and out. Young people. Plenty of money to spend.

'Time to go,' I said. 'Stay safe.' I didn't offer him money. Never had. He'd never asked.

'Any chance of a lift?' Danny asked.

I looked at him, surprised. 'Where to?'

He shrugged. 'Anywhere. Away from here. It's all kicking off. Any day now.'

'Sorry,' I said. 'You're no use to me out of the loop.' It seemed harsh, but experience had taught me the folly of appearing grateful. Passing on information fulfilled some need in people like Danny. Something beyond mere avarice. I wasn't his mate, had never pretended to be. Best to keep it that way.

He hunched his shoulders at my words as if bracing himself against a physical attack. I shook my head dismissively and turned my gaze inwards showing a blank indifference.

A tenuous smile hovered uncertainly on his lips for a moment and then departed without a hint of its former existence remaining.

'Fair enough,' he said. 'See you around.' He walked away, limping slightly. I watched him turn the corner, wondered if I'd see him again. There'd been no signs of his usual humour, a grimness there that threatened to overwhelm him. 'No,' I thought to myself, 'Danny's got the death wish.'

Chapter 88

Kindle, the lowdown

Amazon has over 630,000 books available for the Kindle. Plus, Amazon has access to over 1.8 million free, out-of-copyright, pre-1923 books for the device. That's a lot of books, the numbers swelling every day as new authors join the site. Interesting.

Also interesting are the names of the first five authors that sold over 500,000 Kindle version of their books: Charlaine Harris, Stieg Larsson, Stephenie Meyer, James Patterson, and Nora Roberts. Recognised authors, household names, all with a solid background in traditional publishing.

Amanda Hocking is twenty-six. She's an Indie writer. She's also taken the publishing world by storm. For anyone who thinks it's easy, here's what Amanda says, in her own words – I asked her permission to use the direct quotes:

'Everybody seems really excited about what I'm doing and how I've been so successful, and from what I've been able to understand, it's because a lot of people think that they can replicate my success and what I've done. And while I do think I will not be the only one to do this – others will be as successful as I've been, some even more so – I don't think it will happen that often.

Traditional publishing and indie publishing aren't all that different, and I don't think people realize that. Some books and authors are best sellers, but most aren't. It may be easier to self-publish than it is to traditionally publish, but in all honesty, it's harder to be a best seller self-publishing than it is with a house.

I don't think people really grasp how much work I do. I think there is this very big misconception that I was like, 'Hey, paranormal is pretty hot right now,' and then I spent a weekend smashing out some words, threw it up online, and woke up the next day with a million dollars in my bank account.

This is literally years of work you're seeing. Hours and hours of work each day. The amount of time and energy I put into marketing is exhausting. I am continuously overwhelmed by the amount of work I have to do that isn't writing a book. I hardly have time to write anymore, which sucks and terrifies me.'

The final sentence is worrying. It explains her signing a major deal with a traditional publishing house in the past few days. Anyone seriously suggesting this remarkable young woman is 'selling out' should go back and read that last sentence again. 'I hardly have time to write anymore' – how scary is that for any writer?

It's not a concern for me. My inability to write my fourth book isn't caused by pressure on my time since my books began to sell on Kindle. Those old favourites, lethargy and sloth take the credit. I've got three books in my head, sections of three books already begun, and no idea yet which will be the next book. It's complicated by a desire to write an entirely different book, the Historical I promised myself I'd write one day.

I've been asked, many times, for the secrets behind the success of my book, Burn, Baby, Burn on Kindle. It's number thirteen in the All Books Chart today, just pushed down from the position of twelve it's held for the past four days. It's a sign of how delusions of grandeur affect even the most modest of men (!) when my first response is to seek out the interloper who has kicked my book down a notch. It happened to be Lee Child, pricking the bubble of my presumed self-importance in a trice. Fair enough. He sells books by the million; I buy all his books, bought this one as well. Wonder if he buys any of mine? Probably not.

UPDATE: latest chart position, number 12, takes me above Lee Child once more. Out-selling Lee Child – now, that's a good feeling!

I have three books in the top 300, despite not having a marketing strategy of any kind.

I post links to my blog on Twitter. Never links to my books. I'm vehemently opposed to spam and self-promotion is anathema to me. I wish it were otherwise on occasion, but there it is. I can, and do, boost the work of fellow writers; can't do it with my own unworthy books.

So, no revelations of instant success tips. Some aspects of the Kindle experience I researched in depth, some were trial and error.

First of all, make the book as good as it can be. The option to return a book for refund is available to a buyer – don't let that happen to you. Edit, ruthlessly.

The cover should be eye-catching. I'm delighted with my cover for Burn, Baby, Burn. Exactly as I visualized it and effective even at the size of a postage stamp which is all the site permits.

Next, and absolutely vital, is the pitch. In my time as a browser, I've seen numerous examples of pitches that failed to grab my attention. It's a crime. A casual browser judges your entire book on two or three paragraphs. Interest them and they'll look at your book. Fail to gain their attention and they'll move on. Amazon is just a massive bookstore, after all; we're all browsers, looking for something that compels us to read more of what's on offer.

Finally, price. I write crime fiction. Thrillers. Not because of any particular affinity with the genre, but because books of this nature sell very well. When I set out to write my first novel I soon realised it was an immense task. If I intended to devote a year of my life to writing a book, why not make it a commercial proposition? The top-selling authors at this time in 'my' genre are Stephen Leather and Gordon Ferris. They both offer their books for sale at below £1 / $1. That was enough to convince me. At this price level we're talking 'impulse buy.' Remember, the book has to be good or that impulse buy will be swiftly returned for refund, probably accompanied by a damning comment, visible to all future browsers. Price is not the only consideration, but for me it was the best way to achieve sales. Build a readership. Gain a chart position.

Charts are vital to success on Amazon. People look at charts, see what is popular in their own field of interest, are influenced by the views of others. A high chart position helps sales. To an extent, a high chart position is self-perpetuating. Sales beget sales. The most important chart, obviously, is the top 100 All Books chart, but there are charts for all aspects of the market. Gay poetry, women sleuths, society, politics and philosophy, you name it, there's a chart for it.

Finally, in response to many questioners – numbers. I'll not become rich from having a book on Kindle. Many thousands of people have read my books though. That's something I never expected to happen three months ago. I'd had interest from agents and publishers, got very close to a contract, not close enough. With the option of sending out yet another batch of query letters or giving up, I found a third way. Publishing myself as an e-book.

My books sell for 70 or 71 pence, 99 cents. Not a lot of money. Far less when Amazon take their cut – 65%. Less still after tax, deducted at source, 30% as a non-US resident. Why bother then? Well, apart from having my books available to so many readers, think back to Stephen Leather, Gordon Ferris and Amanda Hocking. They sell books in vast numbers and all those trivial amounts add up to a significant income. I'm not at their level. Not yet. Without a coherent marketing strategy I probably never will be. That's okay. I've done many things in my life, had experiences denied to most, this is just one more adventure. If it ends tomorrow, fine. No problem. I have other interests, other things I want to do.

If you're thinking about 'Kindling' – what's stopping you? Worried a traditional publisher won't want to see your work? Don't be. In my experience, the reverse is the case. In the three months since I posted my book on Kindle three agents and three publishers, all very keen to discuss a future partnership have contacted me. Evidence of a saleable product will have that effect. I'm not rushing into anything. Why should I? Do I need them? Not really. Not until I reach Amanda Hocking's level and the minutiae of self-publication prevents me from writing. I have my natural sloth already, don't need any more barriers to writing the next book. Whatever it may be.

Chapter 89

Jake Barton's Diary

Me and The Beatles – True Story

I kept a diary for two years, a very long time ago. I found them, in my dad's loft, dating back to 1961 and 1962. After a quick glance, they were put on one side. I just found them again.

Pure gold!

I remember this so well. December 23rd 1961, an 'All-Nighter' at the Cavern Club, the original one not the recent mock-up, in Matthew Street, Liverpool. I was still at school, stayed until way past midnight, had to walk home as last bus had gone, had spent all my money anyway, got into massive trouble when I finally got home. It was worth it.

The Cavern Club was mainly a jazz club in those days, but there were a couple of guest bands that the whole city was talking about. The jazz was dire, old people's music, but there were these other bands who were LOUD and exciting. The place was packed, it always was, and I can't remember anything that had happened in my life until then that even came close to that night.

The bands – we'd only just started to use the word 'groups' – oh yeah, there were Gerry and the Pacemakers, Johnny Sandon and the Searchers and a scruffy bunch who'd recently changed their name to The Beatles. I worshipped John Winston Lennon from the start, as did everybody else in my class at school. Paul McCartney looked young enough to still be in my class, Stuart Sutcliffe was the epitome of cool and all the girls screamed over Pete Best.

Gerry Marsden was a proper singer, even then I remember thinking he had a great voice, while Johnny Sandon – always Johnny Sandon AND the Searchers – was a tosser. He left the Searchers shortly before they went on to fame and fortune.

I saw the Beatles three more times in those early days, still well before they achieved global fame. New Brighton Tower Ballroom, again with Gerry and the Pacemakers as support, and twice more at the Cavern Club. By then, Stu Sutcliffe had died of a brain haemorrhage and Ringo had replaced Pete Best as drummer.

I put stars around the date, 1st July 1962, the music world was finally handed over to my generation; the first night at the Cavern Club without a jazz element. The Beatles, The Swinging Blue Jeans (I wrote 'shit' next to their name), Sounds Incorporated about whom I remember nothing and, oh joy, the one man who out-shone John Lennon for an impressionable youth, Gene Vincent. Clad in black leather, mike stand swinging around within inches of the audience, I remember it as if it were yesterday. Magical and I'm feeling the goose bumps as I write this.

A massive disappointment, the first ever appearance of the group who'd started to be called the 'Fab Four,' John, Paul, George and Ringo in Birkenhead, Hulme Hall. I'd underlined the details, couldn't go after breaking my collarbone the day before. Not a happy day, as I can recall even now.

Later that year, 1962,The Beatles again, this time very evidently in awe at sharing the billing with the legendary Little Richard. Screaming out the lyrics of Long Tall Sally, with the piano in danger of crashing off the stage at any moment, sweat pouring off him, he was simple immense. The best live performance I ever saw, even now.

The Cavern Club wasn't the only club to have live bands at that time. It was crowded, claustrophobic, rather dingy, low ceilings pressing down, but the atmosphere was unmatched. The lunchtime sessions were packed out, every live band night was a sell-out, but Liverpool was music mad and venues sprung up all over the city. I remember the Iron Door club in Temple Street, a vast barn of a warehouse where I saw the Searchers play, and other clubs sprung up, drew a crowd for a while, closed again. The Cavern Club was the best, without question. They closed it, eventually, I think to accommodate the new Underground Railway, and a replica opened several years later which is enough to persuade legions of tourists they're standing in front of the same stage where legends once played.

I went past the other day. Had a drink in Flanagan's Apple, took a group photo for some tourists from Slovakia, outside the Cavern Club. 'This is it,' they said, 'Beatles were here.'

I wanted to say 'so was I.'

But I didn't.

I took their photo, moved on. Just another old bloke to them. Lost in his memories. Poor old bugger.

Chapter 90

I Talk to You and I'm Dead

'I talk to you and I'm dead, you know?'

I shrugged as if disinterested. He'd talk to me. I'd seen that look in his eyes. What I knew was enough to send him away for a very long time. We weren't at that stage yet. He wasn't important to me. Not important enough. He knew I wasn't a copper, wasn't Drug Squad, but a word in the right ear could make life very difficult for him. The offer to trade would come.

'I'm out of here, soon as I can get my stuff together,' he said. He sighed. Resigning himself to the inevitable. I'd seen it often enough.

'Spider,' I said. Just the single word. It was enough.

'He's a clever bastard, keeps things close, you know?' He stopped talking, looking at me. I said nothing. This wasn't about me.

'Likes to keep it personal. No emails, text messages, no words on screens. Not secure, he says. I reckon it's more than that myself. Face to face is more honest, he says that a lot.'

I nodded. I'd come across this before. Especially with the younger guys on the way up. Cautious to the point of paranoia. Sometimes it was more than simple caution. A desire to get inside the mind of the person they spoke to. Even phone conversation reveal much of the caller's real self. Accent, dialects, even intonations or quirks of speech, they all build a picture of who you are. That can be far more revealing than the words you actually use. A human voice gives so many unwitting clues relating to background, social class and degree of education. The personal touch, face to face, was the only reliable method of communication. I could relate to this. It was exactly the view I held myself. My impression of Spider went up a notch.

'Cautious, then?'

'Yeah.' He looked more relaxed now. Once he'd started to talk, the dam had burst. 'No paper trails. No bank records or invoices. Nothing like that. Drugs, weapons, anything dodgy, never any direct link to him.'

I nodded again. Encouraged him. This was no street thug. He'd come from a good family, been to university, got a good degree. Accountancy was a safe enough profession, but there were always ways of earning more money. A lot more money. He'd chosen the path of easy money. Now, the consequences of that decision were staring him in the face.

'Spider's got it worked out. Everything, the entire business, is arranged in such a way that there's never any link to Spider. If the police get lucky, a job goes wrong, someone else takes the fall. His name will never be mentioned.'

'Clever,' I said. 'Big on loyalty too. He must be sure of himself.'

'Soldiers are loyal but loyalty only goes so far. Anyone arrested knows the score. Classic stick and carrot method. Keep your mouth shut, do your time and you'll be rewarded when you come out. That's the carrot. The stick, that's equally simple: anyone grassing up Spider or any other member of the group is a dead man. They all know it from day one.'

'Impressive,' I said. I meant it. Prisons were full of Category A hard men who'd been grassed up by their subordinates. Spider had recognised the threat of treachery and made it a zero tolerance issue.

'It works,' he continued. 'Wives, girlfriends, mothers, sisters, all in the frame. Grassing, not even a consideration.'

I looked at him, evaluating the man in front of me. He was eager enough to talk, even knowing the consequences. I wondered why.

'I don't know about drugs,' he said. 'Not involved in that.'

I doubted this was true, but was prepared to leave it for now. Drugs were hard time. He knew that, was eager to distance himself from any association.

'Guns,' I said. 'Tell me about the guns.' There'd been shootings for a while. Drive-bys, often random in nature, punishments, settling scores, establishing territory. All gangs had access to guns. Spider's team were different. There was control.

He frowned. 'The soldiers, they all want guns. A gun, well it goes with the job, doesn't it? Spider's very strict about guns. Anyone waving one around, showing off, that's a death sentence. He explained this to me a while back. Guns are bad news for civilians. Bad news means headlines. The victim may have deserved everything he got; he's still seen as a victim.'

He stopped talking, stared at the ground. I waited him out.

'Evil little bastards who deserve to be put down like a mad dog; in death they become a victim. A teenage victim. Attract the wrong sort of attention. Tabloid headlines. Bad for business.'

That made sense. I sensed there was rather more to Spider than I or anyone else had imagined.

'Punishments, when a body needs to be visible, set an example say, no guns allowed.'

'So, no guns ever, then?'

He almost smiled, perhaps at a particular memory. 'Well, if it's a business rival they could be shot full of holes just so long as the body disappears. A mile out to sea, strapped to a gearbox, that's the favourite.'

He stopped talking again. Looked pensive. I hadn't pushed him, so far, but he'd only told me minor stuff. Useful in building up a picture, but nowhere near enough for me to walk away and forget about turning him in.

'This isn't enough,' I said. 'Not nearly enough. How do I get to him? Where's his weakness?'

He gave a nervous giggle, put his hand over his mouth. 'He doesn't have any. Look, he's not your old style gang boss. No mansion, no flash car. He's single, lives like a fucking tramp in empty flats, moves around all the time. Money, that doesn't seem to bother him, yet he's fucking rolling in it. All tucked away. Even I don't know where it goes. Oh, I know bits and pieces, but nothing that'll help you get close to Spider.'

I thought about the next step, how hard to push. He looked nervous, his speech faster, less refined.

'Where's the money go? That's your job, right? Hiding the money.'

He shrugged. 'After it leaves me? Who knows? Only Spider and he 'aint telling. I told you, nothing written down. Bank accounts, overseas mostly, all in his head. He never forgets.'

The sound of a racing engine I'd heard in the back of my subconscious grew louder. The car came round the corner on two wheels. A black BMW, three series, two men in the front seat. That was as much as I saw. The left wing just missed me as I threw myself to the side. I heard the sound of the collision as I hit the ground. The car roared off, snaking from side to side as the driver floored the pedal.

There was very little blood, but the man's head was crushed almost beyond recognition. I stood up, dusted myself down. Nobody around. No witnesses. I scuffed the area where I'd been standing, removing any trace of my presence, walked away.

The BMW would turn up, sooner or later. Abandoned, sanitised, a dead end.

Nothing more for me here.

Chapter 91

The Fixer

'Any advice?'

I shrugged. There wasn't a training manual for this job.

'Think on your feet?' I suggested.

He frowned, obviously expecting more.

I sucked my teeth, trying to find words to describe my methodology. It wasn't easy. Interviewing was tricky. So many variables.

'Say as little as possible,' I offered at last. 'Best of all, say nothing at all. Less room for confusion. Wait them out and they'll start talking. Once they're talking, never interrupt, keep the flow going.'

'How about when what they're saying isn't right? I mean, when you know it isn't right?'

'Doesn't matter. Wait until they stop talking, then go back over it if you have to.'

He nodded. He didn't look convinced. He had what some people call a lived-in face. More slept-in than lived-in, I'd say. Un-ironed. I'd never met him before, but there'd been three more just like him in the last few years. Learning the job. Watch and learn.

It was a new scheme, still on trial, but I had my doubts about its value. This man, about my age, was typical. A Londoner, sent out to learn the job from the boys up north. A solid educational background behind him, strong sporting prowess, sky-high IQ, he'd have been headhunted, appeals made to his sense of public duty by experts in the field. I knew this because, apart from not being a Londoner, I had the same background. Common ground didn't make this new system any more workable.

'The key word is patience,' I continued. 'Pushing, being direct, has its place, but only as a last resort. A direct approach rarely works.' I stopped for a moment, seeking an analogy.

'It's the difference between knocking down the door with a sledgehammer and knocking politely. Try being polite first, softly-softly, and then be prepared to sneak in through the kitchen window if all else fails.' I wasn't over-impressed by the burglary metaphor and I could see I wasn't the only one.

'Start off heavy, you've nothing left in reserve. They'll clam up, hold something back. It's a battle – trying to tease out info without them realising the significance of what they're saying. Always try to have something up your sleeve, then it's all about perseverance and patience.'

He sighed. Took a sip of his drink. 'Another?'

I shook my head. 'What am I drinking?'

'Dunno. Gin and tonic?'

'Not exactly. Large tonic, ice and lemon, looks like a G and T. A clear head without appearing a killjoy. What I drink in here. In a rough pub, I'd have a pint. Make it last. Blend in, yeah?'

He looked mildly annoyed. 'I know that.'

'I wasn't scoring points. Just wondering what you notice. Reason I'm asking is the man we're looking at just came in.'

He shifted slightly, then checked. Didn't turn round. Good sign.

'What's he look like?'

I shrugged. 'Looks like everybody else. That's what makes him so good at what he does. He's over there, talking with the barman. I'm watching.'

'That's important, is it? Looking like everyone else?'

I took another sip of my drink, set the glass back on its coaster. 'Look like a criminal and you become a criminal. A cheap poorly executed tattoo suggests an institutional background, even to the dimmest beat constable. Dress respectably; act like you lead a blameless life and nobody gives a second glance. The right clothes and the right attitude bring invisibility. Perfection is that child in the school photograph that everyone skips over. The boy in the second row, dressed like all the other kids, but lacking any distinctive feature who may as well not have bothered turning up on the day of the school photograph. By the time the photograph becomes old and faded, even his former classmates will fail to remember anything about him. Not even his name will live on. That's perfection.'

