Happy Daze.

Undercover work isn’t glamorous. Forget Spooks, forget about saving the world; the reality is very different. It’s dirty, dangerous and uncomfortable work. Mostly, my job was dull routine with occasional trips into the unknown. I’ve been in hospital for a few days and this set me thinking about an episode that was anything but routine. It started off as just another job, but by the end of a single night had escalated into something very different. Here’s how that night began.

They’re a mixed bunch in here tonight. Next to me are two girls, smack-heads with dead eyes and twitching features, huddled together, trying to stave off the shivers. It’s cold tonight, but they’d be shaking even if it were midsummer’s eve. An hour ago they were giving any newcomer the eye – ever hopeful – but now they’re seemingly resigned to doing without as there’s no-one here willing to share. If they knew about the three ounce bags I was hiding they’d be over like a shot, offering to do anything I asked of them. I’m the only one holding and I’m the only one who’s not a user. Ironic.

It’s not easy, being a convincing junkie when you’re not a user. I take pills for a week before the job which give my skin a yellowish tinge and this will be the third night I’ve not slept. Sleep deprivation helps and the black shadows under my eyes are real enough, but even so I can’t compete with most of my fellow residents. Heroin chic may be an image beloved by catwalk models, but reality is very different.

The squat is a Victorian mansion with a view over Sefton Park. A dozen or so bedrooms, attics and basements, and ten years ago it would have been magnificent. Now it had been trashed, interior walls knocked down, floorboards gutted, graffiti on every visible surface. Mostly, that had been the work of kids, but in recent years it had become a hangout for drug users, one of many throughout the city.

This would be my third night as a resident. I kept my eyes and ears open, tried to blend in, but so far I’d learnt nothing new. There was a new kid on the dealers’ block, but I still knew nothing about him.

The two young lads were kicking off again. They’d started fighting about this time last night and after an hour of it a big black guy with dreadlocks had given them each a good slapping and thrown them out. He wasn’t here tonight and after watching him cough up blood this morning I wasn’t surprised. The lads were only fifteen or so. Emaciated, pale, skinheads dressed like twins in identical tee-shirt, jeans and boots, they were about to kick off again after bickering for the past hour.

‘Shut the fuck up,’ shouted the only overweight woman in the room. – drug-users tend to emaciation and eating is way down their list of priorities. She wasn’t a user; just an alkie, but her bloke was dead to the world and hadn’t stirred for a while. He’d broken a needle off in his arm last night and had bled like a stuck pig, but even then he’d barely moved.

‘Fuck off, you fat bitch,’ the younger lad shouted back and both of them forgot their squabbles for a moment to hurl abuse at the woman who’d taken it upon herself to intrude on their very public squabble. He stood and walked across the stained floorboards to where the woman sat and spat a thick gob of phlegm in her hair. The rest of us; perhaps twenty arranged around the huge attic room, watched but didn’t interfere. Not our battle. Apart from the fat woman and me, everyone in the house was a user without any hope of a fix. Junkies don’t give a fuck about anyone else. All that matters is the powder, the needle, the pills; whatever they wanted but couldn’t have.

‘You twat,’ the woman shouted, trying to get to her feet, boot heels scrabbling for purchase on the boards, and the lad cackled as she slipped and fell in an ungainly heap.

‘Stay out of it, slag,’ he said and went back to where his mate was sitting. The fat woman had arrived last night with her man in tow and had sat silently, sipping at a bottle of vodka while he’d tried and failed, repeatedly, to find a vein. When he slipped and the needle broke off in his arm, blood spurting out, she’d made a grab for the tiny residue of liquid in the spoon he was using, but had missed and they both sat and watched the last of his stash soak into the ancient timbers. Since then he’d barely moved and she’d finished the bottle in silence.

A young girl bearing the scars of a serial cutter began to cry and her boyfriend put his arm around her without a word. She had the beginnings of a black eye and a thick lip from a screaming row they’d had in the middle of the night, but they’d made up since then. She looked twenty-five, but I reckoned she was no more than fifteen and in daylight the scars on her arms and legs stood out against her deathly pale skin. Her boyfriend was a black lad with a harelip and a short fuse, but the casual reassurance of his arm draped across her shoulder was enough to calm her down.

The crying girl and her boyfriend had pestered us all until an hour ago. Begging for a loan of anything that could reduce their craving. I had three heroin wraps and a small baggie of coke hidden in various areas of my clothing, but there was no way I’d be parting with any of it. I always carried on a job like this. The sniffer dogs invariably picked me out if there was a bust and being thrown into the back of a police van did wonders for credibility.

The girl was no underprivileged scallie from a sink estate. Even half-starved and wasted, she had class and I could tell she found this desperate begging distasteful. Needs must, of course, and she’d offered herself shamelessly to every man in here no more than an hour ago. They’d set their ratty sleeping bag in the opposite corner to the place where many residents took a dump. There was a toilet on the ground floor that even flushed some of the time, but few attic dwellers risked going down there unless there was a score in the offing. The solvent abusers and drunks who’d set up camp at ground level were inclined to violent outbursts and best avoided.

I’d got used to the smell by now. Human waste, carelessly splashed urine up the walls, vomit and unwashed humanity; every drug squat smelt the same. I assumed the girl was responsible for the poem scrawled on the wall above their sleeping bag. Robert Frost: Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening. The writer had left gaps in the body of the poem, but the best-known section was written in a bold and confident hand:

‘The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.’

Under different circumstances, I’d have talked to her about Frost and much else, but this was neither the time nor the place.

Most of the others were lying down by now. Seeking the oblivion of sleep. I kept my eyes on the doorway as I heard the sounds of an altercation from down below. There was a strict pecking order in place and newcomers were discouraged by the welcoming committee of hardened drinkers who occupied the ground floor. Alkies and junkies rarely mix, but the squat was big enough to cater for all needs. Arguments and shouts from the lower floors were nothing new and nobody else took much notice, but I heard a familiar voice raised in anger.

