PHANTOM - Book review

Susan Kay’s second book, Phantom, was published in 1990 and reprinted twice in 1991. It’s the tragic retelling of Erik, the Phantom of the Opera, from birth until death. It was inspired by Lloyd Webber’s musical of 1986, the source novel by Gaston Leroux (1910) which I read in 1987, and an animated cartoon of 1967.

The book is a first-person narrative by several people: Madeleine (1831-1840), Erik’s mother; Erik (1840-1843);  Giovanni (1844-1846), an Italian stonemason; Nadir (1850-1853), the mysterious Persian; Erik (1856-1881); Erik and Christine (1881); and Raoul (1897).

Erik was born in France and was severely disfigured – possibly Lon Chaney’s makeup has come closest to the true depiction. His mother made him wear a mask at all times and yet she still struggles to love him. Strangely, he exhibits uncanny intelligence with a facility for music, languages, architecture and creative art. The boy’s singing voice is almost otherworldly, yet his mother is affected adversely: ‘His voice is a sin... No woman who hears it will ever die in a state of grace’ (p36).

At about eight years of age he runs away and eventually joins a circus where he is treated abysmally for three years until finally he escapes to wander the rest of Europe. He falls in with the aging stonemason Giovanni who takes him on as an apprentice. Disaster follows and we next find him in Persia, being employed by the Shah as an architect and magician. (Yes, he has mastered prestidigitation too). Here, he is embroiled in court intrigue – ‘the Persian court was not a place where a wise man took his eyes off an enemy for a single careless moment’ (p198). Finally, he was drawn to Paris: a public competition had been held for the plans of a new Opera House. He befriends the competition winner and is involved in the construction so that he not only knows intimately the place they build but also the special secret access doors he has engineered as well. The stage is set for Erik to meet Christine and vie for her affections with her rich fiancé Raoul.

Kay has managed to give us the voice of each narrator with conviction. Even though knowing it will all end in tears, I could not put the book down. Kay captures Erik’s prodigious learning capacity for architecture, magic, and music: ‘Music was the secret sanctuary of my soul; music was my god, the only master I would ever serve again. I wished I could build a monument to its glory... an opera house perhaps...’ (pp320-321). The Paris Opera House opening night was on 5 January 1875, with the spectacular chandelier installed.

Erik’s relationship with Nadir, the daroga of Mazenderan is both moving and intriguing, as the Persian was fearful of Erik and yet in awe too: ‘I found that I no longer thought of him as a cold and heartless monster’ (p230).

Christine, as we know, becomes mesmerised by Erik’s voice – the Angel of Music – and falls under his spell. Thus the tragedy’s final act begins.

I too fell under the spell of Kay’s writing, living – even if briefly – the lives of the several narrators.

CROCODILE ON THE SANDBANK - Book review

The first Amelia Peabody novel, Crocodile on the Sandbank, was published in 1975.  I read her third and sixth adventures (The Mummy Case and The Last Camel Died at Noon, respectively) in 2001, and enjoyed them immensely. Thereafter I collected four more adventures over the years but have only now got round to reading them. There are twenty books in the series.

Narrated in the first person by Amelia, it is a light-hearted period piece beginning in 1880: her father has died, leaving her a wealthy woman – she was ‘visited by streams of attentive nieces and nephews assuring me of their devotion – which had been demonstrated, over the past years, by their absence... A middle-aged spinster – for I was at that time thirty-two years of age, and I scorned to disguise the fact – who has never received a proposal of marriage must be a simpleton if she fails to recognise the sudden acquisition of a fortune as a factor in her new popularity. I was not a simpleton. I had always known myself to be plain’ (p4).

Elizabeth Peters gets the tone just right – an emancipated and forthright woman in a man’s world.

She was keen to travel, her ultimate destination being Egypt. While en route, in Rome her chaperone, Miss Pritchett fell ill and returned to England. By chance, Amelia helps a destitute young woman in the street; Evelyn Barton-Forbes has been ruined and abandoned by her callous lover Alberto: ‘She was English, surely; that flawless white skin and pale-golden hair could belong to no other nation... The features might have been those of an antique Venus or young Diana’ (p10). Evelyn becomes Amelia’s companion and they travel to Egypt. Evelyn ‘was too kind, and too truthful. Both, I have found, are inconvenient character traits’ (p77).

Amelia needed to obtain certain supplies to sail on the Nile. ‘If I had not been a woman, I might have studied medicine; I have a natural aptitude for the subject, possessing steady hands and far less squeamishness about blood and wounds than many males of my acquaintance. I planned to buy a few small surgical knives also; I fancied I could amputate a limb – or at least a toe or finger – rather neatly if called upon to do so’ (p44).

