A writer’s research - Noises off

Photos - Wikipedia commons

Spain has the dubious distinction of being the second loudest country in the world, second to Japan. This prompted me to write a story about it. The result was ‘Big Noise’, a Leon Cazador tale which addresses this serious issue but also injects humour, usually at the expense of the noisy miscreant: here’s the beginning…

“You’ve come to the right person, Mr. Santos!” Darren Atkins said, speaking louder than was necessary in the tapas bar that overlooked the Plaza Mayor. “My product is the best on Spain’s south coast, take my word for it! I’m the big noise around here!”

Every sentence tended to end with an exclamation. This self-styled important person was big in other respects as well. Even when I use my real name, Leon Cazador, rather than my undercover alias of Carlos Santos, I stand six feet high in my open-toed sandals; yet Atkins was a couple of inches taller than me. His Hawaiian-style short-sleeved shirt bulged due to his big muscles and shoulders. Because he had shaved his head, his big ears appeared more prominent and tended to press forward like little radar. I wondered if that feature prompted him to go into the acoustics business.

“I’m pleased to hear it,” I said, nodding. “I only want to use the best equipment.”

“Too right! Sure, in the UK, I was just a little fish in a big pond, but out here, I’m a big fish in a little pond! Know what I mean?” At least his questions ended on a lower note.

“I think you mean that you can produce the right sound, no?”

“Too right, Mr. Santos. Or should I call you Carlos, eh?”

“Carlos is okay. As I told you on the telephone, I want a good sound system, the best I can afford.”

“You’ve come to the right man and the right company!” He ran a big hand over his cranium’s stubble. “As the name says, Big Noise is big.”

I stroked my false moustache as if in thought. “That is what I want. But it must be within the right parameters, according to the safe recommendations, no?”

“Hey, you don’t want to take any notice of all that so-called safety stuff. Statistics! In the history of the world, what did statisticians ever do, eh, I ask you?” He shook his head. “My equipment will knock your punters’ socks off!”

I glanced at my feet. “Even if they only wear sandals?”

Atkins chuckled good-humouredly. “A sense of humor! I like that in a foreigner! The French, they’re a bit too serious for my liking!”

“Thank you, I think.”

“Right, then,” he said, rubbing his big hands together, “let’s talk specifications, shall we?” From his jeans’ back pocket he pulled out a pen and a small spiral-bound writing pad. “Big question is, how much noise do you want to make?”

– from Spanish Eye (see below)

***

The research

Much of the information here was obtained from Wikipedia. This is a table of decibels raised by certain machines and other sources:

 
140 dB          Fireworks/Plane taking off/Pain threshold
120 dB          Fire engine
100 dB          Pneumatic drill
90 dB            Disco
85 dB            Levels above this may harm our hearing
70 dB            Vacuum Cleaner
50 dB            Boiling Kettle/Rainfall
40 dB            Refrigerator
30 dB            Bedroom at night (depends on what’s happening, who’s snoring etc?)
10 dB            Breathing
 
Loud noise can cause hearing problems, but it can also cause annoyance, which leads to stress.  Noise interferes with concentration and learning ability, it disrupts the sleep pattern, and it has even been used as a weapon in military or siege situations.  The notion that we become used to noise is debatable; those habitually in a noisy environment may be in denial; one good aspect of health and safety has been the insistence on ear-defenders when using equipment such as pneumatic drills.

Traffic noise accounts for 66% of the total noise generated outside dwellings in the UK, with 32 million people being exposed to high levels of noise (55 - 75 decibels); so, judging by the above table, it’s safe – if not endured for long periods, I suspect. Traffic noise is caused by engine noise and the vibration of tyres on the road surface; at speeds of over 40mph vibration from tyres on the road surface is dominant. Research suggests that noise-reducing modern asphalts are the most effective way to reduce traffic noise at source. The material is laid in such a way as to achieve a very even running surface which reduces tyre vibration. Conventional types of road surface use projecting aggregate (crushed stone) to provide skid resistance, which cause tyre vibration. Modern asphalts have a 'negative texture' with skid resistance provided by gaps in what is otherwise an even surface resulting in minimum tyre vibration and a dramatic reduction in traffic noise. Lower speeds can bring about a reduction in noise levels. Research from the Conservation Law Foundation, based in Boston, Massachusetts, showed that a 12-15mph increase in speed results in noise levels rising by 4-5 decibels. This doesn't apply when speeds are lower than 35-40mph when most of the noise is created by the engine. However, a car travelling at 31mph makes one-tenth as much noise as one going at 56mph. The noise from vehicles moving at speed is particularly noticeable in rural areas. Traffic calming has become common in urban areas. It is usually done for safety reasons. Yet it can increase noise levels if it results in more 'stop/go' vehicle movements. Traffic volumes continue to rise, particularly in rural areas, despite government efforts to encourage local authorities to stabilise or reduce traffic in their areas – government now requires local authorities to reduce traffic on their local roads, but, so far, has shied away from national traffic reduction policies.