Three years since I’d last worked this area, but that last job had not ended well. There’d been a falling-out and a number of high-profile casualties. Drug dealers are a quarrelsome bunch, obsessed with territorial boundaries and demonstrations of respect. The man I’d aligned myself with had been a rising star with good connections to the drug lords of Eastern Europe. I’d gained his confidence and had high hopes for a good result. Dean Conroy had worked his way up the hard way. He’d have made a decent boxing career if he’d put his mind to it, but there were other career paths for someone who was handy with his fists and the rules are far less stringent. Conroy had risen fast, made allies and prospered.

When I sought him out he was in the process of setting up a network of dealers to move the heroin his contacts were supplying. The faceless men in London who organised meetings and policy briefings wanted to know more about the origin of these shipments. Dean Conroy knew the answers to many of their questions and I’d been sent in to get him to talk. Undercover work isn’t glamorous – my present surroundings were proof of that – but occasionally there were compensations. Being a mate of Dean Conroy meant being asked to all the best places. Sporting events, glamorous settings, the best restaurants and finest wines were all on offer.

A flash lifestyle promotes envy and Dean made enemies. A turf war was on the cards and only drastic action could prevent it. Dean’s method was brutally simple: give everyone who opposed him a good kicking and keep kicking them until peace was restored. As plans go, it had merit, but as it turned out, the rival gangs were even more ruthless and the Conroy empire came crashing down. I’d bailed out when the winners and losers became obvious and Dean Conroy had vanished, presumed dead by all and sundry. Now he was in the room below me.

I stood up and dusted myself down. This could go either way, but doing nothing wasn’t an option. If Dean Conroy walked up those stairs and even suspected my part in his downfall, it wouldn’t be good. My cover on this job would be blown, but that would be the least of my worries. I decided on a proactive approach.

I walked softly down the stairs and saw Dean at once, squaring up to two shaven-headed guys who outweighed him by a massive margin. All three men had been drinking heavily from all appearances, but the light of battle in Dean’s eyes was undiminished.

‘Need a hand, mate?’ I said. All three men turned to look at me. Dean Conroy was not the man I’d last seen three years ago. His skin hung in folds from his face and he’d ballooned in size, but the machismo was still in place. Picking a fight with the two biggest men in the place was pure Deano.

‘Fuck me,’ he said, a smile creasing his ravished features. ‘Thought you were dead.’

‘Yeah, thought the same about you.’

He cackled. ‘Thought it best to fuck off out of town for a while.’

I nodded. ‘Me too. You’re back then?’

‘Back and ready to rumble. Just as soon as I’ve given this pair a spanking.’

I’d met the two men he’d picked a fight with when I first came to the squat. Minders with chat would have been their job description at one time. A step up from simple muscle for hire with enough brain cells left to provide security for a gang boss or dealer, but alcohol and security don’t mix and this pair were on the way down. They were the self-appointed guardians of the squat and took a dim view of strangers entering their domain. I’d sweetened them with a bottle of Jack Daniels on arrival and was on nodding terms by now.

‘He’s a mate of mine,’ I said to the bigger of the two. ‘Doesn’t mean any harm. Just a bit pissed.’

‘Tell him he’s not welcome here, then.’

I nodded and took Dean by the arm. ‘Come on, Deano. Let’s fuck off, eh?’

Dean said nothing, but the battle glare had faded from his eyes. We walked to the street level and stood outside looking into the darkness of Sefton Park.

‘I’m back in the game,’ Dean said. ‘New supplier, solid base, reliable. Just need to get a network going.’

I said nothing, but my mind was racing. Looked like the rumours of a new drugs conduit were bang on the money. What didn’t make sense was the involvement of Dean Conroy. Three years ago, he was the Man. Now, he was an overweight bruiser with a drink problem.

‘Cut you in, if you like,’ Dean said. ‘I’ve been busy while I’ve been away. Made a few contacts, but it needs someone with clout to get it up and running.’

‘What is it? Brown?’

‘Yeah. Rock solid supplier and guaranteed delivery. Enough heroin to get every smack-head in the country off their faces. Supposed to meet a feller here tonight. Name of Elkin. Don’t suppose you know him?’

I nodded. ‘I’ve heard of him,’ I said. ‘A Mick, isn’t he? Little feller? Got a temper?’

Dean laughed and spat into the darkness. ‘That’s him. Nasty fucker, but got decent contacts.’

‘Nasty fucker’ was a massive understatement. I knew Elkin very well, even though we’d never met. The file I’d read before taking on this job had his name on the cover. Simon Elkin had made his name in his native Ireland and was now looking to start up in England. One of my colleagues had been shadowing Elkin for three months. Two weeks ago, I’d visited my colleague in hospital. Technically, he’d be an ex-colleague now. He’d never work again, but that was the least of it. He’d never walk again either.

Elkin’s men had worked him over and thrown him out of the back of a speeding van, leaving him for dead. I’d sat at his bedside for a couple of hours and seen the results of Elkin’s ruthlessness at first hand.

‘Perhaps I’ll stick around,’ I said. ‘Might be something in it for me.’

Say Hello to Marcus.

 

In 1599 and shortly after the completion of Henry IV, Part II, Shakespeare wrote The Merry Wives of Windsor, reputedly at the behest of Queen Elizabeth 1st who’d demanded the character of Falstaff be retained for one more time, at least.

My first novel featured a character named Marcus and he was to become my Falstaff. Under pressure at least equal to that imposed by a Monarch, I agreed Marcus should return in my next book. He was never intended to have such an effect, but as is so often the case in a Crime Thriller, the ‘baddie’ becomes the focus of attention and the one we secretly root for, even when they’re as unspeakably vile as Marcus.

Here’s an early introduction to Marcus from Burn, Baby, Burn. Reading this I realize myself how much I enjoy writing about the bad men: the deranged, the damaged souls  who see the world in a very different manner to the majority of their fellow humans. It is this essential difference that makes the sociopathic personality so compelling. It’s also interesting to re-read a selection from writing which is a decade old. I’m a better writer now – certainly a more patient and discerning writer – and I’d not allow this to go out, in its present form, if I were writing this novel now. What’s done is done, as I tell myself on so many occasions in so many other aspects of life. Never go back!