Before long the pair encounter two archaeologists – the Emerson brothers: gruff, bearded irascible giant Radcliffe and the amiable Walter. Radcliffe Emerson reminded me of Conan Doyle’s Professor Challenger.

It is obvious that Amelia and Radcliffe spark off each other, two strong wills competing: ‘Peabody had better retire to her bed; she is clearly in need of recuperative sleep; she has not made a sarcastic remark for fully ten minutes’ (p242).

Her nursing skills are needed more than once. ‘I tore up my petticoat in order to fasten his arm to his body so that it would not be jarred unnecessarily. He had his wicked temper back by then, and made a rude remark. “As you would say, my lord, it is just like one of Mr Haggard’s romances. The heroine always sacrifices a petticoat at some point in the proceedings. No doubt that is why females wear such ridiculous garments; they do come in useful in emergencies’ (p168).

The Emerson dig is sabotaged, there are strange, possibly supernatural, things going on, and Evelyn seems at great risk... An enjoyable historical romance and mystery.

Elizabeth Peters is the pen-name of Barbara Mertz and also wrote as Barbara Michaels; she received her PhD in Egyptology in 1952. She died in 2013, aged 85.

TO HAVE AND TO HOLD - Book review

 

Mary Johnston’s classic novel To Have and To Hold about love and intrigue in seventeenth century Virginia was published in 1899.

Beginning in 1621, it’s a first-person narrative by Captain Ralph Percy; his cousin is the Lord of Northumberland (which happens to be my home county, where I now live!)

Johnston’s prose is of its time, naturally, but easy to read, and her descriptions are excellent, such as that for preacher, Jeremy Sparrow, a giant of a man: ‘his face, which was of a cast most martial, flashed into a smile, like sunshine on a scarred cliff’ (p16). Another example: ‘Each twig had its row of diamonds, and the wet leaves we pushed aside spilled gems upon us. The horses set their hoofs daintily upon fern and moss and lush grass. In the purple distances deer stood at gaze, the air rang with innumerable bird notes, clear and sweet, squirrels chattered, bees hummed, and through the thick leafy roof of the forest the sun showered gold dust’ (p48).

A ship from England has brought a number of women for betrothal to boost the numbers in Jamestown; the usual purchase price is a quantity of tobacco, to pay for the passage. Ralph Percy is not particularly keen but finds himself defending the honour of one of the women and then determines to wed her there and then. Her name is Jocelyn. Impulse purchase, perhaps.

Later he learns that she is Lady Jocelyn Leigh and was a ward of the King. But when she learned she was to be betrothed to Lord Carnal, the sovereign’s favourite, she fled the Court and embarked on the ship destined for Jamestown, one among the many women.

Nearby are friendly Indians, including the Powhatans and the Paspaheghs. ‘The Indian listened; then said, in that voice that always made me think of some cold, still, bottomless pool lying black beneath overhanging rocks...’ (p123). Yet the friendship is strained...

Yet Lord Carnal soon arrives in the settlement, hell-bent on taking Jocelyn back to England with him. He is a man who gets what he wants, even if it means killing.

There is suspense – when Lord Carnal attempts to drug Ralph – and humour with the irrepressible Preacher Sparrow. Johnston is sympathetic to the Indians, too: ‘Why did you come? Long ago, when there were none but dark men from the Chesapeake to the hunting grounds beneath the sunset, we were happy. Why did you leave your own land, in strange black ships with sails like the piled-up clouds of summer? Was it not a good land? Were not your forests broad and green, your fields fruitful, your rivers deep and filled with fish? Ill gifts have you brought us, evil have you wrought us’ (p336). And there is fighting and action aplenty, and a piratical interlude as well. Betrayal, love, humour and honour – all are here. And some of the action actually occurred – a slice of history.

Despite its age, To Have and To Hold this remarkable book of adventure is a page-turner and can rank up there with the novels of James Fennimore Cooper.

Johnston died in 1936, aged 65. The book has been adapted for film three times, most recently in 2014 featuring Aiden Turner.

THE MUMMY - Book review

 

Anne Rice’s 1989 novel The Mummy (or Ramses the Damned) is not a novelisation of the Brendan Fraser film (which came out ten years later!)  Apparently, Rice began this as a film script but she and the studios had conflicting visions about the story so she abandoned the screenplay idea and wrote the book.