 
Hearing Impairment. For most adults, a one-off noise has to be very loud to damage their hearing.  Probably it has to reach 140 decibels. For children, it is lower – around 120 decibels. (Toys may exceed that level when children hold them very close to their faces and ears). Noise levels of anything over 75 decibels can damage a person’s hearing if exposed to it regularly over a prolonged period. This has implications for large sections of the population:

Rock concerts: 100-120 decibels
Night Clubs: 95-110 decibels
Personal Stereos: 80-110 decibels
Jet taking off: 110-115 decibels
Car at 50km/h: 60-80 decibels
HGV at 50km/h: 75-100 decibels
I would add film directors – TV and the movies – who clearly have impaired hearing and force the audience to listen to foreground music that obliterates the dialogue of the actors.

When exposed to prolonged noise on a regular basis, hearing impairment is gradual.  Dulled hearing or tinnitus (ringing in the ears) are often the first signs of something going wrong. After a rock concert 63-73% of young people report dulled hearing and/or tinnitus.  After a visit to a night club 47-66% do so. After listening to their personal stereo, it is 17% (3).

 
Sleep Disturbance. The WHO calculates that if people’s sleep is not to be affected, then continuous noise heard indoors shouldn’t exceed 30 decibels. There are two important exceptions to this: low-frequency noise which is not 'loud', but which takes the form of a low hum (an air-conditioning system, for example); and environments where there is a combination of noise and vibration – eg heavy lorries of trains. To achieve 45 decibels indoors, outdoor sound levels should not exceed 55-60 decibels.  Night flights exceed this limit over 10 miles from the airport.
 
Not everybody is woken by noisy events.  Older people, and noise sensitive people, are more likely to be affected; children are less likely to be woken up, but show a larger heart rate response during sleep; some people can adapt to noise at night. And of course there are shift workers who sleep during the day, even with all the noise that abounds then; their bodies seem to cope; or do they? Even if people are not woken by noise, there is considerable evidence that the body is being affected.  It can cause increases in the heart-rate and blood pressure levels; alter the depth and quality of the sleep; and cause changes in respiratory movements.
 
Acute noise can lead to temporary changes in blood pressure and heart rate. After prolonged exposure, susceptible individuals may develop permanent problems such as hypertension and heart rate associated with high blood pressure levels. There is evidence that these effects can be experienced with constant exposure to noise levels from 65-70 decibels upwards. Similar physical effects can take place as a result of exposure to low-frequency noise.
 
Annoyance is a big issue. Noise can be so annoying that it blights the quality of life of millions of people. Fine, somebody likes a certain kind of music, but they shouldn’t foist it upon their neighbours: this is the ‘ghetto blaster mentality’. There’s a debate over what constitutes "the onset of community annoyance" – 50, 55 or 57 decibels.  Interestingly, ‘over 600,000 people experience noise of 54 decibels or more from aircraft using Heathrow Airport.’ Annoyance from noise can lead to anger, disappointment, dissatisfaction, withdrawal, helplessness, depression, anxiety, distraction, agitation or exhaustion; and of course there have been murders as a result, notably in the US.

***

Leon Cazador makes an aside further into the story:

'And yet, there are laws about noise levels, even in Spain. Of course, respect for authority is pretty far down the list for the majority of Spaniards. Many well remember those years under the dictator, when the walls had ears. Perhaps that was why people shouted—just to prove they weren’t whispering and didn’t have something to hide. Now, of course, I wonder if it’s because they were deafened at a young age with all those marvellous fiestas.'

 

***

Spanish Eye, released by Crooked Cat Publishing is available as a paperback for £4.99 ($6.99) and much less for the e-book versions.

 

 

Paperback - Amazon UK here

Paperback - Amazon COM here

e-books:-

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Canada: http://amazon.ca/dp/B00GXK5C6S
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Austria: http://amazon.at/dp/B00GXK5C6S
Italy: http://amazon.it/dp/B00GXK5C6S
Spain: http://amazon.es/dp/B00GXK5C6S
Japan: http://amazon.jp/dp/B00GXK5C6S

 

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Saturday Story - 'Dr Wiaceks' Mutual Regeneration Machine'

DR. WIACEK'S

MUTUAL REGENERATION MACHINE

Nik Morton

 

 

 Wikipedia commons

‘Vaclav, do you seriously expect me to believe we're surrounded by another, invisible universe where time goes backwards?’ Austin Kramer shook his head in amazement, scanning the huge laboratory replete with equipment of seemingly infinite variety and chemical concoctions of constant reaction and surprisingly colourful effect. Wiacek had really gone overboard on this one!