Marcus is no more, but I’m working on a character who makes Marcus seem like an innocent choirboy. That may say as much about me as it does the evident expectations of so many of my readers.

 

Marcus was awake. Heavy cloud cover prevented even the faintest glimpse of the sun, with scarcely any light penetrating the tiny windows of the cabin where he lay naked on his mattress, the gloom as warm and comfortable as an Amish quilt.

The moment his eyes opened he swung his legs to one side and rose from the simple mattress, laid directly on the unpolished wooden floor. Rising to the tips of his toes he stretched, like a cat, arching his back and rolling his neck from side to side to iron out any stiffness. For the next half hour he put himself through a punishing regime of exercises until his naked body gleamed with sweat. Slicking back his hair in front of a small wall-mounted mirror he left the room and padded silently along a narrow corridor until he finally stood in the open doorway from where he could see the sleeping figure on the bed remained undisturbed.

The girl lay on her back, motionless on top of the mattress. There were no coverings on her and he noted the small raised bumps on her skin, testament to the chill in the air. Her small breasts were reddened and tender and her slightly parted thighs imparted an air of innocence.

Exultation rose in his chest, building inside him until he thought he would cry out. He gorged his senses on the pure joy of expectation, as sweet as sugar on whipped cream. To the casual observer, none of this would be evident. Every emotion was concealed under the cloak of his rigid self-control. Adrenaline flooded his bloodstream, ensuring optimum readiness, in the same way primitive man prepared to face the dangers of the hunt. This was a time to savour. He walked among them and they knew nothing of his power.

Marcus turned and walked away, leaving the cabin behind him. The lake surface alternated between sparkling glass, where the moonlight caught it, to deep gloom in the shadows. Perfectly flat with no raised waves or discernible currents, it just lay there, placid and inscrutable.

The air drifted through the trees with the hot rancid breath of an impending storm as Marcus prowled restlessly through the wooded glades of his island retreat, breathing in the night air. His eyes were pools of splintered quartz, reflecting not a single element of humanity. The blazing furnace of rage that burned unchecked inside his head would never be revealed to the world at large, constrained by his inflexible will.

The naked girl asleep on the mattress in the cabin behind him was bait, nothing more. He had no interest in her other than as a means to attaining his goal. Her vacuous life would have ended by now if he did not have need of her and her continued existence was only peripheral to his real target.

Grinding his teeth, and carrying a heavy water-soaked log over each shoulder, he sprinted up the steep slope leading from the lakeshore, his naked body gleaming in the moonlight. Sweating profusely, he turned at the crest of the hill and jogged down to the shore where he dropped the logs and dived into the icy water, swimming a hundred yards into the lake before returning to the shore and collecting the logs to repeat the exercise again and again. This punishing routine had been a daily ritual for the past three months.

Finally, exhausted, he returned to the cabin. He made no sound, but some primeval instinct alerted her to his presence – perhaps a throwback to the days when a nearby predator spelled imminent danger. Marcus smiled at the appropriateness of her reaction. The girl stared blankly up at him, her face completely devoid of expression. He sat on the edge of the bed. Celine shuffled away, towards the wall, but he did not touch her.

In reflective mood, he stroked the thin silver line of a scar on his right forearm. Slightly raised, smooth and slender, it stood out against his tan, always more noticeable in summer. The scar, itself, was nothing, an irrelevance.  With no connection to nerve endings it caused him no pain.  But, it served a purpose to remind him of the days before he gained absolute control.

He could no more surrender control than forget to take his next breath.  Weaker men succumbed to alcohol or drugs, but Marcus would never contemplate losing the power to directly influence the world about him.  Without this power he would be nothing.

Toothache, High Finance and Being a Shy Boy.

Good Friday morning. I wake with toothache and no dentist available until Tuesday. Sod’s law, this. Okay, I could go to an emergency dentist, but they’ll just whip the tooth out. Quick and easy. Next patient!

I’ll cope. It’s only pain. Far more annoying is having all my funds swanning around in cyberspace, at the mercy of the banking system, over the holiday period. I want my money and I want it now. I’ve been busy.  So far this week I’ve sold a car, agreed the sale of my ‘old’ campervan, sold my last remaining five acres of Spain and agreed the price of a ‘new to me’ motor-home. Easy!

Well, it would be a great deal easier if the money were available. What was wrong with the tried and trusted method of having a suitcase full of used tenners to hand when deals were struck? I’m now regarded as a potential money-launderer in two countries and still can’t get at my money.

Okay, I’ll stop fretting and think of something else. The abscess under my tooth, perhaps. I shouldn’t really be worrying about money; I’ve already got far too much of the stuff for a simple soul like me. Perhaps it’s time to reconsider what I intend doing with all this wealth. What sort of idiot would blow it all on a motor-home and the funding of a nomadic lifestyle anyway?

Neglect and reticence are a great system for achieving book sales. I had a couple of cheques from Amazon yesterday – Kindle sales in US and UK – and they’re the highest amounts for four months, even though I haven’t checked sales or even glanced at my books for, oh, four months! Yes, the heady days of selling hundreds of books a day are long gone, but even so sales remain buoyant in spite of the author’s wretched apathy. It’s a ‘system’ that has worked very well for me.

Just over a year ago, when I published my first book, I had no idea what to do next. After thinking about the possible ways of publicising my book for a while I told the world of its availability on both Facebook and Twitter. When I say ‘the world’ this is somewhat of an exaggeration as only those deluded enough to be following me on Facebook and Twitter at that time – maximum 300 sorry souls – ever got to hear the news.

Subsequently, I decided self-boosting wasn’t for me and would only provide links to my free book in future and links of that nature have rivalled the dodo and the unicorn for the rarity of their sightings. I’ve no problem with other writers pushing their wares – except when it’s all they ever contribute and there are a fair few of them – but it really doesn’t suit me. I can, and do, recommend the work of writers I admire, but a lifelong aversion to being thought pushy prevents me doing the same with my own books. Omertà, the mafia code of self-imposed reticence, became an unlikely route to publishing success.