'That's our man, is it?'

'Yeah,' I said. 'That's him. Never arrested. Never charged. Even though he's the go-to man for this type of work.'

'An enforcer, you said earlier.'

I nodded. 'Fixer may be a better word. He doesn't go around breaking legs, but he'll know the sort of people who'll do that for a price. He puts the two parties together. Very good at it too.'

'Why are we interested?'

'He's my link to the man who decides these things. Who gets a kicking, who gets to disappear for good. Under the radar, safe and sound. Thanks to our friend over there. He's not our target. Never will be. The man who gives him his orders, that's who I want to get close to.'

'Fuck me.'

I smiled, ruefully. 'Yeah. If there was any other way, I'd have done it by now. He's new, the big man. Come up fast. No weaknesses, or none I've found so far.'

'That's risky though? Last resort?'

'Very much so. You'll be back in Willesden by the time this job amounts to anything. Patience, yeah? Remember?'

He reached out, gripped my forearm, tightly. 'Willesden?'

I took his fingers, prized them away from my arm. 'Need to know who's asking all these questions, don't I? My control doesn't know you from Adam, just that you're up here to see how we do things. No reason for him to know. But, I'm a bit picky. Like to know who I'm talking to. When I'm on a job, I can be anyone. Whatever the job dictates. The other side of living like that is knowing people are who they say they are.'

He grinned. 'Fair enough.'

'You're interesting. Six months in the job, not been out in the field yet. That's all I was told. All I needed to know, they reckon.' I lifted my drink, toasted him, mockingly. 'You're a linguist, speak French, German, Russian. Played squash to county standard, until the job ended your social life. Live-in girlfriend until a few weeks ago, went back to live with her folks. The job again?'

He nodded, guardedly.

'You're thinking, what else does he know, right? 'Course you are. Enough to know you're sound. Enough to give me an edge. Keep something up my sleeve, like I said before.'

I stood up, forestalling his questions. 'On the move,' I said. 'I'll take the other party, see where he goes. You stick with the fixer. Don't lose him. See you back here, about half six, okay?' About half-past the hour was sufficiently vague as to be realistic. Allowed a bit of leeway. Saying 'see you at six' was draconian. Far too restrictive. The job wasn't an exact science. Best to start out that way, let him know what to expect.

'What other party?'

The one my man has been studiously avoiding looking at for the past ten minutes. Was sitting over there, brown leather jacket. Just walked out. The fixer, he'll go soon, another minute or so. That was a meet. A very cautious one. Looks like a big job, so don't lose him. He'll have to report back now; tell whoever's putting the money up that the fixer knows he's interested. He'll be off soon. He doesn't know you, but try not to let him know you're following him.'

I walked away, turned up my collar as the night air's chill hit me. I doubted my protégé would get very far. The man I'd asked him to follow, the fixer, was an expert at losing himself when he had to. It didn't matter. The man in the brown leather jacket was the key, the link to the client, and I'd no intention of losing him.

Chapter 92

On the Run

Danny travelled light these days. Bought clothes in charity shops, ditched the old stuff. New clothes looked what they were. As with so many things in his life now, there was comfort to be found in the familiarity of old clothes. Worn, a little rough around the ages, his clothes were a reflection of himself.

The men asking questions hadn't been very good at their job. He doubted they had the full story. Just asking around. He'd learnt the hard way that strangers were dangerous. Hazardous to his health. The attempt to lift him had been clumsy. A botched job. Two men, a third waiting in the van. Not enough. He'd seen them before. Twice before. Too much of a coincidence. So, he'd been ready. On his guard.

The taller man, wearing jeans, tee-shirt and boots, fighting gear, was just hired muscle, but an obvious danger so he'd been first in line as they started to make their move and got close enough to do damage. The blade had sliced his face up like a can opener, blood spattering the tee shirt and a boot to the inside of his knee had hit the spot perfectly. The taller man went down. His companion had been more cautious, a pace behind, and had good reactions. He evaded Danny's first wild swing, but then decided he'd stick around, finish the job, when flight was the better option. He may have been faster in a foot race; in a fight it was no contest. Leaving both men bleeding on the pavement, Danny walked over to the van. The van driver had watched it happen, stayed around, but not interfered. Danny rapped on the window with the knife, motioned for the driver to get out. The man fiddled with the ignition key, belatedly deciding his best course of action was to leave. Danny yanked the door open, dragged the man out as the engine fired. He shook his head. 'Didn't think to lock the door, then?'

The van driver cowered on the pavement. Danny motioned to the fallen men behind him. 'Better check on them,' he said, stepping over the driver and taking his place behind the wheel. He drove off, glanced in the mirror as he reached the end of the road. The van driver hadn't moved.

Danny abandoned the van, keys in the ignition, near the railway station. No point in going back for clothes or possessions. If they knew where to find him, they'd know the address he'd been staying. Nothing there he needed.

He had money, credit cards, and a driving licence. The cards and the licence were useless now. The men who looked for him would know his new name by now, but the key in his trouser pocket was all he needed. The locker to which the key belonged contained a thick bundle of notes, twenty thousand pounds in all, credit cards, two passports and other documents in names he'd never used.

While he'd been on the run, he'd been planning for this day. The identity he'd been given was a start, nothing more. He couldn't rely on a faceless civil servant to keep his identity secret. They'd had all they wanted from him. More than enough to put the big man inside a cell and keep him there. The big man may be banged up these days, but he had a long reach. Men had been looking for Danny for three years and they'd have had him by now if they hadn't bungled the job.

The back-up plan was his and his alone. Enough money to start again. Make a new life. It was always going to be like this. The big man had been betrayed and would keep on trying to avenge that betrayal. Danny would be running for the rest of his life. He knew that. He was still alive. Still able to move on. Start again. Another city. Another life.

The train journey had been uneventful. The city was new to him, but he'd soon find his way around. A cheap hotel for a day or two while he looked to see what opportunities there were here. He could stay here, could move on, anything was possible. That was one of the benefits of being unknown. A free spirit. He had no friends, no attachments. Far too dangerous. He didn't feel deprived in any way. He wasn't in a cell, wasn't dead.

Pretty good, then.

Chapter 93

A 'Writer' – or a Person Who Writes?

They're very different

Decision Time. Am I a 'writer', or, a person who writes?

Traditional publishing, electronic books, it's all too much for my tiny brain! It's fairly obvious, as with music, that downloads are the future for books and hence for writers. A whole new generation are reading books on their Kindles. Instant downloads, any time of the day, massive choice, instant gratification. Traditional books won't die out, not ever, but this revolution isn't going to go away. I've had success in the bright shiny Kindle world, but am still drawn to what I'll continue to think of as 'proper books.'

I've been away to Yorkshire in the past couple of days, meeting a publisher. A traditional publisher. We've been emailing each other for a week or so; it was time to meet face to face. Since I published my e-book to Kindle, my books have done very well. That may be the understatement of the decade as my first-born, Burn, Baby, Burn sold over five thousand copies last month and remains high in the All Books Chart.

This interested publisher is one of three generated by my Kindle success. Eager to talk over 'partnership possibilities.' There are a couple of other publishers in the mix as well who had been in touch in the pre-Kindle days. People I already know by name and reputation. Small but competent.

This particular firm, represented by the man I've come to see, is very different. They're a major publishing house, well established, with a great collection of writers behind them. They asked me to come and talk about 'our future.' Nicely put, I thought.

I enjoyed our two-hour chat. Enjoyed the lunch the firm bought me as well, but the enjoyment of food is a given. I'm not picky. Know what I like and when that's on offer am easy to please. Lunch was never going to be a deal-breaker. We got on well. I like their ideas and they're keen, very keen, to add me to their 'stable' of writers.

And yet, and yet...

I haven't made a decision. I still have other publishers to consider, plus three agents suggesting they will make me a rich man if I allow them to act on my behalf. Suggesting, not promising, mind you. I checked the tone and content of their letters very carefully!

So, what's stopping me? Well, it's hard to explain.

Do I want to be rich? Not particularly.

Do I want to be famous? Absolutely not.

Do I want complete strangers to read my books? Yes, I do. As many as possible.

There's my dilemma.

Doing it myself, as an 'Indie' publisher, I've already had far more success than I ever envisaged. The likelihood of selling traditional books in numbers even approaching what I have already is remote. Even the publisher admits that.

If I join his 'stable' I lose control. Other people make decisions, on my behalf. What I should write next, when it should be written, for instance. I'm not comfortable with that.

I appreciate my situation is unusual. I've lived an uncluttered life in the main. Making decisions apparently on a whim, or so it must appear to others. In reality, it's not like that at all. I think everything through; discuss it all with my wife, before taking life-changing decisions. I'm accustomed to doing everything like that. Just two people to consider. Not an editor, an agent, a publisher, an accountant – well, you get the picture.

I've had experiences denied to the majority of people, travelled widely, lived life to the full. I've been a writer too, but never to the exclusion of all else. I have other projects, other interests, other demands on my time. I explained this to my new publisher friend over lunch. In general terms. Just chatting. He didn't understand.

I could tell it wasn't within his comprehension. Considering walking away from a lucrative deal, just to go off wandering the world for a year or so, he'd no idea what I was talking about. The fault is mine. An inability to explain an intangible feeling.

Now the moment has arrived, I'm not sure I want to be a writer under these terms. For writing to become a job. To be a wage slave, obliged to do the bidding of others in return for a regular income.

That sounds very new age, doesn't it? A return to my hippie past, perhaps? Not at all. The swinging sixties are gone forever, replaced in my case by an altogether different type of 'sixties.' Far less swinging involved. It's not an aversion to making money. More a reluctance to be constrained. To be accountable. They're the aspects of the deal I'm finding so difficult.

Will I ever say, 'I'm a writer' when strangers ask me what I do for a living? I never have, so far. I usually mumble something vague and incomprehensible along the lines of 'not much' – have got away with that for many years. I don't see myself as a 'writer.' I write, but that's very different. I do many other things as well. Anything that puts those nebulous 'other things' at risk is a concern.

I'm taking a week to think things over. Maybe two weeks.

My wife has left it up to me. She'll go along with whatever I decide. That's slightly different. Usually, it's a joint decision, all the way. I'm not entirely certain I want to make the decision on my own, but that's a different story.

Meanwhile, I'm thinking it over. It isn't the most important decision I've ever made. In order of importance, not even in the top twenty. Perspective, that's the word. I'll remember that.

Chapter 94

First French Friends

Many years ago now, while living in rural France, I wrote a recipe book. To be strictly accurate, I wrote a series of vignettes connected with our experiences in our adopted homeland and added recipes at the end of each snippet as, invariably food had formed a prominent part in the story.

Recently, an old friend died. We met Joel in the first week after our arrival and became firm friends. His death had been unexpected, given his remarkable constitution, and made even more regrettable by only hearing the news after the funeral had already taken place. One of the penalties of moving around the globe so often. Here's what I wrote about Joel shortly after meeting him. It's untouched, so don't expect perfection – writing was strictly for my own amusement back then with no reason to believe anyone would ever want to read anything I wrote.

Joel and Marie are in their mid-sixties and live in a charming farmhouse on the edge of the next village. Joel is now retired from farming, although the distinction is a fine one as he still spends most of the day in the fields. He receives a pension equivalent to 80% of the average wage, which, to him, represents riches almost beyond his imagination.

The life of a peasant farmer, despite recent adverse comments over subsidies and the inequalities of the Common Agricultural Policy, is one of back -breaking labour. We've all heard of farmers pleading poverty, but with a new Jaguar or Range Rover in the garage. No such person lives around here. True peasant farmers farm this area, each with insufficient land to do more than keep a single family and no scope for luxuries.

Around here, farming is not an exact science. A farmer will do as his father did before him, usually scorning modern agricultural methods. Occasionally, a son will stay on after the usual age of leaving school to attend the college of agriculture, but most will leave school as soon as possible to work on the farm, or, in rare cases, pursue a completely different career.

Farmers have a passionate relationship with their land, an obsession with the very soil, itself. They devote themselves, body and soul, to working the earth, the spectre of devastating ruin always lying in wait, just around the next corner. Pests and disease, climatic excesses, ill health, all are potential disasters.

This does not encourage optimism, rather a fatalistic attitude to life. Their natures are frugal in the extreme. Nothing is wasted. Restraint is the watchword; resources and possessions are cherished, especially the land. No farmer will happily give up his land, even if it is of no immediate use, clinging to the earth with the stubborn pride of possession.

The young do not have this restraint which was imbued in their parents over successive generations. Comparatively well educated and with the benefits of television, computers and a consumer-led economy, they refuse to settle for the life of their parents. The drift from the countryside escalates year by year.

Joel has never known prosperity. Life has been hard and he knows the value of every single centime. Waste, whether of food or resources is anathema, and he is the master of making- do. Nothing is ever thrown away, an old van, minus engine and wheels, is the ideal shelter for a family of ducks or a sick calf, and the kitchen garden is divided by neat rows of upturned and partially buried empty wine bottles.

Joel is small of stature with more than a hint of a pot- belly, always wears a cap, even in the house, but has a smile that would light up any room. His sunburnt cracked leather face seemingly fixed in a broad grin, gleaming false teeth – a comparatively recent acquisition – prominently displayed. He is completely without guile, honest, cheerful and unfailingly ready with some humorous quip or other. He thrives on vulgarity, but has the gift of a natural comedian and never knowingly causes offence.

My first meeting with Joel had an alcoholic connection, rather appropriately given the nature of the man. In April the hedgerows of the surrounding area are swarming with the local population busy gathering the ingredients to make Épine Noire, an alcoholic drink based on the shoots of the blackthorn bush. This grows all down the road below our house and is, in fact, prolific throughout the area. Accompanied by the only other English person in the area and his neighbour, I went on an expedition to collect these precious shoots. The neighbour, whom I had not met previously, was Joel, who insisted on driving ten miles away to a place he had heard was 'superb', kissing the tips of his fingers as he said the word. We three men set off, Joel insisting that such work was far too important for women to be involved, each of us equipped with a basket and a razor-sharp hooked knife.

Joel brought with him two plastic bags which he set on the ground, about a metre apart, and weighted with stones. This was done with great ceremony, Joel very much in control of the two English 'amateurs'.

'Toilette', he announced, and proceeded to urinate in the area between the bags. We felt obliged, nay, compelled, to follow suit while Joel explained, quite unnecessarily, that we should not collect from the toilette area for reasons of hygiene – surely the only time he had considered the word and its implications.

We spent the afternoon picking the delicate shoots of the new growth, suffering stinging nettles, thorn scratches and other privations, secure in the knowledge that the end result would be worth the effort. Conversation rarely flagged, despite occasional misunderstandings of a linguistic nature.

My friend told us that he buys sardines from the fish van that calls to his village. Each week he orders a dozen sardines. The fisherman counts out twelve sardines, and then, tapping his nose as if adding a free gift, adds a further fish to the dozen. He then proceeds to weigh them, thus charging him for thirteen sardines rather than the twelve he asked for. My kind-hearted friend has never felt able to decline the 'extra' sardine. Joel was most amused at this story and laughed so much he fell into the ditch below the hedge and had to be rescued.

Driving home, laden with our treasure, Joel offered to show me his traditional recipe for Épine Noire, an offer too good to miss.

On arrival at Chez Joel, we repaired to the kitchen where the shoots were sorted into three equal bunches. Joel laboriously wrote down his recipe, involving much head scratching and licking of his pencil, and then asked us to follow him to the cave where he stored the containers in which the épine noire would be made. The container was a huge metal drum into which the ingredients were tipped and stirred around with an old shovel. It all looked very rough and ready, not to mention un-hygienic, but Joel assured me that the Eau-de-Vie kills all germs.

Eau-de-Vie is a pure alcoholic spirit distilled from a variety of sources, usually plums or pears, and can only legally be made by persons who were in the business of distilling before 1960. The law was changed at that time and only the existing license-holders had the right to distil their fruit, usually plum or pear, and the privilege would not be allowed to pass down to their descendants. Residents in this area, especially farmers with a ready availability of excess fruit, bitterly resent this law, which was passed in an attempt to discourage alcoholism and increase revenue to the Exchequer.

We have seen no signs of drunkenness being a problem around here. Any alcohol problem in France is mainly confined to the Northeast, where beer is drunk in preference to wine and in Normandy and Brittany where cider drinking is the norm. The sober citizens south of the Loire resent interference in their traditional way of life, and a flourishing black market exists, rather like the days of prohibition in the United States. In a French home all Eau de Vie comes from bottles inches thick in dust, apparently from stocks laid down many years ago! Joel is allowed to make a maximum of 10 litres of Eau-de-Vie a year. I would never wish to suggest that he exceeds this quota, but he has certainly mastered the art of making a little go a very long way!

Joel's wife, Marie, is a prodigious worker. Her hands have never known the protection of rubber gloves and bear the marks of half a century and more of hard work. Bony knuckles, nails clipped short, unadorned, apart from a plain slim gold band on her wedding finger. Hands that can sow, weed and cultivate a garden deliver a lamb, calf or kid, bale, how, scrub, clean, knead bread and darn socks.

Yet, these same hands will create a delicate fantasy in lace for a wedding gift and bake pastries of astonishing lightness and delicacy. Whether gardening, cooking, sewing or working with the animals, she never seems to pause in her efforts. Slender, but with that wiry strength that comes from a life of hard work, she possesses that capacity of coping with all life's problems which is so typical of country women of her generation. She has never in her life travelled more than twenty miles from her village.

Marie is a very private person, invariably friendly and hospitable, but always holding back a little. The contrast with her husband could not be more marked. Joel is a walking cliché, wearing his heart on his sleeve; what you see is very much what you get while Marie is a real lady, well mannered and always in control. An apparently ill-matched couple, they have survived forty-odd years together in relative harmony, Joel being the cross Marie has elected to carry through life. We adore them both and look forward to many wonderful evenings together.

Chapter 95

Something to contribute at almost ninety years of age.

My dad started writing poems at the age of eighty-five. This was written as he approached ninety. It's not his best, not technically perfect, far from it, but it says so much about his generation's outlook on life. A message here? I think so.

We Will Remember Them.

The stage prepared, the scene is set,

Pageantry with all its pomp and sway,

Armed forces, resplendent in their uniforms,

And veterans who fought to win the day

Displaying medals, earned for gallantry,

Remembering now, as if 'twere yesterday.

The pageants on, the flags unfurled,

The trumpets sound, and then the silence.

A country mourns her dead.

Two minute all that is allotted

To remember those who died.

But the time is ever present,

For us who have survived.

We do not need reminding

Of the carnage war can bring,

The evidence is all around us

That war has left its sting.

Chapter 96

Over my 'Ead

We'd never intended to become part of an expat community.

We avoided English speakers when we heard their dulcet tones during visits to the village to stock up on supplies. Competa was a thriving village back then, not so much now in this age of austerity, with a fair number of foreign residents. Brits, Germans, Swedes, Danes and a few others, all living in the tranquillity of a mountain village in Andalucía.

A chance meeting with fellow Brits, from Burnley as it happens so not beyond the pale, led to our presence at the opening night of a 'speak Spanish like a native' group. We'd lived in France for years; could speak the language reasonably well, but Spanish was proving more difficult. Andalucía isn't Catalan Spain. Imagine you're a foreigner in England, had learnt a few phrases, imagined yourself to have a modicum of familiarity with the language. Now imagine everybody you meet being a Geordie. That's Andalucía, rural Spain, for you.