It’s a seductive read that begins slowly and then develops with intrigue and murder. It’s 1914, before Carter has found the tomb of Tutankhamen. Archaeologist Lawrence Stratford has uncovered the tomb of Ramses the Great. Puzzlingly, there seems a link to the Egyptian ruler Cleopatra, yet Ramses’ reign was many years before the Queen of the Nile was born... Accompanying Lawrence is his nephew Henry Stratford, a ne’er-do-well. Lawrence’s daughter Julie was in London with her fiancé Alex Savarell, Viscount Summerfield, the son of Elliott, the Earl of Rutherford. The marriage had been arranged when they were children; through this marriage the Rutherford family would gain the Stratford wealth in exchange for the title. However, Julie was a strong-willed independent-minded woman, so the courtship was not going anywhere fast.

It is no spoiler since the blurb announces the fact: Ramses the mummified king awakens and appears before Julie in a dramatic scene. ‘Dear God, she thought, this is not merely a man gifted with beauty; this is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen’ (p92).

The reason for Ramses not being a dry husk of a mummy is that he was merely dormant, not dead, and was revived by sunlight. He was immortal, three thousand years old, having drunk an elixir centuries ago. He does not need sleep or food, though he is impelled to satisfy appetites that he cannot assuage.

The book is a visual feast: we can envisage the scenes in their entirety. It’s sensuous, particularly as love develops between Julie and Ramses. Conflict is supplied by the unsavoury Henry, who is not averse to killing to get what he wants, and the newly discovered Cleopatra, Ramses’ lost love.

There are many light and amusing touches as Ramses learns about the early twentieth century. He is a fast study, particularly as he does not need sleep. Over the centuries when he roamed the earth he learned a number of languages, too. He adopted the name Reginald Ramsey in order to accompany Julie on their forays through society, all part of his education.

While they are touring Cairo, accompanied by Elliott and Henry, mysterious deaths occur. Mr Ramsey falls under suspicion...

Cleverly plotted, the story reveals the problems of immortality and ever-lasting love.

The book ends with the promise of further adventures of Ramses the Damned; but there was a long wait! There is no great need to take up the sequels, however; the ending of this book was satisfactory enough for me.

The sequels, co-written with her son Christopher are Ramses the Damned: The Passion of Cleopatra (2017) and Ramses the Damned: The Reign of Osiris (2022). Anne Rice dided in 2021, aged 80.

THE TUMBLED HOUSE - book review

 

Winston Graham’s 1959 novel The Tumbled House is a romantic suspense novel long out of print; my copy is the fourth impression dated 1976.

While dropping in on the empty house of her late father-in-law Sir John Marlowe, Joanna commits adultery with an ex-boyfriend Roger Shorn. It is not an affair; perhaps she was lonely since her husband Don, a feted conductor, was away in the States with an orchestra.

Shortly after Don’s return, a couple of anonymous articles are published in a newspaper, The Gazette, denigrating Sir John, claiming the great man plagiarised a book by an old associate (also deceased).

Don is incandescent and determined to discover the writer’s identity and clear his father’s name. He seeks legal advice but that’s not much help as you can’t libel a dead person. ‘What was the purpose of attacking the reputation of a dead man unless there was someone still alive to care?’ (p73). He has the sympathy of Joanna and his sister Bennie but ignores their suggestion that he forget the whole issue.

Unable to forgive and forget, Don finally learns of the writer’s identity and writes insults against the culprit. The added complication is that Bennie is in a relationship with the son of the writer.

This should be a fairly anodyne court case, but the interweaving of the personalities involved and the minor crimes on the periphery that affect Bennie and her beau Michael keep the reader turning the pages.

What lifts the book above the norm is Graham’s acute observation of character and place. The point of view is omniscient. Here are a few examples.

‘The Red Boar Club... Here the temperature was a uniform seventy-eight winter and summer, and tobacco-smoke hung in cirrus clouds about the room. You broke through them going down the steps like a plane coming in to land’ (p38).

In the club Don approaches the editor of the offending Gazette: ‘He had a square rather distinguished face on which the skin hung loosely as if it had a slow puncture. But there was nothing deflated about the way he looked at Don...’ (p39).

‘Sir Percy... was not expensively dressed and his Cockney accent still clung to him like a home-knitted pullover’ (p59).

‘When he opened the door the sunlight crowded in as if it had been queuing there’ (p72).

‘An artist of course was judged by his art, not by his life. It didn’t matter two-pence if Rembrandt was a rogue or Beethoven a bore... (p100) – though in the idiotic modern age of cancel culture that may no longer apply!

Despite the suspense, and Don discovering Joanna’s infidelity, there are smatterings of humour: asked about Don’s interpretation of Swan Lake, he responded, ‘It could well be the most original. Phone Leningrad and tell them to watch Tchaikovsky’s grave. If there’s movement, it’ll mean he’s turning over in it’ (p128).