As for ‘marketing,’ that’s a subject about which I can claim monumental ignorance. Those clever people who manipulate the information age, often with spectacular results, are as far removed from my own limited skill-set as the average astronaut. I wouldn’t know where to start, so I didn’t even bother. I visited an Internet forum for Kindle users, three times in total, and have no idea whether it achieved anything as I had serious doubts that ‘Hi, I’m Jake and I’ve written a book, just like all the rest of you on here’ was ever going to amount to very much.

‘When are you going to write another book?’ This has to be the number one question from those few friends who even know I’ve written four books, so far. Somehow, I restrain myself from the obvious retort: ‘when are you going to write your first book?’

I did ask this to a persistent questioner. ‘When would I find time to write a book?’ they said. ‘It must take months.’

Months! Yeah, and the rest. Writing a novel takes me well over a year before I’m anywhere near happy with it. I’m too busy, doing other things. Selfish things like travelling. Pleasing myself. It’s not like I need the money, is it? Even though it’s presently ‘lost’ in the system, somewhere. Agghh! Now I’m back to fretting again.

 

 

Thoughts of a Travelling Man.

Normally, when I’ve been travelling for a while I settle down again to be based in one place. Get back into a routine and catch up on all the things I’ve missed. This time though, ever since we came back to England two weeks ago, we’ve both been unsettled. The last trip was interrupted by a decision to look for a different van – one better suited to long-term travelling – and the quest has been difficult.

The last couple of days have seen things moving forward and we’ll soon be ready to head for Dover and points beyond. So much choice and absolutely no time/financial constraints is a wonderful situation to be in and we seem to speak of little else these days. We have our favourites amongst places we’ve already been and a pecking order of countries we’ve yet to explore in-depth.

Sometimes, we agree absolutely on ‘favourites.’ Best country to visit for variety – France. Country we’d happily live in on a permanent basis – New Zealand. Most eagerly anticipated country to return to, time and again – Morocco.

Morocco is a fascinating country of stark contrasts and I love the way of life there. Maybe, it’s my hippie roots. I had the long hair, the outsize moustache, a burning desire to live my life in a different manner to my parents. If you remember the sixties, you weren’t there, they say. It’s not far off the mark.

When we first took an extended trip to Morocco, I finally had the chance to surf the wild Atlantic breakers off the coast of Essaouira. What an incredible place this is.

The Iles Purpuraires, or Purple Isles, lying just off shore from the ancient port of Essaouira, were named after the dye workshops built by Juba of Mauritania and used to colour togas in that shade of Imperial purple favoured by successive Roman Emperors. Tiny shellfish, indigenous to the region, were crushed to produce the dye, although the precise secret of the recipe was a jealously guarded secret. Juba’s son, Ptolemy, was reputed to have been killed on the orders of the Emperor Caligula for having the temerity to wear a toga of the exact shade as that reserved for the Emperor.

The islands are now a bird sanctuary, having been uninhabited for many years. The largest of the islands, Mogador, contains a ruined prison built to contain political prisoners and had been a place of pilgrimage for the sizeable hippie community which had settled in Essaouira in the sixties. The legendary Jimi Hendrix came here as did many other figures from the Rock Scene. It was a place of pilgrimage for the Beautiful People; the Flower Children who could have changed the World back in 1967, the Summer of Love.

Make Love Not War was the battle cry for a generation and its leading lights came to Morocco, to Big Sur, to swinging London and many other places to exchange ideas and preen in their finery. If only my generation had allowed practicality a fair shot instead of concentrating on the music and designer drugs, what could we have achieved?

Morocco isn’t really about beaches. The ancient cities of Fez, Rabat and Marrakech are largely unchanged since the Middle Ages while the High Atlas mountain range takes a grip of my soul every time I draw near.

The highest peak in North Africa, Djebel Toubkal, rises to over thirteen thousand feet and is at the centre of a wild tract of land where roads and even tracks are scarce. Three clan families had traditionally controlled the high passes. For many years the so-called ‘Lords of the Atlas,’ held sway in a region where officialdom was unknown, operating under a set of rules unique to themselves. Even now, residents of the more remote areas do not consider themselves bound by the same laws as their fellow countrymen far below on the Great Plains.

The Atlas Berbers never adopted the Arabic language, even though this was compulsory for all citizens of Morocco for hundreds of years, maintaining their indigenous Tashelhaït dialect in the face of extreme provocation from the State. The same applied to the imposition of the Islamic faith with Berber tribes preferring to retain their traditional beliefs. These people of the remote mountain areas kept their distance from the materialism to which other regions aspired, cherishing their ancient ways and systems of government.

Here in the rarefied air of the high plateau, small villages exist far from any road, unmarked on any map, in the same way as they have always existed. Organised trekking groups do not come here and the villagers rarely leave the immediate environs of their settlement. For many months of the year the heavy snows of winter prevent any access at all and at other times, the only known tracks are difficult to find and even more difficult to traverse.

I love the sense of communing with nature; the clear air, the community spirit that exists in these mountains. We’ve been here many times; made friends with the remarkable people for whom these mountains are home. Within a few days, modern life ceases to exist. Life is simple here. Reduced to basic needs. Food, warmth, shelter and the interaction between people whose sense of community is what keeps them alive when nature brings its extremes of heat and cold to bear.

Finally, this land keeps the very best to last. Passing through the mountains, traversing the great plains on which the ancient cities took root, we reach the vast expanse of the desert. The Sahara is a timeless region of shifting sands and infinite peace. The people who call the desert home are a breed apart and time spent in their company is humbling beyond belief. There’s a spiritual element to having a love of travelling in one’s soul and nowhere is it more apparent than in the uncharted desolation of a desert where the silence is absolute.

We have parked our van and walked around in the certainty that we were the only people within fifty miles without experiencing the slightest concern. Deserts have to be treated with respect, but we know and understand this and the compensations are vast. I’ve never felt so much at peace, or so alive, as I do in a desert landscape. Being away from the tourist trails makes the experience special. We’re a couple who’ve been together a long time and know what we like. We’re not cut out to enjoy package holidays or the close proximity of people obsessed with cramming as much as possible into two weeks of hedonism.