'Ola,' the leader said. 'Ola,' we chorused, smiling smugly at our mastery of this essential word. This was to be the high point of the evening.

As we progressed to the next stage, simple phrases meaning good morning, thank you, how much is that, please – the absolute starting point of language learning – a commotion broke out behind us. A red-faced man wearing baggy shorts and a Union Jack tee shirt stood up waving his arms about and gesticulating furiously.

'Whoosh,' he bellowed. 'Over my 'ead. Over my 'ead.'

'Sit down, Bernard, yer daft sod,' the woman next to him shouted. She was, like Bernard, in her forties, frizzy dyed hair, tattoos on both arms, built like a stevedore.

'Over my 'ead,' Bernard shouted, shaking her off. No easy task.

She lit a Rothmans, puffed away, her mad hair framing a face contorted with anger.

The class leader, a woman of seemingly limitless patience, moved through the crowd, stood next to the voluble Bernard at last.

'You do not understand?' she asked.

'No, I bloody well don't. Over my 'ead, all that gabbling on.'

We looked at each other. We'd only covered the absolute basics so far, yet the number of nodding heads at Bernard's impassioned outburst, suggested he was not alone in finding the class too difficult.

We reached the same conclusion.

Time to leave.

We went for a drink in the main square. Asked for drinks, remarked to the waiter on how busy he was, replied to an enquiry from a Spanish family at the next table:

'English? Where you from?'

'Liverpool.'

'Ah, Liverpool. Beatles. Football.'

All in Spanish. Who needed language classes? We decided we'd do as we'd done in France. Cultivate the society of locals, pick up the language in a natural manner, avoid red-faced expats wearing unsuitable clothing. A decision that was to prove our salvation.

As we left the square an hour later the class members were streaming up the hill. 'Over my 'ead,' a voice proclaimed. Bernard and his companion were still holding forth. At full volume. We never learnt the name of his wife, but they were seemingly well known locally, usually referred to as 'Doom and Gloom.' Exactly the sort of people we'd have avoided in England. Why would we seek their company when the only aspect we had in common was the English language?

It was to be the first and only language class in the village. Never repeated.

You can lead a horse to water, you can't make him drink.

Chapter 97

Three in the Morning Writing

Things occur to me in the early hours. Turn over, go back to sleep and they're gone. Perhaps forever. These days I write them down. Experience tells me they won't survive past daybreak, but I still do it. The odd one makes it worth it. It's 05.30 now. Just finished this. Will I use it? Maybe.

I thought about the junkie I'd sat next to last night. Remembered his expression as the needle snapped off in his arm.

Not a hint of pain. Just frustration. He'd been around the squat, begging the dozen or so occupants for a loan of their works. I blanked him, as did all the others. Those still able to respond. He'd shuffled off, eventually, the ulcers on his legs staining his jeans, one shoe missing a lace. Least of his worries.

Where I'd stayed hadn't exactly been luxurious; even though the house was worth a fortune on the open market. Any furniture had been stripped out long since, piss-stained floorboards in place of carpet, windows boarded up. I'd slept, after a fashion, biding my time until my fellow residents became capable of speech.

Sleep wasn't easy. Junkies are a noisy bunch, shouting in their sleep, restless and excitable, until the inevitable descent into a virtual coma. I was the only one there who wasn't a user, but nobody would have guessed that. I looked the part, dressed the part, bore the same world-weary expression as all the rest. The pills I took for a week prior to a job gave my skin a dull, waxy appearance.

The couple in the corner had attempted to have sex, unsuccessfully by all appearances, squabbled, made up, come to blows in the hour or so I'd shared the same expanse of floor. The girl had been pretty, once, and had come on to me when I arrived, with the apparent approval of her partner. She'd gone back to him when it became clear I wasn't offering to trade blow for a blow. No offence taken.

This wasn't a typical shooting gallery. The wretch who'd broken his works was a casual. Nobody was ever turned away; that was the rule of the house, but everyone here, apart from me, was a known face. I'd kept myself to myself, asked no questions, but kept my ears open. The talk was all about a shipment. A big one. Enough talk to request a meet with my control.

The man at the top of the pyramid thought himself untouchable. As had every single one of his predecessors. Total domination was subject to different pressures in the modern age. The Roman Empire endured for hundreds of years, ruling with absolute power over most of the known world. The British Empire, at its peak, did much the same for a century. The Soviet Union lasted for less than a single lifetime. A drug-lord had absolute power, unbelievable wealth, yet very few endured for even a decade. The man who controlled the bulk of the narcotic trade in the city had been untouchable for many years; protected by many layers of expendable subordinates. My job was to chip away at these layers, weaken his position, in the hope that he'd make an error. It was the only method that had achieved any success.

Even if unlimited resources had been available, the top man's position was virtually impregnable. In reality, the resources were very limited indeed. Engineering a weakness in the sub-layers had worked well in the past; destabilising the workforce on which the business was constructed. Bringing about a dissatisfaction with the status quo. Causing friction. I'd made a few ripples so far. Useful, but the results had been limited to the lower levels. It was time to step up.

The rusty metal shutters on the windows creaked, protesting loudly as they edged upwards with the reluctance of a drunkard's eyelids on waking on the morning after the bender to end all benders. The light seeped in, revealing the shabby surroundings and earnest features of the man who was my only link to the plotters and planners, scheming away in their safe and comfortable offices.

'Time you rattled a few cages. You heard right. I've heard whispers as well about a big deal in the offing. You should be there when it happens.'

I grinned. Why else would we be here? 'How long did it take to come up with that idea?'

He smiled. 'About a femtosecond.'

I looked at him, waiting. He was a smart-arse; liked to show off. 'That's about one million billionth of a second.'

I nodded. 'About? Not very precise.'

He shook his head, moving on. I suspected he had more to say on the subject, but my flippancy had broken his train of thought.

'You up for it? Be out on a limb, just as you like it.'

I thought for a moment. Being out on a limb, as he put it, wasn't exactly my first choice, but I professed to like it as it was the method that brought the best results.

'Never lost a man yet, Al. Not intending to start now.'

I nodded. This last month I'd been Al. Usual procedure was to use that name and that name only.

All the time.

The person I used to be was never mentioned by name. Before Al, I'd been Ray, before that, Tony. Of the three, I liked Al the least. As a name, as a person, but that was a minor detail.

'No. Never lost a man. That's comforting. A fair few damaged though.'

'Not going to happen, Al. Not to you. You're bloody good and I'm the best. We both know it.'

I said nothing. This would be the tenth time we'd worked together. He was right about one thing: he was the best control I'd ever had. Knew when to stick around, when to disappear without trace. Contact between us, on a job, was dangerous. I knew he was out there. That was enough. Knew he'd move Heaven and Earth to get me out if the shit hit the fan. Otherwise, I'd be on my own. That was another thing he'd been right about.

'You need to smarten up. Ditch that shit you're wearing. There's a shower upstairs, clean gear, the works. I'd suggest a shave as well. You're moving up, need to look the part.'

I nodded. I'd be glad to get out of the clothes I'd worn for the past week. The replacement clothes would be the right size, suitable for where I was heading next. He was good at the details. Never let me down yet.

'I was thinking. Be a good time to let the new girl show what she can do.'

I stopped, halfway to the stairs. 'Not this time,' I said.

'She needs time on the job. Looks the part too. You need a contact, Al. Who better than a girl who looks like butter wouldn't melt? Good for your image.'

'I'll be watching her back when I should be concentrating on the job. Send her with someone else. I don't want her.'

'Sorry to hear that.' The girl walked down the stairs, pushed past me.

I was impressed, despite myself. I hadn't known she was there. Close enough to have heard the conversation.

She stood in front of the window, her face in shadow. 'I'll not need looking after.'

I shrugged. 'Nothing personal. I work best on my own, that's all.'

'I know. I've read your file.'

'Already decided, Al.' His voice had the rasp of command. I'd heard that before. It didn't mean anything. It was for the girl's benefit, not mine.

I looked at him, then at the girl. Shrugged. I'd deal with it, in my own way. Once the job was handed over it was all down to me from that point. If the girl wanted to be involved she'd do as I said or be shipped back out. That was the rule. Once the job started the man on the spot called the shots. Always had, always would.

Chapter 98

Engaging the reader with that crucial first paragraph

I read a book the other day. Wow, a writer who reads!

Yeah, I do that too. It's not one of the books everyone has read, but I knew I wanted to read it all after the opening paragraph. That's something I thought long and hard about when I first set out to write a novel of my own. The pitch is vital – get that right and all those browsers, prospective readers, turn into people who want to read your book. As with the opening. In a bookshop, it's all most people look at. The back cover and the first few lines. They're vital. As an example, here's the opening paragraph of the book in question:

Warren Ellis – 'Crooked Little Vein.'

'I opened my eyes to see the rat taking a piss in my coffee mug. It was a huge brown bastard; had a body like a turd with legs and beady black eyes full of secret rat knowledge. Making a smug huffing sound, it threw itself from the table to the floor, and scuttled back into the hole in the wall where it had spent the last three months planning new ways to screw me around. I'd tried nailing wood over the gap in the wainscot, but it gnawed through it and spat the wet pieces into my shoes. After that, I spiked bait with warfarin, but the poison seemed to somehow cause it to evolve and become a super-rat. I nailed it across the eyes once with a lucky shot with the butt of my gun, but it got up again and shat in my telephone.'

Now, that's an attention-getter!

It set me thinking about other notable openings to books.

'A Tale of Two Cities' came to mind.

'It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way—in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.'

Just about everybody knows that first couplet. As with 1984 and that unforgettable first line – 'It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.' – these openings define the book.

I looked at some more, just a few chosen at random from books that left a lasting impression.

Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

'Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the Western Spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small un-regarded yellow sun. Orbiting this at a distance of roughly ninety-eight million miles is an utterly insignificant little blue-green planet whose ape-descended life forms are so amazingly primitive that they still think digital watches are a pretty neat idea.'

Lolita. Well, obviously!

'Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul.'

Trainspotting.

The first line of the novel is actually, 'The sweat wis lashing oafay Sick Boy; he wis trembling,' but the film version starts with this paragraph from much later in the book. Easy to see why; it's a brilliant passage.

'Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suit on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on Sunday night. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourselves. Choose your future. Choose life . . . But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin' else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you've got heroin.'

Iain Banks 'The Crow Road.'

'It was the day my Grandmother exploded.' – that's simply magnificent! I remember reading that line for the first time, then re-reading it and shaking my head in admiration. I still do.

Chuck Palahniuk's 'Choke.'

'If you're going to read this, don't bother. After a couple pages, you won't want to be here. So forget it. Go away. Get out while you're still in one piece.' I'm a massive fan of Palahniuk, he rarely disappoints and this opening is a classic.

Pride and Prejudice.

'It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.'

I capture the Castle.

'I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.'

American Psycho, one of my all-time favourite books, has a wonderful opening.

'ABANDON ALL HOPE YE WHO ENTER HERE is scrawled in blood red lettering on the side of the Chemical Bank near the corner of Eleventh and First and is in print large enough to be seen from the backseat of the cab as it lurches forward in the traffic leaving Wall Street and just as Timothy Price notices the words a bus pulls up, the advertisement for Les Miserables on its side blocking his view, but Price who is with Pierce & Pierce and twenty-six doesn't seem to care because he tells the driver he will give him five dollars to turn up the radio, 'Be My Baby' on WYNN, and the driver, black, not American, does so.'

Who else? There are so many, but time is a scarce resource today. What about the results of my deliberations? My first book won a prize, many years ago now, for being 'best opening chapter by an unpublished author.' That was all it was, back then, one chapter. It was enough to persuade me to finish the book, eventually, and gained me an agent. The agent is now working in PR, having soon realized achieving wealth by hitching his wagon to my star, and others like me, was never going to happen.

Burn, Baby, Burn by Jake Barton. Here's my offering, from my first novel.

'Marcus was special. He'd always known it. Even at the age of six when he'd decided to kill his father. His privileged childhood should have produced a doctor, an academic, perhaps a diplomat. Instead, he killed people for fun.'

There. Light and frothy, as befits the nature of the book. Ahem!

By the time I wrote my second book, Blood, I'd fully realised the importance of a dramatic opening paragraph. I wrote this particular one on the train, on my way to London to see the aforesaid literary agent. We met in The Savoy, yes, I know, but he still had expectations of fortunes coming his way from my writing at that stage. I passed him the sheet of paper containing all I'd written to date of my second book, the first five lines. He read it, uttered two words – 'FUCK ME!' – in a stentorian bellow to the consternation of the well-heeled diners in the Savoy Grill, and I knew I was on the right track. Here's that opening paragraph.

'Eighteen men, twenty-two women, fifteen children, sixty-two dogs, thirty-nine cats and hundreds of other even lesser creatures; he'd killed them all and could remember every one. A few had been necessary, but most had been purely for enjoyment. The greatest pleasure had been his parents and his baby sister; in their final moments, he'd loved them most of all.'

Chapter 99

Travelling through the middle of nowhere

'Just imagine what would happen if a lorry came round that bend just now.'

As I spoke, inevitably, a lorry came round the bend. A blind bend, filling the entire width of the road, no road markings and the 'Badlands' on either side of the road.

I turned sharp left. Sharp right would have worked just as well. The lorry thundered past and my car bottomed out on a surface resembling a lunar landscape. We sat and looked at each other, laughed that peculiar laughter which occurs only at times immediately following a narrow escape from death, and wondered what to do next.

The road from Fez to Marrakesh, the only road through the interior of Morocco is somewhat variable in quality. Unlike the swish coastal highway it varies between bad and very bad indeed. The road surface has holes deep enough to lose a Chilean miner and there are frequent 'rally sections' where the tarmac runs out and you can practise power-slides and four-wheel-drifts on loose gravel.

The other road users are mainly lorries who've already crossed the Sahara and by contrast this is a motorway, Moroccans sitting aside skinny donkeys, and the occasional misguided tourist seeking the areas where tourists rarely go.

That's us. We're headed for the High Atlas, using the tenuous excuse of 'research' for a book I'm writing. We'd recently visited a squatter camp, on the outskirts of Fez, an experience for which nothing could have prepared me. Utter squalor, children paddling in raw sewage, abysmal living conditions in shacks made from hammered-out and flattened oil drums and roofed with plastic sheeting – I'd seen Third World living conditions before; this had been Fourth World. A Berber friend told me, in all seriousness, 'these people consider themselves the lucky ones.'

The best route to the High Atlas is from the great plains, far from the routes used by those few tourist buses who take their clients to see 'The Real Morocco.' Getting stuck on the surface of the moon hadn't been part of the plan! The car started, to the accompaniment of a matched pair of sighs, and I managed to creep back onto the road surface. There had been some obvious damage: the exhaust trailing on the floor was an obvious clue, and the engine sounded like Concorde at take-off, but we were at least mobile. Naturally, there wasn't another vehicle in sight, the last signal on our mobile phone had been received as we left Tangiers, several hundred miles away and the last settlement we'd passed had been two hours ago.

'Now what?'

Hmm. Good question.

'I'll fix it, for now,' I asserted, with a confidence verging on desperation.

I scrabbled under the car, hauled the exhaust back in place and secured it with a bent-over wire coat hanger. All I could do, for now.

'Will that do it?'

'No problem. It may be just a little noisy though.'

We set off, wincing at the racket, driving for miles through a landscape where no trees broke the monotony, not even a weed grew in the arid red earth and human beings were conspicuously absent. I stopped every ten minutes, giving our ears a rest, and as the car juddered to a halt on one of these mini-breaks, my wife pointed out a cloud of dust far away to the left. Closer examination revealed a dirt track leading into the interior, at right angles to the road.

On the assumption that the dust cloud was caused by vehicles and not a herd of lost wildebeest, we followed the dirt track for a mile or so until houses came into view. Single storey mud-walled houses, tiny windows and a single door, roofed with flat stones laid over interlaced beams and tightly packed clay. We'd seen identical houses before, in the Alpujarras. Berber settlements, in Spain.

There were a dozen or so vans, a few battered Mercedes cars, none of them less than thirty years old, and a gathering of people scattered around a dusty market square. A couple of cafes were doing brisk trade while the stallholders shouted out the virtues of their produce. Vegetables, a fly strewn butchery stand the contents of which would turn the most hardened carnivore into a vegetarian, and a vast range of livestock. Chickens and goats flapped and bleated, even threatening to drown out the bellow of our car. I switched off the engine and we climbed out.

Most Moroccans, even in the most isolated regions of this vast country, speak either French or Spanish – remnants of a Colonial past. It may not be good enough to pass as a native of either country, but it's a fair match for my own linguistic talents. I enquired about a garage in the area and was directed to collection of low sheds at the edge of the village.

The sale of goats was brisk and we stopped to watch one of the buyers loading his purchases onto the roof of an elderly lorry. A makeshift corral had been precariously attached to the roof and the 'catcher' stood on the cab roof while another man threw a number of placid goats up to him. The system involved grasping the goats by the ankles and swinging them upwards to where the other man on the roof caught them. The goats appeared to be none the worse for this, accepting their flight through the air with complete equanimity. I counted seventeen goats in all as the lorry drove off, all swaying in unison on the roof along with their 'catcher.'

Another buyer owned a Mercedes saloon into which he placed six hens, not confined in any way, and two goats, the latter in the open boot. Five men also squeezed in alongside the hens and off they went.

The workshop was just a shed. A big shed. Inside were three old British Land Rovers, each of them battered and missing various areas of the original bodywork. The mechanic came out, wiping his hand on his trousers in the manner of car mechanics everywhere in readiness for a handshake.

'I've knocked my exhaust off,' I explained.

'I know. I heard you three kilometres away.'

I laughed, ruefully. 'Can you repair it?'

'Bien sur. Of course.'

He dragged a plastic chair from inside his 'office' and offered it to my wife. Dusty, oil spattered, one leg shorter than the others, it may have been the least appealing object she'd ever been offered.

'Think I'll pop along to the café,' my wife said, pleading a sudden thirst. A young girl, no more than five years of age, stood alongside her, apparently transfixed by my wife's exotic ear-rings. The girl was holding a single egg, very carefully in both hands. Her lunch, perhaps? Her eyes were spectacularly large and expressive. I reached into my pocket, found the remains of a packet of sweets, and handed them to her. I can remember the expression on her face vividly, after so many years. Carefully transferring the precious egg to one hand she took the sweets with the other, whispered 'merci' and darted off.

The mechanic had been removing the vehicles from the shed, revealing a large patch of earth in the centre of which was an inspection pit. Not a fancy, timber-lined pit, but a simple hole, perhaps four feet deep, scraped out of the earth without any pretensions to regular shape. Just a round hole, like a child would dig in the sand at the seaside.

I drove, carefully, into the shed, my wheels either side of the hole. The noise in this confined space was appalling. With relief, I switched off the engine, clambered out and the repairs began. Summoned by a shrill whistle, a teenage boy, about fifteen years old, came running and stood receiving instructions. He squeezed himself between the car and the lip of the pit and vanished from sight.

A few minutes later, the boy re-emerged, dragging the middle and rear sections of my car exhaust behind him.

'Ah,' the mechanic said, sucking his teeth in the manner of mechanics everywhere.

'A replacement?' I wondered. There didn't appear to be many spare parts around. A few tyres, almost bald, and that was about it.

'We can repair. Welding.'

'Hmm,' I thought. This didn't appear very likely either.

The same boy returned, dragging a cylinder larger than himself, sat on the floor and welded together the three separate pieces of the exhaust system. No gloves, no protective goggles, nothing! I watched awestruck as he defied every single Heath and Safety Directive and produced a work of art.

A quick trip back into the pit, a few curses and imprecations, and we were ready to roll once more. I started the engine – perfection! Virtual silence.