‘She stared at him with unwinking eyes, a stout old lady with a bulging face like a purse that has never been opened for charity’ (p148).

‘... when they rode together the sun was slanting, and a breeze that came up from the sea had made the young leaves turn and glint like wild silk’ (p174).

‘... his grey, pachydermous face wearing a weary, dusty expression as if too many years of exposing human frailty had left him without illusions and without hope’ (p298).

Bearing in mind the time of writing, there are two uses of the n-word and an allusion to gays before that term was the acceptable description, none of which are malicious.

Graham describes a death without being mawkish: less is more.

The ending is satisfactory.

THE LUTE AND THE PEN - Press Release

Historical fiction - 10th century Spain!

960AD. Al-Andalus.

Spirited and learned, Qamira has discarded the strictures of her life in Baghdad to travel with her grandfather to Cordoba. Here she embraces the undreamed-of freedoms accorded women. She befriends her neighbours, attractive young men and women of Jewish, Christian and Arabic faiths, all living in harmony. One of these is Zayd, a swordsman, poet and teacher from the Maghreb; they form a strong emotional attachment. Sadly, that harmony will be shattered…

Amazon UK: https://tinyurl.com/yaz96c77

Amazon US: https://tinyurl.com/545ctprh

Excerpts:

She had gone through twelve months of deep depression after her parents died horribly and swiftly of the plague that had wiped out hundreds of pilgrims on the way to Mecca. The vultures had made light work of the bodies.

When fellow travellers brought the devastating news, although a younger maiden aunt said she was happy enough to care for Qamira, Talha insisted she come to live with him. 

Since that day she had barely spoken, just sitting swaying, silent – an elective mute. She ate because she must; she said her prayers because God was watching her; she kissed her grandfather good morning and good night because it was expected; but all joy had fled her short life.

***

Talha and Qamira entered the splendid garden with the three-tiered fountain Qamira had glimpsed from above. They made their way along cobbled pathways, past myrtle hedges and a pool covered with water lilies. Jasmine clambered up the walls to reach the balconies of the upper floors and niches, pots and urns brimmed with scented roses.

They followed the colonnade that snaked round the house, passing tables and chairs, glass-fronted cabinets filled with ornaments and books.

Voices and laughter summoned them to the feast. Comfortable leather divans surrounded a convivial table in whose centre were bowls of water containing sweet-scented rose-petals and lemon peel. Soft cloths were provided to dry hands and faces. Each place had a drinking glass and ceramic plate. Ornate metal teapots and trays of food stood at the ready. Three young people sat in one corner, heads together, whispering, oblivious of the presence of strangers.

***

The gate swung open on well-oiled hinges and Yuhana and Qamira exited into glorious countryside. Qamira gasped at the view, deeply inhaling the cool morning air, scented with herbs and pine. Carobs and oaks lined the narrow winding path leading to the lake and in the distance the Dark Mountains were bathed in a ghostly white mist.

They ambled along the shady path then Qamira halted, suddenly anxious.

Yuhana grabbed her arm and lengthened her stride, pulling her past the high wall of the munyat cemetery. ‘Qamira, hurry, the lake is this way. Or have you lost your nerve, no longer daring to defy Urvan’s ban?’

‘Not at all.’ She slowed her pace. ‘Why do you let him dictate to you? Does your father also disapprove?’

Yuhana fell into step beside her. ‘Yes, he also fears for our safety and because he is my father I must obey him! Surely you obey your grandfather?’

Qamira gave her a devilish grin. ‘Most of the time. But he is always open to discussion. It is often the only way forward. Besides, he approves of swimming. This is an ideal time of day to bathe and,’ she indicated the cemetery, ‘the dead won’t talk, or harm us.’

They reached a clearing, uncultivated except for clumps of herbs. At a glance Qamira recognised borage and rosemary, comfrey and lavender. She stooped and squeezed a handful of rosemary, cupped her hand around her nose and inhaled the sweet smell. Rising, she observed a small copse of hazel and almond trees. A cluster of six beehives to her left crouched like slatted creatures from another world. ‘Whose are those hives?’ she asked.

‘Ours but no-one tends them. I stay away. I was stung once. Mother used marigold flowers to ease the pain.’

‘She was right to do so,’ Qamira said. ‘Perhaps I can take the beeswax for my creams and I must gather those herbs before the sun wilts them.’

Yuhana plucked a stem of lavender and breathed deeply. ‘Tell me about them.’

‘There are many types. Here we have thyme, parsley, sage and rosemary for cooking.’ She spun round. ‘And there are comfrey and witch-hazel for sprains and bruises, borage for fevers, lavender to aid restful sleep. There are poisonous plants too – arum, nightshade and wormwood – but they can be used safely…’ She ran ahead down the path, calling back, ‘if you know how.’