Our next trip is almost upon us now. An open-ended trip without a planned itinerary or fixed timescale. A trip that’ll take as long as it takes We’ll visit ancient cities and tiny villages throughout Europe, Asia and North Africa. Explore different cultures, meet people, make friends, but the real joy of travelling lies elsewhere. We both have an enduring and almost insatiable love of wilderness, whether it be for mountains, lakes or deserted sandy beaches, but most of all it is the desert that demands our return.

The Worst Word any Writer can Write – ‘Prologue.’

A late night last night. All dressed up. Time spent in front of mirror while grooming, with attention to detail. All factors guaranteed to cause annoyance in a natural scruff. One redeeming feature: the opportunity to people-watch and listen-in. Having spent so much time abroad, the opportunity to eavesdrop and actually understand the nuances of conversation are some small recompense for the absence of sunshine.

Two youngish women, both evidently nurses. A less considerate observer would say they were ‘rat-arsed,’ but I’d say ‘relaxed.’ Here’s the gist of their conversation:

‘You on all over Easter again?’

‘Yeah. Like I was all over bloody Christmas.’

‘Oh right. That’s rough. What ward were you on at Christmas?’

‘Paediatric.’

‘Oh, you wouldn’t mind so much then.’

‘Yes I bloody well did. A ward full of whingeing kids; never got a minute’s peace.’

Priceless! The same couple, dealing with a persistent, older, admirer (not me) asking one of them to dance.

‘What’s his problem?’

‘Dunno. Do I look as if I want to be mauled by a sad tosser with hairy ears and a face like a dog’s arse?’

‘Getting fussy, eh? Used to be anything with a pulse would do you.’

‘Yeah, but not at half past bloody nine. Up to midnight, I’m still fussy.’

Now, a few thoughts on writing. I don’t often write about the nitty-gritty aspects of writing. My own ‘system’ is so irrational I’d hate anyone else to follow my example. What do I know, anyway? I can, apparently, write novels with popular appeal, but ‘proper’ writers tell me often enough how I’ve ‘dumbed down’ in a presumed quest for popularity and wonder why I don’t write the books I should be writing. The only reason that comes to mind is laziness. A book takes over my life for a year or more and I’m far too busy doing other things just lately. A cop-out? Of course it is. I’m lazy, selfish and far too eager to take the easy way out.

In the vain hope of redemption, I’ve been applying what little remains of my mind to an aspect of writing that divides opinion. That’s somewhat of an understatement. It’s the use of a prologue.

Very little attracts venom from a supposedly detached reviewer like a prologue. As a literary device, many of the self-proclaimed ‘experts’ who pontificate on the work of others, see it as akin to Chlamydia and as such best avoided.

Back in what I now think of ‘the wasted time,’ I submitted my poor novel to a diverse selection of agents and publishers. After waiting the barely consequential three months or so it takes to receive a reply, I would receive either a disparaging comment or a curtly definite refusal. Once or twice the ones rejecting me out of hand mentioned my use of the dreaded prologue. An eminent agent with numerous top authors in his ‘stable’ told me he made it a point never to read prologues. Ever.

I included a prologue in my first two novels. In my time on the writers’ site Authonomy, they attracted a fair degree of vitriolic comment. The day I decided to ignore any more advice from unpublished writers and agents/publishers who’d never written a book themselves was a turning point.

Burn, Baby, Burn isn’t the best book I’ve written. It’s not even the book I’d write if I started it now. But, it’s sold over 80,000 copies in a year, despite the inclusion of a dreaded prologue. My second book, Blood, has a prologue as well. The device allows the writer to give a reader a taste of a character who will attain significance later. Maybe a glimpse into the background of a character, the significance of which will be evident by the end of the book. Where’s the problem?

When I’d written the opening page, but no more, of Blood, I read it to the agent who’d recently asked to represent me, having already confessed I’d be using a prologue.  He didn’t even let me get past the first paragraph and after that enthusiastic result the prologue stayed in.

Here’s my opening passage from Blood. If you’re a prologue-hater, just reflect for a moment about what you may be missing by making such extreme judgements in advance.

 

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.

Marcus was awake. He opened his eyes and rose instantly from the bed, flinging aside the single sheet that had been his only covering and walking swiftly to the window looked out across a flat expanse of water. In the stark blackness of early morning the absolute silence was overwhelming. Anything that moved was hugely exaggerated while the slightest sound echoed into the profound stillness of the pitch-black sea. Almost imperceptibly to the naked eye, dawn crept over the horizon. So achingly slow was its progress that it was unclear whether the darkness diminished or the light increased. Either way, the effect was the same.

Each time he looked up, the light was more pronounced, until even the winking pinpricks on the distant headland faded and disappeared. The arrival of the sun was almost an anti-climax; creeping timidly over the rim of the world like an uncertain suitor peeking from the shadows, before gaining confidence and spearing its brilliant fingers across the reflective surface of the sea.

From his vantage point, an open balcony looking out over the picturesque harbour of Collioure, the watcher looked out at a scene that had captivated successive generations of artists and remained completely unmoved. He had slept well and was refreshed. Anything else was an irrelevance.

Marcus turned away and strode naked to the washstand where he scrubbed his hands and face, brushed his teeth and shaved, then collected his clothes from the wardrobe. Frowning, he examined a brown speck on the cuff of his shirt. It was faint enough to escape attention but he scrubbed it under the cold tap until all traces of the stain had been removed. The shirt would have to be replaced later, but would suffice for the moment.

He dressed and collected his single bag from beneath the antique pine table on which he’d placed his wallet, watch and small change. He stepped over the body on the floor, carefully checking the soles of his shoes for blood traces. Disposal of the remains, while desirable, had become inconvenient. Having decided to leave France, such trivial matters were no longer important. The girl was a nobody without any possible link to himself and would be soon forgotten. Just another dead junky, albeit one whose miserable life was remarkable only for the luxurious trappings of the room where she’d spent her last night on earth.