Payment was difficult. I'm pretty good at haggling and here it's very much part of the process. Acceptance of the first price is an insult to a culture as old as time itself. My problem was the price quoted was absolutely minimal. It wouldn't have bought a sandwich at a railway station kiosk back home. I paid the asking price, then added a tip for the boy equivalent to the original price, then rummaged in the boot and found a couple of tee-shirts for the mechanic and his youthful staff member.

I collected my wife from the café, where she'd been the only female and treated with great reverence, and we resumed our journey. After another three thousand miles, in Morocco and Spain, I took my car to my usual garage, asked them to check the exhaust.

'Perfect,' they said. 'It will last a lifetime.'

I can't be sure of that as I sold the car two years later, but I like to think so.

Chapter 100

The Beatles, New Brighton – and Me

I drove along the promenade at New Brighton the other day, so much a part of my youth, along with most Scousers of my generation.

The magnificent art deco outdoor baths, where I'd learnt to swim and first plucked up the courage to hurl myself into space from the high board, have long since gone, along with the outdoor fun fair. Fort Perch Rock still looks impressive, but the other crowning glory, the pier, is no more.

I found a couple of old diaries recently and also a collection of treasures from my teenage years. Amongst the clutter was a scruffy programme, dated 21st June 1962, from the Tower Ballroom.

In its heyday, long before my time, the Tower Ballroom was a real landmark as it originally featured a huge Tower modelled on the Eiffel Tower in Paris, completed in 1900. The Tower, at that time, was the highest structure in Britain, 567 feet high. NB. I looked this up – not even my ability to retain vast numbers of useless facts is up to the task of remembering the precise details of high buildings. I do have a faint recollection that George Harrison's grandfather had been employed as a doorman at the original Tower, but don't quote me on that!

One of the largest ballroom facilities on Merseyside, able to accommodate many thousands, I knew The Tower Ballroom best as a venue for that new phenomenon of the early sixties, 'groups.'

Brian Epstein was the promoter of the event on 21 June 1962. Top of the bill was Bruce Channel – 'Hey Baby' for those with long memories – backed by Delbert McLinton and the Barons. The Beatles, second billing in those early days, were advertised as 'Parlophone recording artistes.' A Bolton group, The Statesmen were next on the bill, followed by the Big Three and the Four Jays.

I remember The Big Three very well – until that point they'd ranked just below Rory Storm & the Hurricanes as my second favourite group; The Beatles having been my favourites from the first day I saw them at The Cavern Club. The Big Three were terrible that night. I know this because I wrote 'rubbish' next to their name in the programme. Nothing else, just that one word – 'rubbish.' Sad, really. They may have had an off night, perhaps the equipment was playing up, all that remains is my verdict, 'rubbish.'

Many years later I read that Delbert McLinton encouraged John Lennon to play the harmonica by teaching him the passage from 'Hey Baby' backstage at a concert. When the Beatles came to record 'Love Me Do', their first record to hit the charts, John Lennon played the harmonica riff. The harmonica lesson must have happened that evening. History in the making. I was there.

The bus to the Pier Head, the ferry cross the Mersey - to coin a phrase – the excitement mounting with every step along New Brighton Pier, then the bright lights of the Tower ballroom, the milling crowds. I remember it all so well.

All gone now. The Tower Ballroom burnt down in 1969, replaced by a housing estate. End of an era. Gone, but not forgotten.

Chapter 101

Interviewing Banana

Interviewing Banana.

Not a combination of words that occur often in the English language. Not just any old Banana, though. Bear with me; all will be revealed. Well, not all. There are photographs, compromising photographs, but they're staying well away from public gaze, for now. Some images are best left to the imagination...

I don't just write novels where unpleasant people commit unpleasant acts. I also write poetry. Very occasionally and never for public viewing. That's either shyness or an acknowledgement that my poetry isn't very good – and I've never been considered shy!

I appreciate poetry, good poetry, very much. The manner in which words are placed on a page can have an effect far beyond the words themselves. Some talented people have the gift of expressing emotions, reaching out to a reader and allowing them to share their personal feelings or observations.

In the last year I 'discovered' a new poet. A woman who made me laugh out loud, reduced me to the brink of tears, enriched my soul. A rare gift.

It's not just the poetry either; I felt drawn to this woman for her insight into life and ability to express her feelings in a manner that made me say, 'yes, that's right.'

She has lived abroad, like me, has returned, like me. Common ground. She's also Welsh and named Michele but calls herself 'Banana' – ah well!

Welsh poets, female Welsh poets, are an endangered species. There's a National Poet of Wales, Gillian Clarke and a Welsh Poet Laureate Carol Ann Duffy, but they're hard to find.

Michele and her husband are publishers – as Endaxi Press they've published some of my favourite authors with more to come and also have a property rental website – Letalife – with a vast range of properties for rent.

Questions for my Favourite Poet.

Q. What are you working on now? Any particular projects occupying your time?

A. It is April which means National Poetry Month for the US and Canada. I joined the community at Writers Digest Poetic Asides in 2009 during Poetry Month and I've tried to take part each April ever since. It's quite a challenge but well worth it to meet up with my friends on Robert Lee Brewer's blog (the seemingly tireless almost super-hero who runs Poetic Asides and gives the prompts each day on the challenges) and read their poetry. I've learned so much from them and gained confidence and inspiration thanks to the generous sharing spirit of nurturing that prevails there.

At the same time I'm working on finishing my Green alternative poetry book – this one is a bit different from the first three in that I am lucky to have plenty of lovely photographs to display along with the poetry, most are from Tom the SeaSideMan who is hugely talented and one of my blog pals. I've settled on the poems for The Red book but not the pictures yet and I'm starting to mark up which poems are likely contenders for the last two poetry books – the orange and purple. After that I think I might stop with the poetry for a while. I keep saying I'm going to give it up – but I think after the seven books are done I might retire my poetry hat for a while.

Q. I've seen examples of Tom the SeaSideMan's work in the past. As you say, he's very talented. Can you remember when you first knew you wanted to write 'stuff' for other people to read?

A. I was about two years old, cringe-makingly pompous and known to family and neighbours as 'the Professor' or 'Bossy Boots' and when asked I would tell anyone, that I wanted to be an author when I grew up – like Agatha Christie, but I expected I would have to work in a library or office before my books became best-sellers.

Q. Tell me about school / education / life before the emergence of 'Banana'

A. I first went to school aged 2 at a Catholic primary school where I got caned for not paying attention to my 'sums'. I was there until the age of 5 when I graduated to the local Infant School and then stayed in the state system with my younger brothers. I was a swot in the days when being a swot wasn't any bad thing. Most people will remember me from Infants and Junior school as the speccy girl who kept reading in class under her desk lid. Eventually one teacher made me clear out all the books and comics from my desk and put them in a large cardboard box at the front of the class and there were enough for the entire class to borrow when they finished their work. I was allowed to read openly in class after which was a relief because I was starting to get a flat bit on the back of my head where the desk lid had been pressing down on it while I was reading.

In comp my favourite lesson was English – I used to love our language lessons especially essays. I always tried to find the obscurest way to interpret the set titles and prompts so that I would come up with something totally unexpected. I was a perfectionist and if I got less than eight out of ten I was seriously depressed and eight was only just a passable mark in my own mind. I always shot for nine/nine and a half. It is a complete mystery as to how I managed to have any friends at school as I must have been completely unbearable, but I had a best friend and was always in the 'inner circle' despite my geekiness, being fat and definitely the odd one out.

I was fairly fearless in those days. In Form Two, a copy of Confessions of a Window Cleaner was being circulated and the teacher who called the headmaster in confiscated it. He told us that he would give it back if someone came and admitted to being its owner. That break I went straight to the head's office and claimed ownership. So I was fearless and a fibber – but I was against censorship in those days and if people wanted to read a book I didn't see why they shouldn't do so. The head was a bit surprised – up until then he had seen me as a 'goody two-shoes' and his twin brother worked with my mother at a different school where she was head of religious studies. I think he was so floored that I wasn't embarrassed (it helped that I hadn't read it at that point) to claim it that he couldn't think of anything much to say other than, 'Oh well, as long as you don't think it's literature.' I was the school book worm so he couldn't lecture me about not reading 'good' books as I'd worked my way through the school library and most of the way through the village one by then already, plus having read all my mother's extensive collection of classics, sci-fi, horror, fantasy, crime and historical romances. In Form Three I moved to the main comp where the lower comps 'fed' to. I met my first boyfriend who was a prefect in the lower sixth and who was to become my first husband when I reached 19. So upper comp was fairly uneventful and mainly devoted to getting good exam results and gaining a thorough knowledge of practical sex.

I went to the Welsh National School of Medicine – Dental School, Polytechnic of Wales, University College Cardiff, and Southampton University and the University of Glamorgan before finally deciding maybe I'd spent enough time sitting in lectures. I worked as a programmer/analyst and temped as a word processor operator, taught Maths, Science and Computing for a while, then became an internet entrepreneur.

Q. Also, when did 'Banana' arrive on the scene, and why?

A. Years and years ago I joined a forum and needed a nickname. Banana was the first thing that popped into my head and it stuck. I've been some sort of banana online ever since. It feels more like me than my given name now.

Q. Like me, you bid a fond farewell to the land of your birth, and later returned. Any details appreciated. I know most of the reasons for returning, but not what prompted your departure in the first place. As much detail as you're comfortable with.

A. I will post a few poems – I think they tell the story fairly well.

Neighbour from Hell.

I have a neighbour who shouts at me

He isn't very kind

He's done a lot of nasty things

I think he's lost his mind.

He watches when I leave the house

Puts nails down for my tires

He talks to people about my family

Tells them we're all liars.

So I bought a thing or two

Put them up with glee

And the next time he swore and threatened

He was on CCTV!

The police had to take action

They couldn't walk away

They gave him a fixed penalty notice

And he had to pay.

But it's still a nuisance

I'm still feeling sad

As long as I live next door

To someone who is bad.

But it could be so much worse

Think of this instead

At least I only live next door

He lives inside his head!!

Here Today Gone Tomorrow

Here and now,

The magpie swoops, the blackbird gathers

Dried grass from the new mown lawn,

While enemies circle,

Coughing from lungs poisoned by evil

Under a promise-filled blue sky.

The sea calls,

Gulls sing in pain, the clouds wincing

To hear their heart-torn noise.

Yet still we struggle,

Fighting the endless insanities

Under siege but never giving in.

To sail away,

To wander free,

To leave the filthiness behind.

Lost in clean purity.

Small in the bigness.

Oblivious and empty

Of all that defiles.

Waiting for a peace

And quiet

That will take us in and swallow us whole.

Forever.

Holiday Home.

All packed up and ready to go

waiting for the taxi

to start our first family holiday

abroad.

We'd been to Disneyland Paris once

but that didn't really count.

It wasn't 'proper' France

and we went by train

so it didn't feel like 'foreign' at all.

But this was real 'abroad'

we were going on a plane

flying hundreds of miles

to land where they didn't even

use the same alphabet.

We were all a little bit scared.

I of flying, my child of strange

food and strange new vegetables.

He was wary enough of familiar ones,

and my husband was worried about driving

on unfamiliar roads,

into unfamiliar territory.

To cut a long story short,

we found that 'home'

a place we had been seeking

all our lives,

by moving to different parts of the

country we were born into,

had been found by accident,

the moment we stepped from

the plane,

thinking we were on holiday,

when really we'd at last arrived

'home'.

Finding Home

Subtle as breath, cirrus gentle...

Whispering softness with gossamer steel

Waking memories long forgotten,

Rock in blood and sea soul found.

More than mother, father, children

Deeper than friendship stronger than love

Inexorable instinct denial negated

Gut recognition – this is home ground.

The space around the island.

On a mirror in a bowl

tiny island made of moss

plastic swan so serene,

reflected in the surface gloss

on our table in a kitchen

built to someone else's taste –nearly all our pictures hanging

some went missing in our haste

to move from a bigger island

to an island green and small

and different though those islands are

they both sit on a giant ball

also like an island orbiting in space.

Island on island and island on island a place

for every island and each island in its place.

No Smoking Please!

We're feeling sick it's making us cough

the smell is really horrible and it won't wash off!

Everything is black because of it this really is no joke,

The fire's bad enough but even worse is this damn smoke!

Change of states.

She stands with hands on ample hips

a smile upon her rosy lips.

At sight of her my poor heart skips.

Not long ago I thought her friend,

not best, no that I won't pretend

but comfortable, make do and mend.

How things have changed for us of late!

Her name out loud alters my state

I cannot eat I'm losing weight.

I look at her implacable,

her motives are uncrackable.

Her face – entirely smackable.

Mare Serenitatis.

On the edge of the sea today I stood

and cried

salt water everywhere around and more

inside

squeezing from my tear ducts however hard

I tried

to stop the tears from coming so I could

just hide...

and they poured and I wept and the sea just kept

on coming and going,

coming and going,

coming and going.

And I am here,

while there is the sea

and always will be;

deep and wide.

So things didn't turn out the way we'd hoped – but we had a brilliant adventure and most of it was wonderful, just the last bit sucked. We're having a new adventure now starting from scratch which is a bit like being very young again only without the energy LOL

Q. I can relate to the excitement of starting from scratch, even more to the lack of energy! A nitty-gritty writer's question now. Computer, laptop, or longhand? Which is it?

A. Computer – every time. I don't think I know how to do handwriting any more. I started using an Amstrad word-processor in the 1980's, before that I'd been using an Olivetti typewriter. My first typewriter was when I was about six or eight – a mustard yellow Petite Typewriter. So when 'proper' computers with all-singing all-dancing WP packages came along I was in seventh heaven. I've got my lovely Apple iMac now – wonderful because I can use it as a dressing-table mirror as well as a computer thanks to its shiny black screen.

Q. Do you find writing the easiest and best form of expression? Are you a talker too?

A. I'm more of a talker than the Pope is Catholic. I am always making a noise, talking or singing or humming under my breath. The only time I shut up is when I'm tippy-tapping away at my keyboard – but even then I'm making a percussive noise. I even dream music sound tracks to my dreams and nightmares. Probably why I can come up with ok poems now and then, on the monkeys and infinite typewriters principle. I talk when I can't write and write when I can't talk, and sing when I'm not doing the other two.

Q. 'I talk when I can't write and write when I can't talk, and sing when I'm not doing the other two' is such an evocative description – thanks for that!

Where do the poems come from? Do they just pop up or have to be dragged forth, kicking and screaming?

A. There's always a tune going on. Sometimes they have words and sometimes I write them down. I just listen for them and there they are. Sometimes the words need some tidying up – a bit of trimming and rearranging, but so far they just show up for work when required.

Q. Who is your favourite poet and is your style in any way similar to theirs?

A. I can't say I have a favourite poet. I have favourite poems. Abou ben Adhem by James Leigh Hunt is my number one poem ever. Great supernatural story with a kick in it that always gives me a lump in my throat. If I could write anything remotely as good as that poem I would be delirious. I don't want to have a style – I try to write each poem as a unique one of a kind. I expect I do have some identifying features and I am inspired by poets past and present, but I hope, more in a general way. I have written a few homages/parodies, The Uncertainty of the Poet by Wendy Cope had to be parodied – given its banana-centric subject and I give a nod to poems by other poets such as Dylan Thomas and Robert Frost, although I have a love-hate relationship with Dylan Thomas for various reasons.

I applaud your choice of favourite poem. As someone with a head crammed full of useless facts, I am able to report that James Leigh Hunt was the inspiration for the character of Skimpole in Dickens' Bleak House. Learnt many years ago, dormant until now – isn't memory fascinating? Your readership. Do you think that far ahead when sending a poem out into the world?

A. I am always talking to someone when I write. If there wasn't someone to listen I am not sure I would bother. I used to write songs, at heart I am a thwarted singer-songwriter but because I had no audience I stopped. The ache of not being heard was too hard to live with. There is no fun in throwing a pebble into the sea if it makes no splash or ripple.

Q. Be honest, what do you consider to be the best thing you've ever written and what makes it special?

A. Going by number of comments from the Poetic Asides Forum this poem I wrote today for the Poem a Day Challenge – Day 10 – write a 'Never Again' poem.

Never again.

I will not buy another boat

or make a casserole of goat

or just not own an overcoat

or live where I don't have the vote.

I will not get too close too soon,

sleep vulnerable beneath the moon

with windows open during June

or sing a certain soft sweet tune.

I will not trust the way I did,

I'll keep that sealed beneath a lid;

along with snorkelling, finding squid,

swimming carefree like a kid.

I'd like to say, 'Never again,

will I experience grief or pain

or cry like boring, dull, grey rain.'

I know the hope of that is vain.

I'd like to think I could let go

of wanting things I've lost but no

the thought of them is like a train

I missed and cannot catch again.

And as I watch it disappear

I find I'm gripped by nameless fear

which fills all spaces with its grain

leaving no room for 'Never again.'

But the one I am proudest of is this next one because it is true and there is nothing about it I would want to change and when I read it I can forget I wrote it and just enjoy it. It makes me feel excited and ready for anything when I read it :

Bright Sparks.

I love the way fireworks burst and send

into the air sparks of bright colours,

so bright they print onto my retinas

and I can still see them with my eyes closed.

I love how no darkness is so dark

it cannot be illuminated -

nowhere an idea cannot visit,

blaze and having done so imprint itself.

I love that in us all is the power of explosion

just waiting for that one shared pure idea.

Q. Any wise advice for an aspiring poet?

I've got a poem for that too:

The older poet shares wisdom with his youthful acolytes.

One way to write a poem

and to make it rhyme

is to think ahead to the end

of each and every line.

Pick the word that terminates

and make each sentence fit

then hammer them into subservience

to make some sense of it.

I've read a few -too many-

that Yoda-like mangle their words

to make the rhyme

but most of the time

it turns out quite absurd.

So that's one way to write a poem

though possibly not the best tack,

but any way's a good way

if it keeps you off my back

Q. How much of 'you' makes it into your writing?

A. More than I like to admit.

Q. My favourite question now. What are the last three books you read? Any comments?

A. The last one I read all the way through was by PG Wodehouse – Full Moon. I re-read snippets from about four or five books every day because I never go to the loo without something to read and I'm never there long enough to get properly 'stuck-in' so to speak so I keep books I know well in there and re-read my favourite bits. I read Full Moon in bed.

The last two books I read all the way through before that were Songs from the Other Side of the Wall by Dan Holloway and coincidentally (and not as a suck-up) Murder in August by Jared Conway. All three very different books but with things in common, very real people in them(I know the PG Wodehouse Blandings lot are extremely odd and supposed to be cartoony but I always find them completely real while I am in their world) busy in engaging stories, living in worlds you can taste, smell and feel. I also like that they all have endings that make me feel comfortable with the world.

Q. Interesting! P G Wodehouse is a personal favourite of mine too. Dan Holloway, whom we've both met separately, is a massively talented writer. As for that book by Jared Conway – it's now entitled Heat and even the poor author's name has changed to Jake Barton. You're one of the few people I know who actually read it. Most of the sadly deluded people who profess themselves 'fans' of my writing shy away from Heat as it's much milder in tone than my other books.

Q. What's a typical working day? When and where do you write?

A. 'What's a typical working day?' I don't know, you tell me. I don't think I've ever had a typical day, working or otherwise. Every day is different. I get up when I feel like it, or when I can't sleep, whichever it is that day, then what happens after that is variable. I eventually fall asleep at some point and then the next day the same vague pattern repeats.

The bits in between are anybody's guess. Cooking, pulling hairs out of my chin and writing poetry seem to be the most predictable events. I always write sitting at my computer, which currently lives in a weeny alcove in our bedroom.