They arrived at the lake. Herons skimmed the calm surface seeking fish, a bunting hidden in the reeds called plaintively to its mate, frogs croaked unharmoniously and the reeds themselves whispered in the breeze. Along the shore-line, a row of willows stood sentry-like, a natural barrier from prying eyes. Qamira noted the trees. She must tell Grandfather.

She ran forward to the edge, removed her sandals and dipped in her toe. Glancing around, she stripped off her robe and undergarment then plunged into the rippling wavelets, naked and free. She disappeared below the surface, swam some way off then reappeared.

‘You are bold!’ Yuhana called. ‘And such a strong swimmer.’

‘It is heavenly. Come in.’

Yuhana began to wade in but Qamira called out peremptorily, ‘Your clothes? Remove them. Or walk home soaking.’

Yuhana blenched. ‘Someone may see.’

‘There is no-one. Anyway, the trees will hide us. You must, or your robe will drag you down.’

Yuhana removed her robe, threw it ashore then ducked down into the water.

***

Zayd sat beside her and eyed the poem. ‘Is that a muwashshah?’

‘I don’t know. It’s an ode.’

‘A qasidah, then, a classical ode. To…?’ the handsome Berber inquired gently.

‘Dido.’

‘Ah, the tragic Queen of Carthage.’

‘When Grandfather and I disembarked there, he recounted the sad tale of Dido and the Greek Aeneas: their love affair, his treachery, his abandonment. Her despair, her death,’ she finished with barely a whisper.

‘Please read me your ode.’

‘It’s not ready.’

‘No matter. It’s not the end-product that matters but the journey we make to achieve it. The road we pursue can enrich all things. So, may I hear it?’

She obliged, reading the poetry in a clear voice.

‘Your words are poignant. How they remind me…’

Qamira’s brow furrowed. ‘Remind you of what?’

‘Of my own land, Qamira, of El-Maghreb.’

His look was wistful, longing for something lost forever. Maybe, like her, he was a wandering soul, far from his native land, still on his own journey, accepted but apart, not quite at peace. Was this to be their common bond, then? Should she feel sorry for him, or a kindred spirit? Should she by silence demonstrate her understanding of his situation and his destiny or by questioning seek to discover more?

‘Do you miss your home?’

‘Sometimes.’ He ran his hand through his thick hair. ‘Tell me about Baghdad.’

‘It is a city of wondrous architecture: minarets, mosques. Much activity: learning, invention. Like here but bigger.’

‘And the people?’

‘Dark and mysterious.’

Zayd pursed his lips. ‘And life?’

‘Unbearably lonely. I had my dreams and I was afraid I would never achieve them, always bound by tradition and rules. A foolish desire.’

His eyes bored into hers. ‘No, Qamira. No ambition is foolish. The only rules that should bind your life are those that you yourself make. Nothing should constrain you.’

‘Easy to say.’ She turned slightly to contemplate the garden. ‘Are we not all constrained – even Nature? Do not the trees grow to their expected height, flowers bloom with their due colours, all things in their season? Dogs bark and cats mew? Unchanging? Never branching out?’

‘We are humans, not flowers. We may do as we please. You have branched out. You’re here with your grandfather, embracing a new life.’

Qamira contemplated this a while. ‘As did you,’ she agreed finally. ‘Do you have any family left in El-Maghreb?’

He gazed at the ground. ‘My parents are both dead.’

‘Mine died too – before their time. We’re both orphans, then.’

He looked up at her through long thick lashes. ‘Indeed we are.’

***

‘Do not run from me!’ His voice rasped unkindly in her ear. ‘I want you! I have made myself clear on countless occasions. I will wait no longer. You will submit to me.’

‘If Grandfather were here, you wouldn’t dare make so bold.’

‘But he is not here, and I am. Here, to fulfil your destiny.’

Then his mood changed, his voice pleading. ‘It is I who beg you, my sweet nightingale. You cannot comprehend how much I love and desire you. Not just your music–’

She turned her face away as he kissed her again, his beard scratching her soft cheek.

Remember Zayd! She sobbed, her will almost broken. Why was he suddenly so difficult to resist? Then from somewhere in her inner core she mustered the strength of mind to withstand him. ‘I cannot do this. I cannot love you as you would have me do. I do not want you!’

But to no avail. He was panting now, whether from passion or exertion, she could not tell. She tried to push him away, the heels of her hands against his shoulders, but his grip tightened and he slid down to his knees, kissing her stomach, her abdomen, moving lower until his hands were raising the hem of her nightgown. His desperation revolted her yet her whole being ached with a treacherous sensation of pleasure and betrayal – and she the betrayer.