The razor lay by her side, its gleaming blade and pearl handle standing out against the dark oak floorboards. Although the razor had never made contact with his own skin, it had been part of him for many years and had served him well. All other aspects of his life, he would leave behind, but this old friend was too precious to abandon. Marcus used the girl’s discarded underwear to wipe the blade before slipping it into a battered velvet-lined case. He had no doubt that he would have need of it again.

 

 

 

The People who live in my Head.

I’m not writing. This doesn’t make me an ex-writer – not yet anyway – but just means I’m preoccupied with other matters. I’m back in England – albeit briefly – seeking a different van to go off travelling in, and the process is taking up most of my ‘thinking time.’

Thinking time is often mistaken for idleness. That apparently aimless staring into space or sitting in the shade ‘resting my eyes.’ No, I’m not asleep; I’m thinking. At this time, almost exclusively about motor-homes. I know, more or less, what I want. It has to be capable of being ‘home’ to two people for a year or so yet compact enough to explore narrow lanes and mountain villages. Not as easy as you may imagine.

We’ve downsized, massively, over the past year or so. Sold houses, ditched possessions, focussed on what is essential rather than ‘merely’ desirable. That’s tricky. Now we need to take a step further: reduce what we need to sustain a comfortable lifestyle right down to what little we can carry within the confines of a small van.

A friend on Twitter asked me a question today. When I write, are my characters ‘real?’ She didn’t mean, do they really exist, but are they real, to me? Yes, they are. Even those monstrous sociopaths who somehow manage to creep out from the far reaches of my mind are real to me. I live with them for a year or more, these people inside my head. As a novel progresses, the nature of these  characters changes. Events bring different forces to bear and as with ‘real’ people, they react to events in different and often irrational ways. The later stages of a novel are when the process becomes most interesting; for this writer at least.

I’m not an organised writer. I don’t write to a prescribed outline. Mostly, I have a basic idea and run with it. All my novels to date have been written in a chaotic manner. I may have an idea for a beginning or an end mapped out, but even this is subject to change. My first novel started its life ten years ago. When I finally submitted part of it to the writers’ site Authonomy it was still in a state of flux. In the last year of its pre-publication life it changed radically. The title changed, the ending was different, it shifted from First Person narrative to Third Person and, most importantly, I stopped taking heed of the opinions of others and wrote ‘my’ book.

I’m a prolific reader and I know what books sell well. I set out to write a ‘commercial’ book and Burn, Baby, Burn has sold over 80,00 copies to date – all in the past year – but if I went back to it now, I’d write it in a very different manner. The gestation period of that first novel was a decade or more and I’m a better writer than I was back then. Less self-indulgent, more sure of myself, although, sadly, no better organised.

I have three writing projects at a fairly advanced stage. Potential novels with at least 50,000 words ‘in the bank.’ A rational person would decide which one best fitted the needs of the market and cash in on the notoriety that selling shed-loads of books brings in its wake. Hmm! The problem is: I’m not enthused by these projects. They’re crime fiction. Easily the best examples of the genre I’ve ever written and yet…

My problem is, I’ve been there, done that. Written ‘commercial’ books and somehow managed to find buyers in completely unexpected numbers.

It’s time to move on now. Do something else. I’ll write a travel blog and possibly expand it into a book. It won’t sell in high numbers, but I can live with that. I’ll enjoy writing it and that’s important. I don’t need to sell books to live. Money doesn’t motivate me. I’ve lived well and survived on very little at different times of my life and been happy at either extreme.

Those ‘real’ characters… Back in the days when I was still deluded enough to submit my work to conventional publishers, I spoke for an hour or so to an Editor at Harper Collins. It was late in the evening and she’d consumed far less wine than myself which may explain our inability to find common ground. My unpleasant character, Marcus, left a lingering impression on her. She couldn’t ‘relate’ to him and it was this absence of perceived rationality in his behaviour that made her unable to recommend the book to her superiors.

She called Marcus a ‘fantasy’ character. Now, I regard the Fantasy genre as a cop-out so I know what she meant. Imagination running unchecked, heedless of reality and operating under a different set of ‘rules’ to reality is the staple diet of a Fantasy novel. I don’t write fantasy and I tried to explain this, without success.  That Editor had no point of reference for a man like Marcus. Unlike myself. ‘Men like him, men with no redeeming features, don’t exist,’ she said. She was young, bright, personable and very good at her job, but she’d led a sheltered life. I’ve met many people without a single redeeming feature. I’ve sat in rooms with men who were the personification of evil. Talked to them, ate with them, even shared a joke with them. Men who killed without compunction and never gave the matter another thought. Men who’ll willingly kill a fellow human being for gain and men who kill for their own warped pleasure. No, they’re not common, these unpleasant people, but they certainly exist.

A while ago now I wrote in my blog about a man I called Carl. I met this man many times. On every occasion I felt the hairs stand up on the back of my neck; just from being in close proximity to a man who was the very personification of evil. Carl was charming, personable, highly intelligent, well read and a good conversationalist. He also lacked any appreciation of right and wrong. Carl terrified me in a way that men who radiated physical danger never had. Men of violence are straightforward. Their threat is strikingly evident and easily rationalised. Men like Carl defy conventional understanding and we fear the unknown, the irrational, to a far greater extent than we fear the thug wielding a pickaxe handle.

The sociopathic characters I create are not directly based on real people. Not in any way, even though I’ve come into close contact with many of their ilk. They exist solely in my mind, but are real in most senses of the word. I know what makes them tick, how they act. I have to as without me they wouldn’t exist. A storyline develops in a constant state of fluidity; governed by the characters that drive it along. How they react to different situations. For the purposes of the story; they’re real people.

I wrote recently about ‘friends who live in the computer’ – cyber-friends- having equal viability with ‘real’ friends. I treasure many of my cyber-friends. I enjoy interacting with them. In the same way, characters in a novel are real for the duration of their existence. They live inside my head and are with me every waking hour. I know them intimately. I know what they think and how they react. They may not exist, but in every other respect they’re ideal companions. A writer with a book at an advanced stage will never experience loneliness!

 

 

 

Violent Death. Every Man needs a Hobby.