Q. Best answer, ever! What else fuels your life away from the keyboard?

A. Husband, son, occasionally popping to Oxford to take part in wonderful events where I try to blend in by pretending to be an intellectual – but I don't think I'm fooling anyone – and cooking and eating and sleeping. Nearly everything that makes me enthused or provokes me to go out and about originates from what our pal Sheena calls 'the people who live in my computer.' However I do like going for walks and luckily we've had some great weather lately so I can get my 'fix' of the sea, although I haven't thrown myself into it yet. I will have to, I can't go for this many months without being immersed in salt water, I'm in need of its preservative properties.

Q. Is there a particular question you'd have liked to be asked? If so, how would you answer that question?

Q. 'Would you like me to transfer the millions I have in a Swiss bank account into your name?'

A. 'Yes, please – that would do nicely.'

Yeah, right! Two questions I ask everyone coming up now.

Q. If you were writing a book about your life, what would the title be?

A. It would have to be called: When do we get to the boring part?

Q. What are three things most people don't know about you?

A. I'm a man.

I'm a man who used to be a hedgehog.

I'm a man who used to be a hedgehog who taught himself how to juggle with water balloons after a disastrous skiing accident.

Q. Hmm! What would you like to be if you had absolutely free choice?

A. Bloody, stinking rich.

Q. I've thought for quite a while there's a book in you. I'd read it. Any plans in that direction?

A My novel, One Piece at a Time, is a work in progress and will need heavy editing, I think I will probably end up changing the title as well, but if I don't get it finished and 'out there' I will be very cross. I'm hoping to get knuckled down to it soon. I'm about halfway through it so far.

Q. Fascinating. Tell us about your venture into the murky world of publishing. How did it come about, how's it doing, what's next on the agenda?

A. Well having been involved in a new business before, this one seems to be following our usual pattern at this stage in the proceedings. Not making a profit, not making a loss. No regrets so far, lots learned and quietly confident of the future.

The main book I'm excited about coming out right now is Saturdays are Gold by Pierre Van Rooyen. I loved this book when I read it under its original title Little Girl in a Fig Tree and it is the main reason we decided to set up as publishers rather than me just self-publish my poetry. I had dreams of getting the chance to publish this book. Every reader I've given it to, no matter what generation they were, has loved it. It has universal appeal with a timeless quality that all the classics have.

This isn't just a good book measured on whether it fits a genre well – it is a great book in the same ballpark as The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, and To Kill a Mockingbird.

I could see children being given this as a set book for English Lit exams and actually enjoying it. It would make a great film. I know because I've seen it in my head. Panoramic shots of the South African bush, two children hand in hand, swelling music in the right places, 3D effects. It would be a box-office hit! But in the meantime we have the book – Saturdays are Gold – soon to be released and probably a rare chance to buy a piece of what will be literary history in the making. Am I being over-enthusiastic? Nah! This is one of the books that belong on everybody's bookshelf because if they haven't read it they've missed out on something wonderful. One day it will give someone a lovely opportunity to say, 'Oh yes, Saturdays are Gold, I read it when it first came out and I knew immediately it would be huge,' with the smug casual nonchalance of true one-upmanship. I'm looking forward to that :

I'm a huge fan of Pierre's book. As with other writers in your 'stable' – Raven Dane, Annabelle Page for instance – you've picked writers who understand the specific demands of their genre and have the ability to enrich the reader's experience through their work.

I wish you the very best of luck with all your ventures and thank you so much for agreeing to be my latest victim.

Chapter 102

You Looking at Me?

From Café Rouge, on the top-tier of Liverpool 1, the lights of the Albert Dock sparkled against the night sky.

I left the remains of my coffee, my second cup, on the table and walked past Debenhams towards Church Street. At ground level the shops were closed and shuttered, the milling crowds gone for the day. I cut through the alley towards Flanagan's Apple and saw half a dozen youths strung across the narrow passage, laughing raucously as they blocked the way. Part of the way human beings are structured: this desire to bond together, the ingrained herd instinct, perhaps. Safety in numbers allied to kinship, the urge to belong to a group. I'd seen it many times in the gang culture that was prevalent in the city.

I wasn't concerned. Not at first. Youths are predictable. In a group, they posture. Showing off in front of their peer group. All talk, basically. A lone male is more dangerous. Mano a mano.

This group wouldn't normally have bothered me. Five males, aged about twenty or so. It was the other group member who was causing me concern. A girl. Women are unpredictable. There's far less of an actual physical threat, but a concealed knife evens up many a contest. There's also the manner in which the presence of the girl will affect the dynamic of the group. Showing off in front of your mates is one thing; being egged on by a female is quite another.

'You looking at me?'

I ignored the lad who'd spoken, moved to one side. He followed me, elbows out, pushing me towards the wall. His mates were cracking up, nudging each other.

He pushed himself towards me, invading my space. 'You looking at me?'

'Not exactly De Niro, are you?' I said, coming to a halt, staring him out, deciding the group were having too much fun to step aside.

'Are you talkin' to me?' I said. 'Are you talkin' to me? You must be talkin' to me. I'm the only one here. Who do you think you're talkin' to?' Blank faces looked back at me. I smiled. 'That's the full Taxi Driver quote. Feel free to use it. Now fuck off out of my way.'

'Hey, big man.' The girl pushed herself forward. I didn't want that. If it became necessary I'd give these lads a spanking, but the girl complicated things. 'If you're not looking at them, why not look at me?'

I did as she asked, then turned away.

'Nothing to see.'

She growled, deep in her throat, pushed her breasts out.

'You don't know what you're missing.'

'That's a comforting thought.'

Her expression darkened and the group pressed closer, pushing the girl aside. I moved right up to the biggest of the group, shaven-headed with bad skin, gleaming white trainers on his feet. Not a serious threat. Trainers are better suited to running away than standing and fighting. Nobody ever won a street fight wearing trainers. I spoke directly to him, ignoring the others.

'Move, or I'll make you move and you won't like that. Won't like it at all.'

His eyes narrowed, but he took half a step backwards. I swept my glance over the group. 'Who wants to start? You? You?' I looked directly at each in turn. The only one who met my eye was the girl. She still wanted to fight. Wanted her mates to spill some blood. That was part of the ritual. I knew she'd be disappointed. Six of them, but there was no fight in the five lads and even the girl wouldn't be able to make it kick off.

I pushed my way through, walked away. I was ready for the sound of footsteps behind me, but nobody moved. A few catcalls, but nothing more. They'd get the fight they were looking for before the night was out. Some skinny kid would rub them up the wrong way; get a kicking for his pains. Not much of a threat for anyone prepared to face them out, but they'd find easier pickings.

Five minutes later I was outside the house. A single light gleamed through thick curtains on the ground floor, otherwise everything was dark and forbidding. The man I'd come to see didn't welcome callers. He'd been a minor player in the gang culture, years ago, when I'd first met him. I'd helped him out, kept him safe, while he waited for a case to come to court. This man had been a small cog in a high-level prosecution. He'd given his evidence, such as it was, in return for the abandonment of a possession charge. No big deal, but he'd reckoned another stay in Walton was even more daunting than the consequences of grassing one of his bosses. A bad decision, I'd thought at the time, but I hadn't said that to him. It turned out I'd been right.

As far as the Police and the Crown Prosecution Service are concerned, witnesses are disposable, a means to an end and then that's it. No reason to care about them when their usefulness is over. When the witness is a super-grass, multiply their disposability by ten. At least. But this man hadn't been a super-grass. Not even worth the bother, in my view. His evidence had been useless. The case had collapsed when other witnesses failed to show. The drug dealers walked away.

The man I'd come to see was on benefit. Long term sick. Unable to work. Lacking the fingers of both hands, most jobs were beyond his capabilities. He'd not informed on the men who'd butchered him. Finally learnt his lesson, the hard way.

I'd seen the equipment they'd used on him. Left in his top pocket, along with the stubs of bloody flesh. Part of the evidence trophy cabinet.

The secateurs were top of the range. Easily up to the task of snipping through the sturdiest offshoot of a rosebush. A human finger was even less challenge. Prolonging the punishment by making three separate cuts per finger, each joint and finally at the base, was overkill, but surprisingly effective.

Watching a strong man remove one of your fingers is bad enough. Watching him do it in instalments, and knowing there's another nine available – now that's guaranteed to concentrate the mind on what's taking place.

I didn't know whether the broken man who lived here would talk to me. I hoped so. He was a link to the past and, so far, the past was the only lead I had.

Chapter 103

Waiting for the Dealer

A novel using some of my own experience is still under consideration. There's so much I can never write about, but there are ways and means of marrying fact with fiction. If the project ever goes ahead, this recollection may be useful. It leads up to a situation that is crying out to be written about, but maybe there are some events that are better off forgotten.

The dealer was late. Not a good sign. I'd brought the girl along as part of her training. After only ten minutes standing in the mouth of a dark alley, she was beginning to irritate me. Questions poured out of her. So many questions. Oh well, it passed the time.

'It's cocaine he's looking for, is it? If he ever gets here.' Her voice was breathy; talking was obviously a means of coping with stress.

'Yeah.'

'The upmarket drug of choice, eh? City traders love the stuff, or so the papers say. Is it expensive?'

'It can be. Not as expensive as it used to be. A gram of coke will run to twenty lines, a couple of dozen with a steady hand. Buy a gram for twenty quid, if you know where to look.'

'Cheaper than alcohol.'

'Yeah.'

She pursed her lips. 'Cheaper than I thought.'

'Crack's cheaper still. More addictive too.'

'How much of that is, well, cocaine? The original product, I mean.'

I paused for a moment, collecting my thoughts. 'Not a lot would be the short answer. That's where the profit comes in. About ten per cent, I'd say.'

'What do they use? To pad it out?'

'Stepping, that's how they describe it around here. All sorts. Whatever's available. Baking soda mainly together with ground-up prescription drugs of some kind or other. Painkillers, analgesics, for the numbing effect. Mimicking the effect of cocaine on those delicate nasal passages.'

'Oh, right.'

'That's how reputable suppliers go about it. With the casuals, one off sales, there's less need to worry about repeat customers. Any old shit will do. Even stuff that will do actual harm. Rat poison, for instance. It's been known.'

She looked round at a sudden noise, a startled expression on her face, then relaxed as a fat ginger cat scuttled away from his raid on a black sack left on the pavement.

I grinned. 'It's a jungle. That's what they say.'

It was virtually dark now. Only a few twinkling lights in the far distance and a vague orange glow from the direction of the city. I could barely see her face, but she looked concerned. I thought about the residents of the estate: mainly respectable people, like small, defenceless creatures, locked away safely in their burrows, away from predators. It was a good analogy. Outside, in the darkness, the larger primates, hunter-gatherers, held sway. The night belonged to them.

'Just us,' I said, reassuringly. 'Us and the scum.'

'She snickered. 'You're so black and white. Have you always been like that? Tell the truth.'

I shook my head, then, realised she couldn't see it, replied, 'Truth is relative. On a job, most of the time, I live a life of pure invention. Nothing is as it seems. Almost every word I utter has no basis in actuality. Bloody pompous way of saying deception is everywhere. Yes, I assume the other side are equally obtuse, until I know otherwise. That's cynicism on a grand scale.'

'Are you like that at home? Off the job?'

'No. Not with people I know and trust. That's a pretty select band.'

'Am I in it yet?'

I laughed. 'No chance. You're on probation. It's not looking too good for you so far.'

She slapped my arm, giggling. I could have done without the giggle. Difficult to be professional with a giggle in your repertoire, but at least she didn't sound worried any more. One less thing for me to worry about.

I could see nothing now, not even her face, and the silence was absolute, but other senses were working hard in the background. The existence of that mythical 'sixth sense' may be difficult to prove in a laboratory, but out in the field it had come to my rescue more than once. A primeval sense of impending danger; it's part of my makeup.

When men lived in caves, scavenged for food among predators far more dangerous than themselves, that sense of threat to life and limb was all that stood between them and annihilation. The survivors had that sixth sense.

Recruitment for this job is heavily biased towards high IQ and an ability to be self-reliant. Thinking for yourself, away from anyone able to provide help, is a quality that's highly prized. But, those without an inherent awareness of danger don't last long. One way or another.

The girl wouldn't stay the course. To get this far in the process, she had to be very bright, capable of thinking outside the box, fit and athletic. I had no reason to doubt her lack of courage or willingness to learn either. It wasn't a question of gender; the best I ever trained was a woman. Ellie was in Edinburgh now, working her way into the trust, and probably the bed, of a major drug baron. She'd be okay. She had that sense of impending danger. This girl didn't fill me with the same confidence. Without it, I'd have to watch her back as well as my own. Double the danger. Double the risk.

Footsteps on the paving slabs, Two big men, judging by the stride pattern and both wearing heavy boots. Not what had been arranged.

I nudged the girl. 'Here's where it starts to get interesting,' I said.

Chapter 104

My Dad's Memories of Childhood

From 1915 – 1920.

As an old man, my dad was easily bored. I suggested he make use of his prodigious memory to write an account of his early life – he was born in 1915 \- to send to his younger sister in New Zealand. He was eighty-seven when he began this task and wrote over fifty thousand words in all. Here's the opening chapter. I've made the occasional change to punctuation, to assist the reader, but the words are unchanged.

Smallthorne, the village where I lived is a village situated on the south side of Stoke-on- Trent - usually called the five towns, but actually there are six - and together they constitute what is known as the Potteries.

At school, we were taught that Smallthorne was the largest village in the country. It consisted of one main road, with seven streets, running parallel and thirty more connecting streets, sixteen on one side of the main road and fourteen on the other, there was no need to go out of the village as we had everything there, readily available.

In my minds eye, I can still remember, and put in their respected order, every facet of village life. I knew all the shopkeepers by name, as well as the professional people. At the time of my school days there were two doctors, two chemists', a dentist, an undertaker, two music teachers, an headmaster, an head mistress, three infants teachers, two tailors, a police sergeant, a relieving officer, a priest, a vicar, and a curate, three farmers, a blacksmith, a plumber and decorator, and a stationmaster.

Businesses included three farms, a corn chandler, five coalmen, a gas office- showroom, a printer, two bookshops, four newsagents, a post- office, a bank, and four boot repairers. There were 102 shop keepers, and 23 mixed businesses in all comprising, two mans shops, three ladies shops, four men's hairdressers, a ladies salon, five butchers, seven bakers, nine grocers, a dairy, five greengrocers, two wet fish, shops eight chip shops, a furniture shop, and two pawnbrokers. All helping to supply the needs of the village, and paid for mainly from wages earned at the local chain and anchor works, the iron and steel works, and the colliery.

There was very little work for girls when they left school, the shops were small, and mostly family businesses, but there were the textile mills at Leek, seven miles away and within easy access by train. Most of the work was for the rag trade. It must have been noisy, with all the electric sewing machines being driven at full gallop, with the foot pedal down to the floorboards. It could have been boring, but for the fact that they sang as they worked; it was clean work, the money was good, and they got a wealth of experience, that would be useful when they were married. Most girls left work and started a family.

In those days no self-respecting man would allow his wife to go to work. His wife's place was at home, to look after their children, and to have a cooked meal ready for him, when he returned from work. Of course, in my young days, there were very few overheads, a girl did not expect to start married life, with a house full of new furniture, wall to wall carpets, all the mod cons of gracious living, and a millstone round their necks. She was happy. She had her husband, there were houses at a reasonable rental, and second-hand furniture would do for the present. She was no worse off than her mother or her married friends. After all's said and done, a house is just a shelter from the elements, a home is what you make of it.

One of the first priorities, for a young married woman, was to get herself a sewing machine. She would be able to make all her own dresses, and possibly shirts for her husband. My mother was a good dressmaker; she could make her own patterns, and cut dresses down, to fit a smaller person, or a child. She never made any money at it, usually it was for herself, the family, or neighbours and friends; she did it as a labour of love. She liked sewing, it was something she was good at, and she liked sewing better than housework. Before her marriage, she had been a drudge for their family, and that must have taken the heart out of house-work, and so, apart from week-end, our house always seemed to be cluttered up with sewing materials, and we could always find pins, on the hand- pegged rug. There wasn't much she couldn't do, if she put her mind to it.

Once, she re-upholstered a seven-piece suite, comprising a settee, two armchairs, and four ordinary chairs. She began by first stripping the whole thing down to the bare wood, then, standing each piece, two legs at a time in an old tin bath, containing some solution, (I think it must have been caustic soda), and ladling it on until all the old varnish was removed, then she washed it down with hot water, until just the light coloured walnut remained. Then she mixed some potassium crystals with water. (It is purple to begin with, but when it comes into contact with wood, it changes to a lovely golden colour.) The next thing was to varnish all the wood that would be visible when it was finished. This she did with church varnish. It was clear, almost like water, but when dry, was very hard. Then came the tricky bit, laying the stuffing evenly, and covering it with the leatherette she had cut to shape (using the old covering as a template). This had to be tucked, and tacked into position, and not until she was satisfied, did she perform the finishing touch, fixing the leatherette tape. This she bought, ready made, along with the studs, covered with the same material, then fixing the tape with studs at regular intervals the work was complete, I don't know how long it had taken her, from start to finish, but when at last all was tidied away, she could look at the finished product, and say "with the help of God, I was able to do that".

Mother did all the decorating. Dad did nothing in the house as he worked long hours, and could not be expected to really. For the first twelve years of my life, he worked twelve-hour shifts, seven nights a week. He was night foreman, in the casting shop at the aluminium factory, a mile and a half, from where we lived. He tried to sleep during the day, but it was very difficult. Our house was opposite the boy's school, and when they were singing, or out at play, he would often wake up, and find it hard to drop off again. We had to creep round the house - it became a habit, and, over eighty years afterwards, I still do it.

Both my grandfathers were short in stature. I don't remember much about my dad's father, only that he seemed to be a timid sort of man. He died during the miner's strike of 1921, and at that time, I was only five. My grandma ruled the roost in that household, her daughters, even after marriage knew better than to contradict her. But, she was a marvellous cook, and doctored most of the young children's ailments. She had all sorts of herbs, in brown paper bags, hanging from a beam in her scullery. One day, a lady called the doctor to her child. He came and said, "What does granny next door recommend?" She told him, and he said, "Well, you can't do better".

Strangely enough, it was my grandfather on my mother's side of the family who was the botanist, and collected the herbs. He won prizes for the best in show at the park fete, held annually for wild flower arrangements. He had worked as a shot firer, at our local colliery, but had retired early, after being diagnosed as suffering from miners nastigus, a disease of the eye brought about through many long years of working underground with poor lighting. There was no known cure, but doctors recommended green fields, and plenty of fresh air. Not much chance of either in the Potteries!

He used to go fishing in the local reservoir, about three miles from their house. His mongrel dog, Scamp, trotted alongside, but when he got tired, he would jump on the cycle carrier, and travel in style. As a young man, he was working underground at a colliery when there was a fall of rock. It must only have been a shallow mine, for they worked by the light of candles. They were cut off and it took five days for the rescuers to reach them. All three were alive, having survived on candles, and water that dripped from the roof. Later, he was involved in another accident and broke some ribs. By that time he was married with seven children. The older children were forced to beg to sustain the family, (there was no sick pay in those days).

One day my mother was given a jar of beef dripping. She thought it was a treasure, and clutched it to her, all the way home. Grandfather was off work for twenty weeks, with nothing coming in the house except for the handouts of neighbours who were very good to anyone down on their luck, but of course a family of nine, would have stretched their generosity to the limit. My mother told me that my grandma was not the best of managers; she was in poor health, having had nine children, (but had lost two) with very little time in between. She was only fifty-six, when she died. We may ask, "Why did they have such a large family?" Colliers earned good money when in work, but were heavy drinkers, and as a result, many children, were conceived, while under the influence of drink. And so the burden of responsibility, for the household rested mainly on my mother, she was the eldest daughter. But, they survived, and it was good training for my mother in household management.