Remember Zayd! Now his fingers probed, seeking her secret warmth.

The sudden unexpected stab of bliss surprised her. She gritted her teeth, shuddered. She must not succumb.

Remember Zayd! The dim light and his lustful eagerness made him awkward, fumbling, and in that instant she came to her senses, all thoughts of pleasure fled. Her fingernails dug into the soft flesh between his shoulders and neck. She hoped she’d drawn blood. He roared in pain and stumbled away, releasing her to massage the spot.

She slid sideways and staggered towards the door.

Available on Amazon - paperback and e-book

 

 

CHILL OF THE SHADOW - Press release

 If you like Stephen King's vampire novels, then you might like this!

This cross-genre thriller is set in present-day Malta and has echoes from pre-history and also the eighteenth century Knights of Malta.

Malta may be an island of sun and sand, but there’s a dark side to it too. It all started when some fishermen pulled a corpse out of the sea... Or maybe it was five years ago, in the cave of Ghar Dalam?

Spellman, an American black magician, has designs on a handpicked bunch of Maltese politicians, bending their will to his master’s. A few sacrifices, that’s all it takes. And he’s helped by Zondadari, a rather nasty vampire.

Maltese-American investigative journalist Maria Caruana’s in denial. She can’t believe Count Zondadari is a vampire. She won’t admit it. Such creatures don’t exist, surely? She won’t admit she’s in love with him, either...

Detective Sergeant Attard doesn’t like caves or anything remotely supernatural. Now he teams up with Maria to unravel the mysterious disappearance of young pregnant women. They’re also helped by the priest, Father Joseph.

And there are caves, supernatural deaths and a haunting exorcism.

Just what every holiday island needs, really.

Where there is light, there is shadow…

Paperback and e-book on Amazon:

Amazon UK: https://tinyurl.com/3crnaxfn

Amazon US: https://tinyurl.com/ymb8sn45

Excerpts: 

His body aching in every bone, Zondadari straightened in the front pew and rubbed his strained eyes. Recovery from each transformation was the same: excruciating.

He remembered his pains with a shiver; then gulped the revitalizing warm blood from the church’s golden chalice and licked red dribbles from fleshy lips.

Ever so slowly, the draught would do its arcane work and heal the agonizing ache and give him new life. Not for the first time, Zondadari cursed Theresa. Still, there were compensations: and blood-lusting Desiree was just one of many.

He turned in the high-backed wooden seat to eye Father Pont, sprawled lifeless at the base of the choir stalls. The fool’s vacant eyes reflected no beatitude at abruptly and prematurely meeting his Maker and perhaps because of this they stared at him accusingly. And with good reason. The poor man’s heart must have stopped for a fleeting second as he saw a cloud of bats swoop down from the belfry. Father Pont’s eyes were almost extended on stalks as he viewed the creatures in front of him clustering together, as if purposefully forming into a seemingly pain-racked leather-clad man. Suffused with agonizing pain, the man glared and then smiled, grabbing the nearest piece of silver to hand. The priest stayed rooted to the stone flags, an easy target. No wonder his eyes stared accusingly.

Zondadari shrugged. Even after all these years, he wondered how he could have been taken in by such an empty religion. Of course, in those distant days, superstition reigned supreme.

Standing, he hung the plastic crucifix round his neck.

In a moment he would drag the dead priest down to the catacombs to join his ancient brethren. With great will-power, Zondadari refrained from draining the blood from the priest; he would return for the rest later, a cool libation, after which the body would molder and become sacred dust.

Taking his time – of which he had plenty – he donned the dead priest’s round-brimmed hat. He paused to check his reflection in the shining silver ciborium, its rim smeared with blood and hair where he had clubbed the kappillan.

He lifted his head, accentuating the line of his aquiline nose. His steely grey eyes shone mischievously. Quite the local vicar, he mused, but he still preferred to see himself in his ancient knight’s helmet.

Licking the silver clean, he smiled. Today, he would have a little amusement.

***

Zondadari swore. Despite his efforts, he had succumbed to the hunger. As if viewing through a gauze screen, he pictured the events of the last hour – inviting the attractive tourist to the villa, plying her with rich food and wine. She was pretty in a simple way, awed by the decorations and furnishings – material signifiers of wealth, of no consequence to him. He sought power, in all its forms, not possessions. She was intrigued by the scar on his cheek: like so many of her age, there was a morbid fascination with gore and death; they dressed in black, the Gothic fashion, draping themselves in funereal leather, silk and chiffon. Perhaps they fancied they were immortal? The young often did, until they grew older or became diseased. He laughed at the thought and his pulse raced again as he remembered her gauche invitation for him to seduce her.