A few years ago, I was a much more unpleasant person. The proof is evident from my writing. Blood, my second novel, saw the return of the distinctly unpleasant Marcus. A handsome sociopath, Marcus was very far removed from myself. I still can’t explain his appearance from somewhere deep inside my head. Here’s a throughly nasty example of the ways in which Marcus found enjoyment. Remember: no autobiographical basis exists for this character.

Reaching the door, Marcus stepped through into a wide corridor and stood very still, listening for any sound which threatened to disrupt the absolute silence. At last he heard what he’d been waiting for: a soft exhalation of breath and the creak of an inanimate object. A sleeper turning over in bed. Moving like a wraith in a misty forest, he moved silently along the corridor and stopped outside a partially open door where a faint glimmer of light penetrated the darkness.  He heard a faint rustle from inside the room and smiled, white teeth flashing in the darkness. He eased through the doorway where the light of a bedside clock radio revealed a prone figure lying on a narrow bed in the centre of the room.

Marcus stood right next to the sleeping figure. Silent and immobile. Waiting. This was the best moment for him; that brief interlude when the sleeping victim gradually became aware of his presence. He’d experienced it many times – this remnant of an animal instinct for self-preservation – but never failed to be stirred by it. The sleeping figure would pass from a state of utter repose to one of abject terror, all without any action being required on his part.

Kate’s eyelids fluttered, her chest rising and falling, then her eyes flew open and she looked unerringly at Marcus and screamed. Exactly as he’d known she would. He reached towards her and slapped her face hard, turning on the bedside light with his other hand. Dressed all in black, his tanned face impassive, he stared at her until he saw her turn away. There was no necessity for him to speak. She had never seen him before, but the air of menace emanating from every pore had conveyed to her more effectively than mere words that something unspeakably evil had entered her life.

Kate stiffened as Marcus reached towards her but could not move. Powerless, she lay still and watched his hand touch her naked shoulder. A faint sob, almost inaudible, escaped her cracked lips as she felt the warmth of his fingers caressing her body.

‘You know who I am.’ The voice was cultured, velvet smooth and seductive. In any other circumstances she’d have found it compelling.

‘You’re Marcus Green.’ Her voice was flat and impersonal. She was hardly aware that she’d spoken but saw a gleam of pleasure in his eyes as she said his name. The cool professional aspect of her mind recognised that small weakness for what it was: a desperate need for recognition and approval.

‘You’ve been interfering. I can’t allow that.’ It was the absence of menace that made his calm voice so threatening. Like a rabbit transfixed by car headlights, she’d frozen, unable to flee or consider any means of defending herself. Marcus reached out his other hand and stripped the sheets from the bed, leaving her naked and still she did not, could not, move. He removed his outer clothing, laying each item carefully on the back of a chair. Kate’s eyes widened and he saw her fear and laughed.

‘You’re not my type,’ he said. Marcus ripped a strip of cotton from the sheet, effortlessly, as if tearing tissue paper. He raised her head from the pillow and, fashioning the strip of cotton into a gag, slipped it into her mouth and tied it off.

‘I don’t need you to speak,’ he explained, his voice as gentle as a parent reading a bedtime story to a child. ‘When I’ve finished here there’ll be time enough to scream.’ He reached out and pushed her over, just flipped her face down without any warning and she felt the pressure of his hands on her neck. ‘Relax,’ he cautioned as she arched her back upwards and she settled down again instantly, hating her own compliance but seemingly powerless to prevent it. When the pain came, her eyes filled with tears. When Marcus touched her again, a sudden unbearable pressure, she heard a sharp crack from somewhere high in her back and now the pain was intolerable. It lasted only for an instant, to be replaced by a numbness that was, in its own way, as bad as the pain.

Marcus hauled her over again without any sign of emotion. Almost as if she were a sack of flour in a warehouse, she thought, irrationally. She lay on her back, gazing at the ceiling and tasted the sharp coppery taste of blood in her mouth where she’d bitten her tongue.

‘Are you comfortable?’

Kate nodded. The incongruous nature of the question, considering the circumstances in which it had been posed, struck her as funny and she gave a harsh bark of laughter, reduced to a dull grunt by the gag between her teeth.

‘I’ve moved a couple of small bones,’ Marcus said, his voice calming and melodic, ‘At the top of your spine.’

Kate nodded, scarcely taking in what he was saying. Her head ached and she felt sick.

‘They’re very important, these little bones. When they slip out of alignment, they damage the area around them. It’s all nerve endings that area of the spinal column and very well protected. Once the nerves are damaged, they can never be repaired. Do you understand me?’

Kate looked blankly back at him.

‘You’re paralysed now. From the neck down,’ Marcus said, with a hint of a smile as he saw the effect of his words. ‘You’re listening to me now, aren’t you?’ He reached out and yanked one end of the gag, allowing it to slip away. Kate drew a deep breath, but didn’t speak. The urge to scream was very great but somehow she kept quiet.

When she saw the faint flicker of disappointment in his eyes she knew her instincts had been correct. This was a man who was turned on by the sound of his victim’s screams and she congratulated herself on having predicted this aspect of his character. His words meant nothing to her. Paralysis, like rape and torture, was a nameless fear. She’d known from the first moment she’d seen him in her room that death awaited her. She resolved that anything else that happened to her would be meaningless. She faced him, striving to keep calm even as the blood ran down her chin, and felt a glimmer of triumph. He’d expected tears, screams, the full range of emotions, but she’d given him nothing.

Marcus turned away, moving out of her range of vision and she heard the soft creak of a door opening. Teeth grinding together, Kate attempted to move her legs, even one finger, to disprove the awful truth of what Marcus had told her, but her efforts were in vain. She froze as a door slammed in a distant part of the house and then a few moments later Marcus returned. He was carrying a thick hessian sack, heavy enough to cause a tiny tremor in his forearms as he reached across the bed and laid the clanking sack on the floor.

He moved the light at the side of the bed and Kate saw him clearly for the first time. His features were slightly misaligned, the skin on his cheek perhaps a little tighter than it should have been, as if he’d received a severe facial wound at some time in the past, but there was no denying he was still the most handsome man she’d ever seen. His expression was almost benign as he sat on the side of the bed, watching her face carefully, as if probing for weakness.