We lived in one of seven terrace cottages, two up two down, and a scullery. There was no lobby or entrance hall, the front door led directly into the front room which we called the parlour, (rarely used except for special occasions), but they were warm and cosy.

Most houses had a range grate, consisting of a coal fire with bars across to keep the coal from dropping onto the hearth. Underneath the fire was a tray, to catch the fallen ash. Above the fire was a gibbet with a hook that hung on a chain, on which to hang the kettle, or cooking pot at various heights above the fire.

On one side of the fire was an oven with an adjustable shelf, when not in use there was usually a fire-brick, put there to get warm, and then, wrapped in a piece of old blanket, it was used to air the bed in winter, or as an alternative, the oven shelf was used. Over the oven and the boiler was what was called hobs. A large iron kettle stood on one and was always near to boiling point. Dinners could be kept warm to await late arrivals. Extending the whole length of the range was a burnished metal plinth. This had two functions; the roasting tin was rested there when lifted from the oven when basting the meat, and then returning it to the oven, secondly, because it was polished steel, heat from the fire was reflected into the room.

The cottage range was a very versatile piece of equipment. Not only did it cook and boil water, but also being constructed entirely of cast iron, it helped to warm the upper room.

In good times, the best-loved meal of the week was Sunday morning breakfast, usually bacon, cheese and tomatoes, cooked on hangers and a tin bonnet in front of the fire. The hangers were two iron hooks that fitted over the fire bar, then, dropped down to turn at right angles to support a sheet of metal where lay the tray containing the ingredient. Behind this was placed the tin bonnet. This was very much like a bonnet, or a quarter of a sphere. The heat radiated from the fire, was, reflected on to the meal being cooked, cooking time before a good fire, was a matter of seconds, and usually meals were cooked individually.

The scullery, or kitchen, consisted of a brown porcelain sink, a cold-water tap, a wash boiler, (this was like a large tea cup, that held ten gallons of water, bedded onto a cement area, that topped a brick enclosure, about four feet square). Underneath the boiler was a firebox, with a cast iron door. The heat from the fire circulated in the boiler, before escaping into the chimney, and through the roof. A circular wooden top that was in position while the clothes were being boiled or when the boiler was not in use covered the boiler itself.

Taking up the rest of the end of the scullery was a space where the coal was kept, coal was delivered in one -hundredweight bags. If the coal man came on washday, he was told to come another day.

I didn't like washing day particularly if it was raining. On wet days the windows were all steamed up, and washing was in front of the living room fire, on a clotheshorse. It consisted of two frames, each made from two uprights connected by four more slats of wood, and about two inches wide, the two frames were joined by means of two-way hinges made from upholsters webbing. The two frameworks stood at a twenty-degree angle, the clothes were then hung on the rails, and placed before the fire. When dry on one side, the whole contraption was turned about, to dry the other side. Care was taken that the clothes did not get singed.

Washing was an art in itself, and required two galvanised washtubs a dolly-peg, and a mangle. The tubs had corrugated sides that made the water swirl round and percolate through the clothes. But first, the clothes were put into the boiler with soap -powder added. The whites were boiled first, then they were reached out with a length of broom handle, carried over to the sink to the first tub, followed by the water from the boiler. Using what was called a ladling can, a galvanised steel mug, that must have held upwards to a gallon of water, the boiler was refilled ready for the next wash, then the clothes in the tub were agitated, using the dolly-peg. This was a round stool with four legs, and through the centre passed a wooden shaft with a crosshead that acted as handles.

The next stage of the exercise, and exercise it was for it entailed lifting the dolly, placing it on top of the washing in the tub, and then holding the two handles, crossing the wrists in shuttle fashion, and lifting the dolly occasionally to prevent the clothes from becoming tangled, and proceed to dolly.

Then the rinsed clothes were passed through two wooden rollers connected by gears, and turned with the aid of a large iron wheel. The same procedure was carried out throughout the wash, except for dainty fabrics, which were washed by hand. Washing took up most of the day, the boiler and tubs had to be emptied, and the floor mopped.

At night the ironing was done, not on a board, but on the living room table, with an old blanket that helped to retain the heat. The irons, usually three, were a little in shapes, like the electric irons today, but were made of cast iron, and were much heavier. All three were placed on a rack, (made for the purpose), in front of the fire, with the flat surface facing the fire. No thermometer was needed; our mothers had their own way, of telling if the iron was hot enough. They would hold the iron over the fire, spit on it, and if the spittle slid off into the fire, then, it was ready for use. (You may think it was a filthy habit, but everybody did it, it was the accepted thing to do.)

On Thursdays, the sheets on the beds were changed and the upstairs rooms cleaned. Friday was bath night, with a tin bath in front of the fire. This was difficult where there was a mixed family. Saturday morning, the whole of the downstairs had to be cleaned, the dishes washed, the grate black-leaded, the front step donkey-stoned, floors cleaned, rugs shaken, the toilet, at the top of the yard, cleaned and the back yard brushed and swilled down, with bucket, after bucket of water.

Saturday afternoon mum would do some baking, or go shopping. If the order was taken to the Co-op shop, it would be delivered next day on the horse drawn bread van. I don't know what breed the horses were, but they were almost white, whereas the coal horses were black Shires.

Dad would go fishing or occupy himself on the allotment. He was a keen fisherman and would often bring home trout or pike. Fried fish made from roach were second to none, and boiled pike, with parsley sauce, was equal to fresh salmon.

As time went by, flooding occurred, due to mine subsidence. The bridge over the brook was no longer able to cope with the volume of water that came from the hills on both sides of the brook. At the merest sign of thunder, the people would move their belonging upstairs. The man who had a sweet shop, where the water was deepest, took his donkey upstairs. After a thunderstorm, we lads used to go and watch work- people, being ferried across, or to their houses. The situation rose to the point where some of the houses had to be demolished, and the bridge, and the road widened, and lifted up six more feet.

My first memories, as a child were of my brother. He had ginger hair, and was eighteen months younger than myself, and died, when he was eighteen months old.

I remember being in a makeshift playpen with my brother; it must have been just before he died. From what I remember, it must have been a Heath Robinson contraption, devised and constructed by my father. It consisted of a framework made from wooden slats, covered with chicken wire, (so that our mother could see us, and we could see her). The frame was secured to the two ends of our sofa, with the top rail padded, so that we wouldn't hurt ourselves. Dad made it so that mother could put us out of her way, while she got on with her sewing. So much ingenuity!

Chapter 105

Writing a Best-Seller – How Hard Can It Be?

I was chatting to an old friend the other day. She was surprised to see I'd become a 'commercial' writer. How did all that come about, she wondered, that first novel? When, and more pertinently, why?

My first novel? Well, having been persuaded to write an entire book, it would be a crime thriller as that was the genre I'd identified as selling in larger numbers than any other. The research into what was judged to be 'commercial' took place nine years ago – interestingly, I'd make the same decision today. Crime sells. Violent crime sells even better. That was that. Decision made. I'd write a crime thriller.

I imagined the process would take a month or so, writing a set amount every day with a brief additional amount of time, perhaps a day or two, to be set aside for spell checking and final polishing.

Oh, the naivety of that decision to 'write a novel!'

The idea came when I was incapacitated. Fit for nothing, or pretty close to it. Both knees seized solid, asthma recurring, as down as I've ever been, I needed a challenge within my diminished capacity. Write a crime thriller then – how hard could it be? Ha!

The idea of writing a set amount each day was the first casualty. Fine when the muse was with me; other days I could sit for hours, nothing came to mind. I've realised since then it's my normal method, but at the time it concerned me. I'm cursed with an unstructured nature. I find it impossible to start at the beginning, write steadily onwards until I reach the end. My 'system,' such as it is, consists of writing 'snippets' of dialogue, description, whatever comes to mind and assembling this plethora of material into a recognisable form at a later date. Even to me, that appears an illogical, inefficient and absolutely the worst possible method of writing a novel. But, it's all I have.

I have ideas. Far too many ideas. They explode out of my brain at three o'clock in the morning, rampaging unchecked with feckless abandon onto the notebook I keep to hand. In the clarity of a fresh morning many of these random thoughts are revealed as dross, but others survive.

The hardest part? Not the ending. Not an attention demanding opening chapter either. They're hard, but I usually get there in the end. No, the aspect of the task that brings most soul-searching is the title. Here are just a few of the ones I picked out for that first novel.

No Rest for the Wicked.

I'll be Watching You

Every Breath you Take

Dead Girls Don't Cry

You Can Run, but You Can't Hide

Coming, Ready or Not

Dying to Meet You

Strangle Hold

You're Not Going Anywhere

None of the above made it to the final stage. Even the title I eventually selected was replaced at a later stage. The novel, while still in manuscript stage, won a 'Best Debut Novel' award, in 2002! The main judge, a senior buyer for Waterstones, didn't like the title and suggested 'Mummy's Boy' instead. I was weak then, pliable, easily persuaded of the wisdom of such giants of the publishing industry, so I agreed. Years later, I changed it back to its original title, Burn, Baby, Burn. It may or may not be the best, or even better, title, but it's my title. That makes a difference.

Nowadays, I still write crime thrillers. Three so far and another two at a fairly advanced stage. I back my own judgment. I spoke at length to a publisher recently. He liked my writing. He liked the sales figures my book was achieving on Kindle even more. He wants to publish my next three books, in conventional form. He told me his ideas. Very exciting ideas. Very exciting for him. They're his ideas, not mine. I've lived an unconventional life. Mostly from choice. It suits me. Do I want to change the way I live? Lose my freedom to please myself? Just on the off chance of making a lot of money? Is that a fair trade? Not to me. I told him I'd think it over. I'm still thinking.

Chapter 106

Banged Up

Two book projects well on the way. Who needs another one? Tell that to the story that's erupting from my head just lately. Yes, a new one and a story that excites me with its possibilities. 12,000 words, so far, much more to come. Here's a taste.

The narrow corridor was gloomy, two floors below ground and dingy. Damp hung in the air. Not a pleasant place at all, which I imagine was the intention. They'd taken off the shackles now, but my bare feet were cold and I could taste the blood again in my mouth where they'd hit me with the sticks. I'd lost a tooth, could feel the broken edges with my tongue, but there wasn't much likelihood of seeing a dentist any time soon.

The guard pushed me against the wall, held me there with his bulk while he fiddled with the keys. Two more guards were just behind me, biding their time. I knew they'd wade in again if I gave them reason to do so. They didn't like me and I had the bruises to prove it.

The metal door had a small hatch with a sliding cover, on the outside. He swung the door open revealing a cell lacking any windows; lighting being provided by overhead fluorescent tubes behind metal grills. A low metal bench, just about wide enough to lie on if necessary was fixed to the rear wall, riveted in place. A stainless steel toilet, no seat, jutted out from the wall alongside the bench.

No bedding. No creature comforts. The walls were whitewashed brick with numerous obscenities, names, expressions of defiance scratched into their surface.

I was all set to walk in, but he pushed me anyway, sent me staggering across the tiny space into the far wall. I sat on the hard bench, looking at him. I could have used a blanket, but there was no point in even asking. The floor was cold. They'd taken my shoes and socks, not returned them. Add that to the list of things it wasn't worth mentioning.

He was still there, filling the doorway. 'I'll be back, arsehole,' he said. 'Suicide watch.'

I laughed at him. They must have known how unlikely that was.

'You remind me of someone,' I said. 'A taxi driver I killed a few years back. God, he took some killing. That fat neck, see. Just like yours.'

He balled his fists but stayed his ground. It would take more than that to tempt him inside this confined space. I wasn't concerned. I'd be seeing him again. I had plenty of time.

He left, slamming the door. It was cold. No shoes, no socks, just my underwear. No blanket. I didn't expect anything different. Killing the doctor had annoyed them all.

I hadn't intended to kill him. Not that day. I rather liked him, actually. He shouldn't have mentioned my mother. That annoyed me. Annoyed me enough to stick his ballpoint pen in his eye. It went in a long way. I held his head, tightly, even when they were hitting me across the head with their sticks, kept on pushing. He never made a sound, but when they finally dragged me off him I could see he was dead. I know what dead people look like.

He was number forty-one. It should be forty-two, but the cleaner I thought I'd killed last year is still in a coma. I wanted to go to the hospital, shout 'pull the fucking plug,' but she's still alive. Technically. That's annoying.

Annoying and untidy. Spoiling a perfect record. One day soon, they'll end it. Switch the power off. Make it right. Just for now though, I'm sticking with forty-one.

The fat bastard in the corridor. I'll think about him tonight. Make a plan. I don't often make a choice, but he's worth making an exception. What use is he anyway?

Three years since they caught me. Locked me up. Three years in this place. It's not so bad. Regular food. A decent night's sleep. Most of the time.

Not tonight though. I pissed them off today. Not for the first time.

I like killing people. That's something none of them understand. Especially the doctors. They want to find a reason for my behaviour. I keep telling them there's only one reason: killing people is fun.

I was stuck on thirty-seven when I came here. I always thought I'd find opportunities to add to my score and so it proved. Four extras, counting today. That's good going. I'm pleased with that.

What else can they do to me? I'm certifiably insane, or so they say. Not responsible for my actions. That's what they said at my trial. So, here I am. Locked up, never getting out. I'm not sure about that. I'm thinking about it. I've got plans and this place is so restricting.

Forty-one dead people. So far. Forty-two if they switch the power off for that bitch in a coma. That's all I'm admitting to. There are others; of course there are. Family members, people I know personally, friends \- they're on a separate list. Thirteen, so far, but the people here, they don't know about the other list. That's my secret.

The fat guard. He'll be a squealer. I hope so. I'll gut him, when I get the chance. Open him up, let his intestines drop out. Oh, he'll squeal and carry on then. It's an easy job. Any sharp implement will do. I'll be on the lookout for what I need, as soon as they let me out of here.

This cell and I are old friends. Five times I've been here now. The guards, they have to watch me. Look after me. Make sure I come to no harm. It's their job. I'll get clothes, a blanket, a hot meal. In good time. That's their job: keeping me safe. They needn't bother with keeping a suicide watch, but that's part of their job too. Regulations.

I'd never kill myself. Not when there's all this fun to be had.

Chapter 107

The Girl and the Kitten

This isn't me. It's written through the eyes of a character. A man very different from myself. An evil man or a man whose wiring works in a different way to the rest of us? Does it matter whether he's mad or bad? Aren't they the same when evil deeds are involved?

She walks with an elegance that is without artifice; her head slightly bowed as if deep in thought. I admire her mode of dress: sober and understated. Demure. Perfect.

As she draws near, I see the top of a paperback book peeping from her bag. Keats. Love poems. A romantic soul or an essay project? No laptop, no notepad – a Romantic then.

Even better. I can quote Keats to her.

I made a garland for her head,

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;

She look'd at me as she did love,

And made sweet moan.

I know her now. All I need to know. She is lovely, yet she disregards her loveliness. Makes nothing of the blessings at her disposal. The time of innocence, true innocence, is passed. She's moved on from childhood to the stage of knowledge. Awareness of the gaze of men and boys. Their secret thoughts and longings. She knows this, yet isn't seeking advantage. I've looked long and hard for a girl like this. They're rare jewels. Perfect, yet untainted.

I glance quickly in both directions. Nothing to see. No cameras here. I already checked. This is the third day I've watched her. Twice before I followed, at a distance. Always the same route.

Here, this bench with the trees behind, was always going to be the place to meet, but another person would spoil the meeting. In that case, there would be other days, other girls, but fate was on my side today. She is alone.

From the plastic bag at my feet I withdrew the pathetic bundle of fur. A tear ran unchecked down my cheek. The doctors said I was incapable of emotion, but they were wrong about me in so many ways. At times of impending rapture I have feelings.

The kitten whimpered as I cradled it in my arms. The girl stopped, three paces away, then ran forward.

'What happened?'

I shook my head. 'I never saw it until the last minute. I was driving along and it ran out from the trees. I swerved, but...' My voice tailed away.

She dropped her bag, knelt by the bench. 'Oh,' she gasped, 'he's still breathing. A broken leg, I think.' She pointed at the limp left foreleg, hanging at an odd angle.

I fought the urge to stroke her hair, fanning out across my lap, wiped a fresh tear away with my sleeve.

'A vet?' I said. 'Is there one near here?'

She raised her lovely face, brow creased with concern. 'Yes. Not far. I take my own cats there.'

I stood up, still cradling the kitten. 'Would you show me?'

She never even hesitated. 'Of course.'

I motioned to my van, parked at the kerb. 'No need for you to come along, if you're busy,' I said. 'Just point me in the right direction.' God, I'm good.

'No, I'll come,' she said. 'They know me there.'

I carried the kitten to the van as she picked up her bag and followed. I nodded at the rear doors. 'Could you open those for me? I've got a blanket I can wrap him in so you can hold him.'

She nodded, moved past me and opened the doors. Inside, there was no blanket. Just a wooden floor, panelled sides, all covered in high-density foam rubber. No windows, just a discreet ventilator in the roof.

She half-turned as I dropped the kitten in the gutter, pushed her inside and slammed the doors. I'd carried many passengers in the back of this van and knew it was impossible to get out until I was ready.

The kitten bleated, but I ignored it. It had served its purpose and there was no shortage of kittens. I could always get another when I needed one.

No one in sight. I walked to the driver's side, got in and started the engine. I drove away leaving no sign of my presence. Just a kitten with a broken leg, lying in the gutter.

The girl would be missed in an hour or so, but there'd be no serious search for many hours yet. By then she'd be far away and any search would be useless.

Of course they'd search. Diligently and with purpose.

To no avail.

A middleclass white girl from a good family. Pretty enough to rate a picture on the front page of the newspapers.

That was part of the reason I'd chosen her. I'd become bored with nonentities. Girls who no one mourned, outside of their immediate family. It was time to raise my profile.

Leave a mark.

I was well away from the area by now. Fifty miles, at least. Driving carefully. Observing the speed limits. The leafy suburbs had long since been left behind. This was an area of desolation. Rundown housing, graffiti, very few pedestrians. A place where hope was an alien quality.

I love it here. My kind of town.

If Hell exists, this is what it will look like.

Chapter 108

Why Do Writers Write?

'From a very early age, perhaps the age of five or six, I knew that when I grew up I should be a writer. Between the ages of about seventeen and twenty-four I tried to abandon this idea, but I did so with the consciousness that I was outraging my true nature and that sooner or later I should have to settle down and write books...

All writers are vain, selfish, and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives there lies a mystery. Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one was not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand. For all one knows that demon is simply the same instinct that makes a baby squall for attention.'

George Orwell wrote this in 1947, but it only came to my attention last night. Nobody ever accused me of rushing in to be first in the queue!

Hmm! There's a certain familiarity here. Why do we writers write? It's not for the money, is it? It's hard work, anti-social behaviour - of the most genteel kind – and ultimately doomed to disappointment as every writer I've ever come across retains a sense of feeling they could have improved on the final version.

I've written, in the most precise sense of the activity, for most of my life. Poetry, plays, the odd stab at fiction, but it was only when I decided to write a novel that I took it seriously. A good friend writes for the BBC, writes film scripts and stage plays: a proper writer who earns his living in this manner. He told me recently he couldn't entertain the thought of writing a novel. Too much work.

Well, he's right there. It is hard, unrelenting labour and the task gets harder with every completed chapter. All those characters rampaging around the inside of your skull; all of them imaginary yet we know them better than we know the next-door-neighbours.