She was only partially mesmerized as his teeth chewed and tore at her supple and elastic neck and into the meaty sterno-mastoid muscle. He found the shock of comprehension on her face most pleasurable. The carotid artery gushed forcefully into the roof of his mouth and he almost choked on the girl’s life-blood. Applying skillful pressure, he stemmed the cascade and savoured the taste. It was exquisite.

Even half-asleep, she had tried to fight, to scream away the living – or rather, dying – nightmare, but to no avail. The anticoagulant in his saliva kept the blood flowing until he was sated.

Soon, she slithered into that warm darkness between life and death. It was so long since Therese had sucked him down into those beauteous shadowy depths; the difference was, she then fed him her own blood and made him like her. Normally, victims were used simply to supply blood to re-energize his body. It was a long time since he had brought his own woman back from the dead, to serve him and feed her own blood-lust. At one time it might have been tempting to have a harem of female vampires, but their excessive need for continual sustenance – human blood – would have meant their discovery and ultimate hounding to death. He’d managed to survive simply because over the years he was able to curb his hunger and find substitutes that still gave him the vitality of undead life.

It was weak moments like this when he hated himself. He didn’t like giving in to the hunger. He had promised David Bugeja, after all. Still, it was too late now. He eyed the naked woman sprawled on the moonlit parquet floor. He might as well drain her. It would be a shame to let all that good blood go to waste – especially as it was still warm.

***

Selena was halfway down the stairs, whip held threateningly. “Being flayed alive isn’t a nice way to end your journalistic career, but it’s probably what you deserve!”

Biting her lip, her heart hammering, Maria thundered, “How dare you attack me and break into my home!”

“Maybe I don’t like your writing style?” Laughing, Selena lashed out with the whip.

The vicious strip of leather cut Maria’s left wrist, ripped her jacket and sliced into her shoulder; the sudden pain made her drop the damned phone on the hard tiles, where it shattered. She winced, a hand covering her bloody wrist, and staggered to one side, against the wall. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the fallen coat-stand, coat and umbrella. Repressing the fear of more pain from the whip, she lunged and snatched the umbrella’s wooden handle.

Again Selena’s whip snapped but Maria pressed the umbrella’s button and it opened, deflecting the leather thong. Through a rent in the umbrella’s fabric she saw Selena scream and stamp her foot.

Grimly, Maria charged forward, the umbrella’s metal skeleton deflecting the next whiplash as she approached.

Selena started to back off up the stairs, onto the landing.

Maria heard police sirens outside, getting nearer.

Clearly, Selena heard them as well and moved more hurriedly up the stairs.

With a swift lucky flourish, Maria closed the umbrella and trapped the whip in its folds. She quickly grabbed the length of leather and yanked, pulling the whip from the woman’s hand.

“Oh, hell!” Selena snapped.

“You’ve got some explaining to do!” Maria said but she was ignored and Selena turned and ran up the stairs.

Maria was exultant; she had the madwoman on the run! She discarded both whip and umbrella and followed, her bare feet slapping on the marble steps.

There was a door at the top and it was swinging open as Maria got there. She emerged on the roof solarium, its concrete surface glaring, reflecting the intense sunlight. Shielding her eyes, she noticed Selena was crossing over a low dividing wall to next door where two lines of washing fluttered in the strong breeze.

Below, police car sirens sounded, and then stopped as cars screeched to a halt in the narrow street.

Selena glanced back at Maria.

“You can’t get away, Selena – give yourself up!” Maria called, still chasing her. “The police are here now!”

Scowling, Selena turned and stumbled straight into a fluttering still-damp sheet.

Maria saw her chance and leapt for the pole and untied the washing line. Working on instinct and the adrenalin rush of unfamiliar fear, in an instant she had encircled the sheet-covered madwoman with the clothesline.

Her words muffled and defiant, Selena shouted, “Rot in Hell!” Then, struggling to get free, she stumbled backwards and toppled over the roof balustrade.

Maria grabbed for the line, shrieking, “Selena!” But she was too late…

Below, Attard pulled up his car behind a stationary karozzin. He got out and looked up at the sound of Maria’s voice. He saw the sheet-enshrouded figure fall headfirst, the washing line twisted around the torso and legs.

Selena swung once, and then bashed against the building’s whitewashed wall.

He winced on hearing the cracking of her skull-bone, the sound not unlike a melon bursting.

The black horse whinnied, as if smelling blood and death, and reared up between the shafts of the karozzin.

Swiftly, the white sheet enveloping the woman’s head turned red, while her corpse continued to swing like some grotesque pendulum from Poe’s fevered imagination.