Kate resolved to say and do nothing to give him the satisfaction he sought. She expected to die in this room, had been convinced of this ever since she’d seen him standing by her bed, but she could at least die with her self-respect intact.

Marcus pushed her roughly to one side, manoeuvring her body roughly as he raised her buttocks and slipped a flat slender object between her and the mattress. Raising his other hand he showed her the blade and saw in her eyes a new fear. Moving his hand away for a moment, but keeping his eyes fixed on Kate, he smiled. When he raised his hand into view again, the razor was red with flecks of blood along its entire length. ‘Now you believe me,’ he said, ‘I could carve you up like a joint of beef and you’d never even know it.’

Kate stared back at him, determined to blank from her mind everything he said or did to her. If she could die without giving him the satisfaction of seeing her terror, she’d have achieved a victory of sorts. It wasn’t much, but it was all she had and she clenched her teeth with fresh determination.

Marcus smiled again, almost with approval and Kate knew he’d seen her purpose for what it was. A gesture. No more. He turned away again, out of her sight, as even the restricted movement in her neck was too painful to attempt any unnecessary movement. Her head was splitting, but she kept her eyes fixed on a spot on the ceiling. When Marcus spoke again, she closed her eyes, blotting him out.

‘Can you smell that?’ Kate gave an involuntary nod. She’d been conscious of the smell for several seconds at least.

‘Roasting meat,’ Marcus said calmly. ‘You’re helping me try out a recent purchase. I’m a great believer in road-testing new products. Like the griddle you’re lying on. It’s on the lowest setting; nothing dramatic, just a really slow cook-through. Very healthy, apparently, the way the grooves channel the molten fat away.’

Kate began to cry, tears flowing freely, but she made no sound at all. Not even when Marcus showed her the searing flame of a butane gas blowlamp. He moved out of her sight once more as Kate sobbed quietly. She saw the ridge of muscle across his shoulders bunch as he made a sudden movement, followed by a crunching sound, as he brought his hand back into her field of vision and revealed the blackened and scorched stump of a toe he’d snipped from her foot. Kate had felt nothing which was far worse than any pain. The smell of burning flesh was stronger now and she sensed rather than felt the exact moment one of her internal organs ruptured and howled in anguish, all her previous intentions forgotten.

Marcus grinned at her. ‘Ready to talk yet?’ He reached into his pocket and produced the identity card he had taken from Kate’s desk. ‘Why don’t we start with this? Anything you can tell me about this person?’ He held the card up. Kate looked at the face of Donna’s colleague, Andy, whom she knew by name but had never met, and began to laugh. The laughter was irrational but genuine. Marcus looked at her searchingly and replaced the card in his pocket.

He bent, momentarily out of Kate’s line of vision, before holding up an electric drill and switching it on. The noise was appallingly loud when he held it to Kate’s ear. ‘Find this funny, do you? Not hurting yet? Why don’t we concentrate on the parts you can feel?’ Kate screamed and carried on screaming until her ravaged throat could produce nothing more than a raw croak.

Marcus was impervious to her agony, smiling indulgently as he gently re-positioned her head, watching her face impassively as the drill crunched repeatedly through bone and sinew. His concentration was total. It had to be, as he knew his pleasure would be brief. After each withdrawal of the drill bit he asked the same question, but Kate continued to shake her head. When her struggles began to lessen Marcus gave a tiny hint of a sigh and placed the drill on the floor. He rose to his feet, his naked body glistening with sweat and took a small screwdriver from the bedside table. He showed it to Kate; an ordinary electrical screwdriver that she’d used to rewire a plug on the bedside lamp and not bothered to replace in her office toolbox.

She looked at him with a sudden premonition that her agony would soon be over. Marcus bent and carefully placed the point of the screwdriver below the area of her vision. Most of her body was numb, completely without feeling, but her ravaged face was throbbing with a pain she could never have imagined. Marcus pressed down ever so slightly and Kate felt the tiny blade enter the skin of her neck. She gasped and he smiled down at her adding an almost infinitesimal inward pressure until his sensitive fingers confirmed that the tip of the screwdriver was touching the rubbery sheath that was Kate’s carotid artery.

A final touch caused a tiny rupture and systolic pressure forced the blood to spurt out in a fine mist. Marcus positioned himself directly in its path. Hot, coppery in taste, the lifeblood of a living breathing person striking his naked body was a pleasure to be savoured. Kate moaned softly, her eyes wide with shock, and Marcus shuffled closer as the spraying blood flow began to lessen.

He took hold of Kate’s hair, raising her head and grasping the shaft of the screwdriver firmly in his right hand. Looking into Kate’s eyes Marcus ripped the tiny blade from side to side across the exposed taut skin, rupturing flesh and cartilage with brutal efficiency and prompting a deluge of blood from severed blood vessels. Kate tried to scream but her vocal chords were savaged and useless. Blood poured down her exposed windpipe, filling her lungs within seconds. Now there was panic etched across her ravaged features and Marcus took her hand in his own, holding her as gently as if she were a new-born baby while she drowned in her own blood. Tracheal spray exhaled as tiny flecks of blood and mucus added to the pools that were already starting to congeal on the floor.

When the moment came, Marcus held Kate’s hand and planted a tender kiss on her forehead as he watched the spark in her eyes flicker for the last time, then fade and die.

This was what spurred him on. No heroin addict ever found such a rush from his daily fix as Marcus did from holding the hand of a fellow human at the moment of their death.  He sighed, genuinely regretful that she’d gone, but this was not the time to fully savour the experience. He still had to shower before dressing and packing his things away.

The house would have to burn now, but even as a blackened smoking ruin he’d remember it with fondness. Not for what it was, mere bricks and mortar, but as a memorial to one woman’s belief that her house would protect her. Marcus knew that could never be. His power was such that nothing could stand in his way. Now he’d removed one small obstacle it was time to move on. Many more would die before he accomplished what he’d set out to do.