The crucial stage of writing a novel is that moment where the story comes to life. In an instant, it all makes sense. There's a purpose to it all, you understand where it's going and you know what it's all about. It becomes real. It becomes exciting. You get inside the heads of your characters; they're not strangers any more. You understand their motivations, their desires, their needs. It's a magical time, full of wonder. At that point, writing ceases to be a chore and becomes a pleasure.

Getting to this point is a struggle. A battle. Lost, uncertain, bereft of inspiration – I've battled these demons of doubt on a daily basis. Then, often without warning, it all kicks into place. You can't type fast enough; thoughts, ideas, pour out and there aren't enough hours in the day to write. I've yet to reach this Utopia with the books I'm working on. Three of them, all with about 50,000 or so words 'in the bank.' That's not even mentioning the book I really want to write.

We don't all have George Orwell's talent, but we share his opinions. Writing is a compulsion, an itch that has to be scratched or it becomes unbearable. Who are they for, these outpourings of the soul? Friends? Family? Oneself? Harper Collins? Who are we trying to please? Are we just 'babies squalling for attention' as Orwell suggests?

Does that matter? Whatever the reason, writing is necessary. On my Facebook page I include a quotation attributed to George Ade – "After being Turned Down by numerous Publishers, he had decided to write for Posterity."

I may now add a quotation from one of my favourite writers, a master of the short story and a wonderful poet, Jorge Francisco Isidoro Luis Borges Acevedo, usually shortened to just Jorge Luis Borges - "The flattery of posterity is not worth much more than contemporary flattery, which is worth nothing." Exactly!

Chapter 109

The Target

Three potential novels under way at present. This is part of the most recent project– only 40,000 words so far – and the most personal. There are more aspects of my former life here than I've ever previously contemplated including as the basis of a novel. Perhaps it's a little too personal and will amount to nothing more than 'therapy.' Always assuming I feel the need for therapy, which isn't likely!

The man standing in my way held out a meaty hand and rumbled a warning. 'That's far enough.'

A keloid scar, like a writhing snake, stood out above his right eyebrow. I wondered at the fate of the man who'd administered the wound. Accidents, walking into doors or otherwise, could be ruled out. Accidents didn't play a significant part in this man's life. As far as the gene pool was concerned, he was paddling around in the shallow end. Wearing water wings. Primitive in many ways, yet perfectly suited to the task in hand.

The wasteland over which I'd walked was strewn with the carcases of dead cars, fridges, washing machines, already picked over by the local vultures and now abandoned. If disposal costs money, dump it, seemed to be the motto. The lower walls of the tower blocks were scrawled with graffiti, but this unlikely setting was the epicentre of a drugs empire presided over by a man whose ruthlessness was legendary.

The first floor landing was his place of business, the second door along was firmly closed and guarded by the man who'd told me to stay put and await an invitation to proceed to the door.

The man keeping me waiting his master's pleasure was the last line of defence; the only barrier standing between me and the Target. He'd be right alongside the Big Man most of the time.

In the inner circle.

Exactly where I needed to be.

I ruminated on the prospect of a sudden and unexpected vacancy becoming available. For that to happen, the man standing in front of me would have to take early retirement.

From what I'd already learnt, the Target wasn't a man likely to be impressed by Sunday School attendance prizes. He had a violent past and retained control over his vast empire by the judicious use of overwhelming force. The Minder with the scarred face epitomised the regime.

The personality I'd taken pains to cultivate over the past few months wouldn't have scored highly at Charm School, but I'd managed to convince the people whose opinion mattered. More of the same could yet see me moving alongside the Target, privy to his actions and future plans. The opportunity was too good to miss. The bruiser who was barring my way, arms folded and scowl firmly in place had to be persuaded to move aside.

He was a big man. Shaven headed, half a head taller than myself and much heavier. It added up to an intimidating package while the scar tissue and flattened nose suggested he was no stranger to the art of combat. To get the job of looking after the Big Man he'd obviously won most of those battles, but also revealed a fair amount of collateral damage along the way.

He was ignoring me so I had ample opportunity to appraise him at leisure. Intelligence wouldn't have been an integral element of the job description, but what he lacked in sagacity he made up for in sheer bulk. That massive domed head was an obvious weapon; one butt from that and any fight would be at an end. Broad shoulders stretched the seams of his jacket and the dangling hands were twice the size of mine. Getting up close wasn't an option. If he got those arms around me he'd crush me like a grape.

Hit first. Hit hard. Hit fast and rely on speed and manoeuvrability, that would be the plan. Try and end it before he was even aware he was being attacked. As a plan, it was okay. The alternative scenario was grim.

I was relying heavily on him not expecting to be attacked. Why should he? I'd only thought of the idea myself in the past two minutes. It could all go wrong. Even if I managed to put this behemoth out of action, there was the chance that his boss, the Target, would be exceedingly pissed off at his chief enforcer being put out of action. Many people had pissed off the Target over the years. It wasn't difficult. They'd all learned, the hard way, that forgive and forget were alien concepts. I shook my head. I was getting ahead of myself. I'd worry about the next step if or when it happened.

This meeting had required organisation and patience. In the drugs trade, suspicion was paramount. Friendship and trust counted for nothing. Profit was the Holy Grail, screened by numerous levels of security. The men at the top of the pyramid were very wealthy. They'd become wealthy by taking chances; retained their wealth by being uber-cautious. The Target was no exception. He'd agreed to see me only because he suspected I had something to offer him. I had to live up to that or our relationship would be very short-lived.

I also had to hope he'd accepted my cover story. Many man-hours went into building a legend; the best brains available applied their efforts to a single purpose – allowing me to act out a personality that fitted the needs of the moment.

I took a deep breath. Maintain focus and stay calm. Use that assertive energy that's built up over the past hour or two. I had no weapons; nothing with a hard edge, apart from a solid pair of shoes. The landing was narrow – about four feet wide – with a low wall overlooking the wasteland on one side and solid brick on the other. It wasn't ideal.

I'd have preferred more room to manoeuvre, but there wasn't much I could do about it. I wandered across to the outside wall, about three feet high, and peered over. The Minder ignored me. He had his job to do and it involved little more than standing foursquare in front of the door.

'Fuck off,' I shouted at the empty space below me. 'Get away from the motor.' There was a black Audi with dark glass windows parked at the edge of the tarmac which was out-of-place in these surroundings. The man guarding the door stirred, moved forward a pace.

'Bloody kids,' I said, still looking downwards. 'That'll need a trip to the body shop, or the scrap-yard if they carry on doing that.'

'Eh?' The Minder took two quick steps forward, leaning over the parapet in sudden alarm. I moved to one side, took a firm grip on the collar of his jacket, and heaved downwards. The sound of his nose breaking as his face met the lip of the wall was all the encouragement I needed. I hooked my foot around his ankles and pulled backwards. As his legs went from under him, his head struck the front wall and he moaned through his shattered teeth. I took one quick step forward and kicked him solidly in the face, then repeated the action, the heavy leather welt jerking his head backwards. One of the many benefits of handmade brogues.

He lay still, snorting in outrage but without showing any inclination to retaliate. Behind me the door swung open.

'What's going on?' The questioner had taken in the scene at a glance and his enquiry was almost casual. A slim man, sharply dressed, about my own age.

'Don't ask me,' I said. 'I'm here for a meeting. Found him lying around on the job.' I nudged the blood-smeared figure on the concrete with the tip of my toe, shot my cuffs and turned to face the man in the doorway. He said nothing, but motioned me forward, stepping to one side as I reached the door. I walked past him, into a dark hallway and heard the door close behind me. Three steps more and I walked into a gloomy room, curtains drawn, and three men lounging on leather chairs. Behind a smoked glass table, dressed in black, a fourth man stood to greet my arrival. He was short, well below average height, yet the air of command was immediately evident.

The slim man who'd followed me inside walked past me. 'Ted's having a lie down,' he said. 'Hospital job, by the looks of it.'

The small man nodded. 'Get shut of him, then tidy up,' he said. The slim man nodded, motioned at one of seated men and they left the room together.

'Ted's been with me a long time. Hard case too. Very reliable, he is.'

'Not any more,' I said. I was breathing easily, without any signs of strain and was unmarked. Apart from a few specks of blood on my right shoe and what appeared to be a tooth embedded in the front edge of the leather sole.

'No. Apparently not. You'd better sit down.'

I moved towards the chair vacated by the man who'd gone out to deal with the stricken Ted.

'You two can go and give them a hand,' the man in black said. 'Oh, and I don't ever want to see Ted again. Okay?'

They stood in unison, walked towards the hall. One turned, a questioning look on his face.

'Don't worry about me. I'm not Ted and I imagine my guest isn't here on a suicide mission.'

I grinned and shook my head as the pair left the room and I was finally alone with the Target.

Chapter 110

The Wedding, by Mrs Barton

Mrs Barton wrote this, many, many years ago. So long ago it was written on papyrus.

Wedding day.

Five o'clock in the morning. Look outside. Bloody hell, rain, rain, rain. Sitting on the toilet, having had first bath of the day and third fag. Must give up.

Gordon doesn't approve.

Wish Mum and Dad would get up and tell me the weather will improve.

I've only known Gordon for eight months, so don't really know him at all.

I've got nervous diarrhoea. What if I fart going down the aisle and it's a really wet one and soaks through my dress? I start laughing and have to cover my face with a towel. Tried to sleep, have massive bags under eyes, but no good.

I'm twenty-two going on twelve; Gordon is twenty-six going on forty-five. What the fuck am I doing? So, he's good-looking, well fairly good looking, plus he's the only man who's asked me to marry him. Which must mean something.

Mustn't it?

He's really sensible, which everyone says will be good for me, got a really good job with enough dosh to keep three wives, and as my Mum says, I'll have to go a long way to find better. So get your head together and be happy. Think maybe I'll have another bath and then maybe clank some dishes and get people up.

Nine o'clock now and the makeup artist has arrived. Her name is Sam. She is blonde and wearing pink leggings, so from a distance she looks nude. My mother has arranged all this carry-on. 'Do your best, Sam.'

Half an hour later, make-up in place, nails painted fuchsia, I go into the bathroom to inspect. Fuck! I look like a New York transvestite. Sam is doing my mother at the moment and I can't wash it off till she's gone. The false eyelashes are the worst – really tacky. What if I can't take them off and they take root?

'Rachel,' Mum screeches.'

'I'm just on the toilet, Mum, won't be a mo'.

'Sam's gone, dear, isn't she marvellous? Come out as quick as you can and let me see you.'

Feeling safe, start to wash the gunge off my face. Have to soften the cruddy eyelashes with loads of hot water. My eyes are going to look as if I've got hay fever. Bloody stupid Sam. Perhaps when I get the eyelashes off, I'll stick them on the end of my nipples and give Gordon a fright later on tonight. At last they fall off and I have to poke them down the sink, as they just lie there like hairy caterpillars. I reach for my own make-up and bung on a bit of mascara and some pale pink lippy, really minimalist after all that other stuff.

Sneaking out of the bathroom, I bump into Mum on the landing. I want to scream – this is what my mother will look when she's dead. Standing there in her Victorian nightie, her face embalmed.

'Darling,' she says, 'You look lovely. It pays to have an expert to do these things. That Sam really knows what she's doing.'

'Mum', I lie, 'you look gorgeous'.

All the way to the church dad whistles 'Get Me to the Church on Time'. My nerves are frayed, and if he doesn't stop I'll...

Suddenly, the car skids onto the pavement bumping over something.

'What the hell was that?'

'Oh nothing,' the driver says calmly. 'I just ran over a cat.'

I'm well away now, screaming for him to stop and check if it is dead, or just horribly injured. This is such a bad omen. The car stops and then backs up. There is a bit of blood, but no cat. I start hunting in the bushes and a crowd gathers. They see me in my wedding dress and probably imagine it's some ritualistic thing where I'm offering my blood to Christ.

Finally, off we go again. By now I am on the verge of a panic attack. I have all the symptoms and worse. All I can think about is the cat.

Perhaps when today is over I'll put an advert in the paper 'was your cat run over on.... did it survive?' but what if someone replies saying it got back home, crawled into the kitchen, horribly mutilated, and breathed its last breath. Maybe I won't bother. They might even say it crawled in on its one remaining leg, looked up with its one remaining eye, opened its crushed jaw and died. Definitely won't bother.

We arrive at the church fifteen minutes late, dad moaning that his suit is uncomfortable and his shoes hurt. I tell him that if he was wearing my suspender belt, he would really have something to moan about.

Into the church now, everybody looking sort of pink or blue. My two little bridesmaids are loving it to bits. What's aunty Doris got on her head? Surely not the squashed cat!

There's Gordon, bless him, looking very smart with a pale grey cravat. All I hear as I go down the aisle is 'doesn't she look lovely?' Well, yes I think I do. Just the right amount of shoulder on show, not at all tarty, even a little bit regal.

Lucky Gordon.

Anyway, I didn't fart or fill my pants, so everything was perfect. The honeymoon is a big secret, planned by Gordon with military precision. All I know is it's going to be hot, somewhere abroad and a long way off.

Chapter 111

 Creature of the Night

The outer edge of the estate was a landscape inspired by Mad Max films. A post-nuclear Armageddon, complete with abandoned shopping trolleys, fridges, partially burnt mattresses and sofas where only the packs of feral dogs appeared content with their surroundings. I could blame the dogs for the piles of shit underfoot, but what consequence are a few dog turds when set against used syringes? Enough here to stock a hospital ward.

Two men blocked the only path through the knee-high weeds. Both looking at me with suspicion, cupping cigarettes against the wind in time-honoured prison exercise yard fashion, tattooed knuckles on show. They'd looked middle-aged from a distance; close up they were perhaps twenty-five. That classed them as middle-aged around here where the life expectancy of a young male was far below Third World levels. Drug abuse and guns taking the place of exotic diseases and malnutrition.

The taller of the men held up a hand, traffic policeman style. I ignored him, brushed past, and kept on walking. I waited for the footfalls behind me, whipped round to face them.

"Don't even think about it,' I said. 'Go and mug an old lady or two if you're bored.'

They stopped, expressions suggesting a struggle to react to the unexpected.

I pointed a finger towards them. 'Do yourselves a favour. Leave it. Nothing to do with you.'

The pair looked at each other. The shorter one shrugged his bony shoulders and turned away. His companion took half a step forward and then turned round, following his mate's example. I moved on towards the looming tower blocks. They were only outriders. No clout, no influence. Not worth bothering with. Looking like you belong is half the battle. More than half the battle with specimens such as these.

My mind drifted. The city at night awaited my attention. Waiting for darkness had become second nature. In the secure unit it was always light. I hadn't minded the deprivation of liberty – I had memories enough – but the absence of darkness was torture. The sounds, the smells of a city at night; they were life itself. I could recall them at will. A pounding sea, a work of art, a sunlit meadow; they paled into insignificance against the sounds; the smells of what I'd experienced and would taste again very soon. A dying breath, the gasp of a woman as I entered her, the drip of blood on a tiled floor, the sudden snap of a breaking bone, these marked moments of rapture. Pleasures denied to others were commonplace. Where was the challenge in a sexual act freely granted? What could compare with watching the light of a life flicker and die while I lay face to face with one of my treasures?

Prison had been distasteful. The absence of intellect amongst both inmates and those who sought to confine me had been painful. The secure unit, presided over by doctors, intelligent men within their limitations, had been an improvement and the reduced levels of security had allowed greater scope for adding to my score. Killing had been unsatisfactory in its brevity, but I'd not been in any position to dictate the outcome.

Now, all restrictions were removed. I was free. They'd be looking for me, wouldn't ever stop looking, but I'd made plans. They wouldn't look here. Why should they? I wouldn't be here unless the man I'd come to see didn't possess something I needed to ensure my safety. A shadow detached from the wall of the tower block, became a teenage youth. Black, hooded, low slung jeans, a surly expression on his face he was a mirror image of so many I'd seen and discarded. Scarcely worthy of a glance under normal circumstances, here, in his home territory, charged with the task of providing security, he evidently thought himself important. I looked at him, fixed his gaze, and stared him down. Puffed up with bravado he may have been, but he'd be no threat and we both knew it. I've been told I have a threatening aspect. I can't see it myself.

I looked at the twitching body on the floor, fingers clawing at his throat, and was unable to remember how he'd arrived there. Doctor Hughes had made a study of this aspect of my personality: the ability to strike without warning and without conscious thought. He'd thought it remarkable, had intended to write a paper on the subject, right up until the day he'd lost his sight and the use of an arm. I'd found it amusing, kept on laughing even as the warders swarmed over me, hitting out with their sticks.

It had been a moment to treasure, well worth the broken clavicle I sustained, yet until the instant I'd leapt across the desk I'd never even considered harming Doctor Hughes. He'd treated me fairly, never been confrontational – I liked him. We got on well, had many shared interests, and discussed world events without rancour. The moment, when it occurred, had surprised both of us. That's what I'd found so amusing: the prospect for sudden excitement, even under conditions of maximum security was always present.

My life may be many things, but nobody would ever call it boring.

Chapter 112

 What's a Successful Writer?

 Don't ask me – I'm the one Asking the Question

Three weeks into my jaunt around Eastern Europe; first time I've felt the need to write anything. Too busy being content, perhaps.

When I left I had three books in the top 500 on the Amazon Kindle All Books charts. Burn, Baby, Burn had just achieved 100 days in top 100, was drifting slowly down from its high point of the top ten. Not bad.

My second book, Blood, was just outside the top hundred and my take on a crime novel for softies, Heat, was around the 500 mark. A good time to move on, I thought. Do something else. Another project. A fresh challenge.

I've not looked at my book sales for three weeks now. A complete break. Not the easiest addiction to conquer, but as long as I keep myself busy...

Here's the thing: A couple of months ago I met a publisher. We talked about my books. He wanted to publish my future books, conventional books that are sold in bookshops. He was full of enthusiasm, eagerness personified, waxing lyrical about 'projects' and how he saw my writing career developing. Heady stuff. I told him I'd think it over, consider all the options. He looked disappointed, probably assuming I wanted to try to get a better offer from the two other publishers who'd approached me since my books began to sell in such ridiculous numbers.

I wasn't ever intending to approach rival publishers. The dilemma I faced was far simpler. It hit home when he started talking about next year's book, and the one after that. That there'd be assistance, help, and advice at every stage of the process. All I had to do was deliver the books at each stage of their development for editorial advice and/or approval.

The word 'deadline' was never mentioned, but it was implied. The origin of the word is unclear, but I've always assumed it had a military background, referring to a line drawn in the dirt around a group of prisoners of war where a ready-made stockade wasn't available. Cross the line and you're dead. The repercussions for breaking the dead line were grim. There are nowhere near the same drastic connotations in modern usage of the term, so why did I feel so trapped?

Working to the timetable of others has no appeal. I've been self-sufficient most of my adult life. Why change now? Yes, I'd make money. A lot of money, according to my putative publisher. Is that enough? I'd build on my existing success, he said. Achieve far more than I'd been able to do on my own. Is that enough?

I thought it all over. Decided to walk away. Not just from the offer of publication, but from the existing books as well. I'll write other books – I have three novels in my head and, far more practically, at least 50,000 words written on each project. When I finish them, if I finish them, will be my decision. The subject matter, the plots, every written line, will be mine alone. Not someone sitting in an office somewhere making decisions on my behalf.

I know I'm not like most other writers. Well, I can live with that. A good friend expressed astonishment at my decision to go 'swanning off' without any idea where I'd end up just at the time my books were achieving success. 'You're a successful writer,' she said. 'Take that next step the publishers are offering and who knows where you could end up?' Well, exactly!

I've been very fortunate so far. Had experiences denied to most people. My wife's my best friend and we've always valued self-sufficiency over material possessions.