***

Part amused, part amazed, Maria said, “Why so many mirrors?”

“Every fifty years or so, I go through a collecting phase. In the 1820s, it was mirrors...”

She started. “Your reflection–”

“Yes, what about it?”

“You have one!”

Zondadari laughed, the sound echoing. “A myth. Some laws of physics can’t be broken by the supernatural.”

She hugged him close. “Garlic – does it repel you?”

“Only if I hadn’t eaten it at the same meal as you.”

“Your skin – you mentioned barrier creams. Does that mean–?”

“No, sunlight won’t turn me into a pile of dust. It will age my skin, though.” He stroked his chin and grinned. “And as this skin has to last me quite a few centuries, I’d rather it didn’t suffer too much. I’m more fortunate than those sufferers of porphyria, who are confined to a life of darkness; anything stronger than a 40-watt lamp and the skin will shrink under scalding blisters. Necrosis of the skin is not uncommon. Acute varieties of the ailment can be very painful.”

“That rings a bell. I think it’s treated with blood. In fact, wasn’t porphyria used as a scientific explanation to support the existence of vampires?”

He nodded. “A pint or two of haeme can ease the symptoms. Yes, haeme as in haemoglobin.” He smiled. “Of course, there’s no basis in fact that porphyria is in any way related to vampirism.”

She couldn’t resist an exasperated, “Are any of the stories true about vampires?”

“Some.”

LAST CHANCE SALOON - Press Release

 

[#2 in the Bethesda Falls series - all self-contained stories!]

The Bethesda Falls stage is robbed and Ruth Monroe, the stage depot owner, is being coerced into selling up by local tycoon, Zachary Smith. Meanwhile, Daniel McAlister returns from gold prospecting to wed Virginia, the saloon’s wheel of fortune operator. Daniel hits a winning streak but is bushwhacked, his winnings stolen.

And newcomer to town, Horace Q. Marcy, seems to be playing a game close to his chest, too.

Virginia sees this romance with Daniel as her last chance of happiness and no matter what, she’s determined to stand by her man, ducking flying bullets if need be. Daniel and Virginia side with Ruth against Smith and his hired gunslingers.

Only a deadly showdown will end it, one way or another.

Amazon UK https://tinyurl.com/3sthcy8n

Amazon US https://tinyurl.com/aytn3cmu

***

The downhill swaying motion of the Bethesda coach dislodged Alfred Boddam and he fell forward, half-into the front boot, his arm crooked over the side-lantern, hand dangling and bashing against the flapping leather curtain.

‘What on earth’s happening?’ A passenger boldly peeled back the curtain and stared at Alfred’s limp hand. ‘Oh, dear Lord! Mr Boddam’s dead!’ he shrieked. ‘Nobody’s driving our coach!’

***

When Daniel McAlister entered The Gem saloon, Virginia Simone’s heart lurched against the fitted boned bodice of her red satin dress and she almost made a hash of triggering the concealed device under the roulette wheel.

Pulling her eyes away from the entrance with an effort, she turned back to her table and flicked the hidden lever to ensure that the House won. The ball bounced a few times and a couple of gamblers let out exclamations of surprise. But for Virginia it was no surprise at all. Yep, the House won when it mattered, when the stakes were high. She hated this part of her job, suckering the poor dupes just to line the pockets of owners Royce O’Keefe and Zachary Smith. Still your foolish pride, she told herself; it’s a job, and she was one of the best in the whole damned Dakota Territory.

***

Wading through the stream, Wolf Slayer came after him.

Daniel got to one knee, withdrew his knife and splashed water at the oncoming Indian’s face. As the Sioux warrior was deflected for a moment, Daniel sprang.

He grasped hold of the wrist of the Indian’s knife-hand and twisted harshly but the blade didn’t drop. Wolf Slayer grabbed Daniel’s wrist and simultaneously brought up a knee, thrusting it into Daniel’s belly. Daniel gasped, falling backwards, yet he managed to hold onto the Indian’s wrist and Wolf Slayer fell on top of him. The man’s breath was foul, but he imagined his own wasn’t much better.

The underwater rocks were smooth but unforgiving hard against his back. Spluttering, stream-water lapping round his face, Daniel felt his strength ebbing as Wolf Slayer thrust a knee on his chest, pressing down hard. It wouldn’t take long before his rib-cage broke under the pressure. Wolf Slayer’s free hand was clamped around Daniel’s throat, trying to force his head under water.

Review:  “This is one good read... not a typical western – it has character, humour and storylines with enough questions in the plot to maintain interest from beginning to end. Strongly recommended.”

Previously published by Robert Hale 2008 - now re-published as a paperback!