So, what is success? Being wealthy? Becoming famous?

Or is it something far more prosaic: contentment?

I hope so as that's the only definition that interests me.

Chapter 113

'That's What it's All About.'

What if it's All True About the Hokey Cokey?

I've been searching for a spectacularly misleading title for the final entry on my blog for a while and came up with this. Having written the piece, I now find it has relevance after all. Bugger! Now I'll have to write something else.

Anyway, this one contains violence and bad language – but no nuts. Although anyone likely to be affected should heed the usual warnings about the possibility that accidental contact could have been made during the creative process.

'You from round here, are you? Not seen you around.'

I turned to face the questioner, standing behind me. Very close, almost touching, his jaw jutting aggressively. Even the most casual questions are dangerous. Everyone has an agenda. I've been undercover many times and this aspect of the job never varies. Learn your legend. Become that person. Every question may be the one that trips you up. Everything you say may be checked out and the closer the contact with the Target, the more likely it becomes that every word will be scrutinised.

Major criminals don't hang on to power without becoming paranoid along the way. With good reason. Mostly, they're immune, if not from arrest, from actual imprisonment. Highly paid lawyers and a system of buffers between the top man and the actual crime see to that. The real danger comes from within the inner circle; either from an internal coup or infiltration of an informer.

'No,' I replied, turning my back on the inquirer again. In reality I'd lived my early life within a mile of here, but had never, until now, worked so close to home. This job was big enough to break one of the unwritten rules. Undercover police work tended to be short-term. They work in one place and are often part of the arrest process. Their faces become known. That didn't apply to me. I wasn't a policeman. When I had the information I sought, enough to secure an arrest, I disappeared from the scene. Moved elsewhere, became a completely different person.

'Where you from then?'

I sighed, half-turned to speak over my shoulder. 'Nowhere near here. Okay?'

I was being deliberately obtuse. The man asking the questions was hired muscle, no more. Not anyone important. If I chose I could answer any question put to me and it would check out. It always did. That was where the support team earned their money. High profile criminals have access to police databases, official records. Anything I said could be checked. The person I claimed to be would always check out. Official records would reveal my existence. People would vouch for me; swear blind I was who I said I was, even though I'd never met any of them. That's why my Control earned far more than I did, even though he rarely moved from his well-appointed office. It's my arse on the line, me alone, but there's a support system in place at all times.

There were two men in the basement room, but only the thug behind me was saying anything. The other man sat at the side of the room, reading a newspaper. He was stocky and looked as if he knew his way around, but there was nothing confrontational about him. He was prepared to sit and wait, read his paper, until the man we were expecting turned up.

I'd made a point of turning my back on his colleague when I'd seen his eyes. Steroid rage they call it, a result of too many pills popped in the search for even more spectacular muscles. I suspected he was spoiling for a fight, but wasn't prepared to give him the excuse to start one. Turning my back was a means of evading confrontation.

"Shut it, Tony,' the other man barked, peering over his newspaper. 'Just stay calm, eh?' He looked at me as if expecting me to speak but I faced him out until he went back to his paper.

Tony took a couple of steps forward, brushing past my shoulder, and stood directly in front of me, inching closer until he was almost, but not quite, chest to chest. 'This twat needs to learn some manners,' he said, reaching up with a stubby finger and poking me on the chest. 'Don't turn your fucking back on me for a start.'

I said nothing, tried to remain impassive. He was small time and the man I was waiting to meet was far more important, but there was a point to be made. It's important never to back down. Hard men earn their rep through a refusal to ever take a backward step. My legend was that of a man with a certain reputation, qualities that made him in demand, and this was an opportunity to make a point. I hadn't planned it, hadn't intended it, but the situation was staring me in the face.

Literally.

Tony was bigger than me. A lot bigger, but his sheer size would have ensured most of the fights he'd attempted to start never materialised. Posturing and bluster were all part of the game, but like dogs meeting up on a street corner, will only take you so far. I've met a fair few supposed hard men who were all front.

'Leave it, Tony,' the other man called out, rising from his chair.

Tony curled his lip, not taking his eyes off mine. 'No problem, Dan,' he said. 'Just going to teach him a few fucking manners.'

His eyes narrowed and I relaxed. It wasn't posturing after all. He really did intend to fight, but he'd made far too many mistakes already. Too much talk, standing too close, now I was ready for him. He arched his neck backwards, readying the head-butt I'd been expecting for thirty seconds at least. The instant he triggered his intentions, I moved, throwing my own forehead forward and catching him full on the bridge of his nose. The bone shattered, blood spurting, and he took a rapid step backwards, piggy eyes blinking in shock. When I saw his fists clench I punched him, three times, in the area of his ravaged nose and he retreated another step, eyes watering and looking unsure for the first time.

The other man, Dan, remained standing, his mouth open in shock. 'Nothing to do with you,' I said, glancing at him. He nodded, grimly.

As I returned my attention to the stricken Tony, he rushed me, blood spraying from his open mouth, roaring like a gut-shot lion. I took a step to the side, planning to evade the initial rush and retaliate from a position of strength, but my foot became entangled in the rug and I stumbled and almost fell. Tony's outstretched arm, swinging in a wide arc, caught me on the side of the head and I lost my balance, crashing to the floor.

Rolling to one side, anticipating Tony would throw himself down upon me and bring his greater weight and strength into play, I came up hard against the leg of a solid Victorian table and could go no further. Tony should have done what I'd been expecting, but he didn't. The first kick took me under my right armpit as I tried to rise, knocking me back down with any attempt at escape blocked off by the table. I looked up; saw a smile on the face of Tony and behind him, the grinning face of the hitherto impassive Dan.

As the kicks rained in, I kept on moving, trying to protect my head and groin, but both men showed they'd done this sort of thing before and very few boots missed their mark. As always, the absence of actual pain was a surprise. The body is flooded with massive amounts of adrenalin and a reversion to the berserk state; familiar to anyone who's ever experienced combat, takes over. Afterwards, of course, it's a different story.

Tony leant over me, his massive fists clenched, awaiting the opportunity to add a few punches to the swinging boots and I jack-knifed forward, seeing a momentary chance of retaliation. His shaven head denied me an area to grasp, but I took firm hold of his fleshy ears and hauled myself upwards. The left ear tore away from the top and he screamed, an almost feminine sound that belied his size.

Dan had moved to one side, intending to attack me from the rear, but the bulk of the other man blocked him for a moment. On my feet, at last, I took a chance and swung my right leg with all the power I possessed and felt the satisfying crunch as my upraised boot made contact with Tony's testicles. Steroid abuse raises aggression levels and shrinks testicles, but even in their diminished state the effect was spectacular. Tony sank to his knees, then rolled onto his side, his mouth wide open but producing no discernible words.

As I turned to face Dan, the door swung open and a man strode into the room.

'What the fuck's going on here?' He said.

Dan turned towards him with an obvious air of deference. The man I'd been waiting to meet, at last. I took a step forward, punched Dan on the side of his face and, as he staggered, took a further quick pace and butted him full in the face. He dropped like a stone, out of it, and I continued walking, hand outstretched.

'About time,' I said. 'Still, at least the playmates you left for me kept me from getting bored.'

He took my hand, shook it, wiped a trace of blood away on the curtains. 'I'm glad you found something to pass the time. Sorry to have kept you waiting. Ready now?'

I nodded and followed him out of the door. Neither of us gave even a passing glance to the scene of carnage behind us.

Chapter 114

Hot Sex and a Fight to Follow – The Perfect Day?

This is about sex and conflict; two of the pillars of our society. With a twist.

Dan hadn't slept for two nights and was very tired. The metallic taste of blood from his torn lips was a constant reminder that he was in bad shape. He'd only himself to blame, he knew that, and the knowledge was eating away at him. When the mood took him, the urge for battle, he had a reckless streak and this time he'd started a fight that he'd never had much chance of winning.

His opponent had been too big, black as coal and short of temper. Within moments, Dan had realised he was facing painful defeat, but of course, by then it had been too late. Oh, he'd fought hard, but the result had been inevitable.

Worse, the bitch he'd been fucking an hour previously had abandoned him, left him bleeding in the gutter, without a backward glance.

His feet hurt and there was blood in his mouth as he limped homeward. The bitch had been his downfall, as so many times before. He'd craved sex, hot and dirty, and she'd been a kindred spirit. He'd fucked her in the alley behind the church, both of them as eager as the other, where the urge to fuck was the only thing that mattered. Passersby glanced at them, averted their eyes, but they'd ignored every scandalised glance.

He lived for these moments, that first instant attraction and then the all-consuming need for sex took over. The bitch had been hot, every bit as eager as himself, asking more and more of him until he'd finally been spent. Still she pressed herself against him, demanding even more until he'd snapped at her, sending her packing, her eyes flashing in sudden fury.

An hour later she was back, urging him on, and he'd not been able to say no. This time he'd been more aggressive, roughing her up, biting her neck and she'd loved it, begged for more. The rage had been upon him, she'd taken him far beyond all rational behaviour and he'd thought himself invincible. Driven him to the ultimate folly when that massive shadow loomed over him, eyes fixed on the shameless bitch still offering herself for the next in line.

Dan should have walked away, accepted he was out of his depth. That broad black face, white teeth gleaming, those muscular shoulders, the sheer bulk should have been enough to make him think twice about a fight he was never going to win.

Defeated, bleeding and broken, he'd admitted defeat, but the final indignity was the contemptuous glance that fucking bitch had given him as she'd walked away. Her expression said 'loser' and the memory of it lingered still.

The final corner, the house in sight, and he quickened his pace. Forgot the pain for a moment, held himself together as he saw the woman rush out from the porch.

'Where the hell have you been?'

Her voice was harsh, her anger evident. Despite himself, he shrank from her rage, averted his eyes.

'Look at the state of you,' she snapped, taking hold of him by his collar and snapping the shackle on the red lead with which she led him towards his home and the basket before the fire that he craved with all his being.
Chapter 115

Last Day at Work

The Leaving Present

I always said I'd never write this. Far too personal. Far too many painful memories of that period of my working life.

Names have been changed, timescale too, but it's my last day at work. It was a long time ago and any account is constrained by the inadequacies of the author, severely so in this case, but I'm hoping these few lines will allow me to draw a line, leave the past behind. So many opportunities await.

Anyway, here it is. The final entry. Warts and all.

The door closed behind me as I hit the far wall. I turned around, saw their faces, knew it was serious. There'd been no warning. None at all. A minute ago I'd been sharing a joke with Terry on my way out to the car park, then the other door opened and I knew instantly I was blown. The fat man was a face I knew from a former life. Back when I had a different name, hair down way past my shoulders, lived in a very different world. Nowadays, I was Corporate. Smart suit, freshly scrubbed, well turned out. The fat man bridged the gap between those very different worlds. I couldn't remember his name, but that didn't matter. He was here and that could only mean trouble.

'That's him,' he said, wheezing a little. 'He's smarter dressed than he used to be, but that's him. Not likely to forget him, am I?'

The others didn't reply, but it didn't really need an answer. The last time I'd seen the fat man he'd been ducking his head, scrambling into the back of a police car, cuffed and practically shitting himself. He had been the money man, not exactly a frontline warrior, but he knew where all the drugs money ended up and that knowledge was vital. The big man had gone in the van hours ago with his minders, bloodied and still half asleep as the front door had been broken down at three in the morning. The fat man was a loose end and I'd only stayed around to see the job come to a conclusion.

'You'd better fuck off then,' Terry said and the fat man was out through the door as fast as a man of his bulk could manage.

Terry turned back to me, a smile plastered across his face. 'I always thought you were too good to be true,' he said.

'Did you bollocks,' I replied. No need to try to bluster it out. The fat man had told his tale and this job was at an end. The situation was one my Control always tried to avoid talking about. 'Can't happen,' he always said. 'Your cover's too good. We're always on hand if the shit hits the fan.' Well, this was exactly the situation he'd described and I was very much on my own.

Behind Terry were two doormen from one of the clubs over the water. Birkenhead boys. Shaven heads, no necks, steroid-induced muscles bulging out from under tight black tee-shirts. I didn't know them by name, but I'd seen them around. Low-level muscle called in when it became necessary to give someone a smacking. I wasn't concerned about them, but Terry was different. Terry had thought me a mate, had helped me rise through the ranks, had even introduced me to the big man. Undercover work is stressful at best, but the dangers were multiplied tenfold when it became a personal affront. The fat man, a face from my past, ten years ago at least, had been enough to convince the big man of the threat I posed to his freedom. He'd want me out of the way, but giving the job to Terry had been a masterstroke. I knew the way the big man's mind worked. He was shrewd, clever, ruthless, but also a born leader. Terry had made errors, pushing me forward into a position where I had access to the big man. This was his chance to make amends.

Terry murmured something I didn't catch to the other two and they moved forward, arms forced wide by their bulk, like a pair of silverbacks. I stood still, let them take hold of an arm each, hold me still. There weren't any other obvious options. Terry moved closer, punched me, hard, in the face. Just the one punch, but I was held firmly on either side with my back against the wall so it did some damage. I looked at him, said nothing. This wasn't the time or the place to plead for mercy. That had never been an option. I'd seen the manner in which punishments and retribution had been meted out to others often enough. No point in expecting words to have any effect. I wasn't due to check in for another eight hours, my Control would have had no more warning of this development than I'd had. No help to be had there.

Terry wasn't in a mood to chat either. He drew the gun from his jacket pocket, showed it to me, eyes glinting. I stared impassively back at him, but the realisation had sunk in at first sight of the gun. The order had come down from the big man and this was to be an execution. They may not have known who I was working for, knew I wasn't a policeman, but when the big man was threatened there was only ever one outcome. The threat had to disappear.

The two minders retained a tight grip but edged slightly away from me, perhaps wary of a ricochet. They needn't have worried. I'd seen Terry shoot before and his hand would be rock steady. I stared at him as he raised the gun towards my face, watched his finger slowly whiten on the trigger, then CLICK!

'Fuck!' Terry said, lowering the gun and shaking it. He broke it apart, checked the magazine, raised it again. This time there were no histrionics, no taunting, no delay.

CLICK!

One of the minders sniggered, the sound dying away as Terry's' eyes flashed impotent rage in his direction. The gun clattered to the floor and a clubbing fist lashed out. I felt the blood run down my cheek, but kept my eyes fixed mockingly on the man in front of me. 'What's up, Terry? Broke your favourite toy?'

This time the blows that rained in were less controlled, did less damage and I found a little more opportunity to ride with the punches.

'You're fuckin' dead, pal,' Terry snarled, walking away and picking up the gun from the floor. 'Keep him here,' he barked and walked out, slamming the door.

'Gone for another gun,' the sniggerer said, releasing my arm. 'He'll be back.'

I didn't doubt it.

The room was on the ground floor of a derelict club that was under consideration of refurbishment. The fact that Terry had drawn a gun, tried to fire it, told me there was no-one else around. This wasn't a job that welcomed witnesses. I also suspected he'd have to go elsewhere to find another weapon and, in confirmation, heard his Audi fire up in the alley outside. As the engine note faded away, I took stock of the two minders he'd left behind. Plenty of bulk, not much else, I reckoned, but they were a formidable barrier if I intended to walk away from this room.

'What the fuck you lookin' at?'

I shrugged, moved away slightly. Terry had been reason enough to be concerned. Terry with a gun, even more so, but these two were a different matter. They'd never have left me to go and get a replacement gun. That gorilla mentality, honed in a hundred or so street brawls, would have guaranteed their response. These were men who'd never seen the necessity to own a gun. Even a knife was an unnecessary encumbrance. They had fists, brute strength, what else did they ever need?

I stood and faced them, dwarfed by their bulk, but seeing the glimmer of a way out. I doubted either of these men had lost a fight since they'd started school. Their sheer size would have battered opponents to the ground. It was that air of invincibility that I was depending on to preserve my life a little longer. It had to be now, before Terry returned, that much was certain.

The problem with always being the winner of a fight was complacency. An inability to consider the possibility of defeat. That was my edge. These two had never known defeat, but they'd never fought anyone like me either. I didn't fight fair. I certainly had no intention of trading punches with them. That would leave me in a crumpled heap on the floor. I had other plans.

'Just me and the fat boys then?' I said, concentrating on the taller man. He was six-foot six, twenty stones at least and just about every pound was bone and muscle. The logo on the tee-shirt was that of a gym where men like himself raised massive weights overhead. His eyes narrowed as what passed for brain cells processed my remark. He stepped forward, drew back a massive fist ready to punch me and his partner giggled in anticipation. Street fighting is an acquired skill; one neither of these men had ever bothered to learn. Pushing and shoving, a few flailing fists, that was all they knew. A classical boxer would have utilised his greater mobility, wider range of punches, to cut either of them to ribbons, but that required skills I didn't possess. I'd not boxed since my youth, but street fighting was very much my area of expertise. Big men, really big men, rely solely on the power of their fists, their bulk sufficient to overpower any opponent foolish enough to face them, toe to toe.

As the man with the gym logo drew his arm back I was already on the move. He'd telegraphed his intention and allowed me plenty of time to counter. A punch looks good on a cinema screen, but is a massively inefficient weapon. A gun would allow him to put me on the floor at a safe distance, a knife would have made a defence difficult, but drawing back a fist to throw a punch was meat and drink to a street fighter. I moved inside the radius of his swing, pivoting on one leg and driving the point of my elbow into his face. The sound of bone cracking, the sudden spurt of blood, brought a gasp to his lips and I continued to spin, bringing the point of my shoe into the nerve cluster inside his right knee, popping the knee joint and tearing ligaments. He squealed and collapsed in an ungainly heap to the floor. One step forward and I kicked him full in the face, fresh bone splintering, before coming to a halt a couple of paces from the other man.

'Come on then,' I said. He didn't even glance at his colleague writhing on the floor, but did exactly what I'd expected him to do, put his head down and rush me, arms grappling for a hold. I'd banked on his reaction, knew his response would be immediate attack, and was ready. On the balls of my feet I could go either way, pushed off to the left, just far enough to evade his grasp, and hit him a solid slap with a cupped hand on the ear. Not enough to hurt him, certainly not enough to disable him, but enough to enrage him. He bellowed, whipped around like a Range Rover making a three-point turn, but I'd already moved to one side and flicked out a hand, slapping him in the same place on his right ear. A slap like this, hand cupped, can burst an eardrum, cause pain and damage far above the amount of effort involved.

I rarely punch anyone in a fight. The human hand contains far too many tiny bones and is easily damaged, but these were little more than slaps. Lacking weapons, the best means of doing damage is elbows, knees, or a solid pair of shoes, all of which I possessed. The best weapon of all, available to everyone, is the human head. Specifically, the solid ridge of bone covering the forehead. Used correctly it has all the stopping power of a bowling ball and, as my opponent was still turning in confusion away from the place he'd expected me to be standing I took three quick steps forward and butted him on the bridge of his nose. I felt his face collapse, bone and cartilage crunching beneath me, and he dropped like a stone. Locally, the head butt is known as a Liverpool Kiss and it's still the best means of ending a fight at a stroke.

The other man was conscious, but out of it. Cradling his face and oblivious to anything else. I stepped over him, walked to the door and opened it. The alley outside was empty and I could hear the distant hum of traffic rumbling along Upper Parliament Street. I closed the door and walked away, wiping the blood from my face with my sleeve. This wasn't an area where the locals faint at the sight of blood, but I needed to get to a phone, report in and get Control to pull me out of here before Terry got back and discovered my absence.

I found a call box, reported in, settled down to wait. They'd be quick. They needed to be. I was shaking. This job was over, my cover blown, and there'd be a few days of debriefing to come, but I'd already made a decision. This would be my last job.

The End