‘That's it, yes, more or less,’ Doctor Wiacek said, tenderly eyeing his creation. ‘I'm on the threshold. So near, in fact, that I wanted you to be the first to see what odd effects can be achieved once inter-universe transfer occurs...’

‘So, that's why you got me here, is it?’ Kramer walked over to a chain of coils and cathodes and diffuse coloured chemicals bubbling and hissing rainbows, wires zinging and singing redly with their own peculiar currents seething through ... If he remembered correctly, Wiacek had plagiarised this theory from a London physicist three or four years ago. He’d enlarged upon it, run his own experiments, developed his own tests ... But the idea wasn't new ...

‘Vaclav, I know this theory has some very honourable fellows speaking for it, but, really, you can't imagine such a universe actually existing outside of pulp science fiction! It's comic book stuff!’

            Wiacek just sighed.

‘Anyhow, how'd you manage to convince the University to part with funds to finance such a project?’

            Vaclav Wiacek smiled artfully, bowed. ‘My computers here don't just assist in the number-crunching legwork of this revolutionary theory - they accurately determine the odds and back winners in all the big races ... I need never work again - ever...’

‘You're incorrigible, you really are! Whatever next!’

The machinery's whirring grew louder.

‘Is it - supposed to do that, Vaclav?’ Kramer enquired falteringly.

Wiacek grunted. ‘How do I know that? It's only a prototype - but I expect it's all right...’

Flipping some ponderous toggle switches, Wiacek levelled his gaze on Kramer. ‘I don't wish to be pedantic, but do you understand what I'm doing? Really?’

Kramer simply shrugged. ‘Only that you postulate - at second-hand, I might add -that our present-day one-way experience of time is illusory, that really the lop­sidedness is balanced in this other universe of yours ... That's all...’

Wiacek sighed again. ‘I want you to understand it, Austin.’ His accented voice was slow and deliberate, patience personified: it irked Kramer considerably. ‘You have been a close, if rather over-critical, associate of mine for many years - yes, we've had our differences, but hasn't everybody? I wanted to show you I'm not a crank theorising the impossible, day-dreaming with idle speculation. Tonight I hope to have the proof... No, tonight I will have the proof!’

The creation coughed and gurgled: some liquid gushed, sounding almost like applause.

           ‘That's very kind of you, Vaclav. I don't believe in this universe of yours, but I'll stick around.’ Kramer smiled condescendingly. ‘Maybe I can be convinced, eh?’

'You will, Austin,’ Wiacek promised, ‘you will...’

After a moment's pause, he added: ‘I'll try keeping the background short. You're obviously aware I, er, “borrowed” this theory from an eminent fellow in London. That was evident by your cutting aside earlier. Be that as it may, the concept has been substantially advanced by me.

‘As you know, Nature tends to be very symmetrical - except where this time concept comes into it. The second law of thermodynamics is quite clear: it's a one­-way, lop-sided process. We can dive out of an airplane, but can't rise back up to the aircraft again; we grow older, not younger. Radioactive atoms disintegrate into atomic particles; the particles don't reassemble to form a new atom. So! But other other laws tend to confuse the issue. Take luxon particles: a light particle travels from a stationary position to the speed of light without any acceleration at all! Yet it's not conceivable, surely? But that's what light does ... Or the tunnel diode, where electrons pass from one side of an electrical barrier to the other without going through it!

‘Why, indeed, should some aspects of our universe seem asymmetrical in relation to time, then?’

            Kramer's brows lowered. ‘Go on, I'm following you so far.’ A little self­-consciously, he studied the burping and hiccupping machinery behind them; it seemed louder now...

‘Well, if there were a second, time-reversed universe, this symmetry of nature could actually be upheld, preserved, couldn't it?’

‘Life would end at birth. Parents would outlive their children ... Their future would be our past. Our whole set of beliefs would be turned on its head! It just isn't possible, Vaclav. You can't have the egg before the chicken ... it isn't rational!’

 ‘Would you say that if I provided proof of detection, I wonder...?’

            ‘Proof? What proof?’

‘I injected that black rat you see over there in his cage. The solution advances the ageing process. He was ageing rapidly; I then exposed him to this machine's ray treatment - just like a sunlamp really - and he vanished from sight.... He must have done some kind of 'time-flip' into this other universe. For, an hour later, when the ray-treatment must have weakened, back appeared the rat, younger than when he vanished. The answer is obvious. In the other universe, he grew younger not older; of course, once back in our universe he began ageing again. I keep him alive by time­-flipping him when he looks like ageing too much... Mind you, I don't know how long he will stand up to it...’

Kramer approached the remarkable rat, its pointed snout twitching as it munched on food. A lot of its hairs were grey now... ‘Can you 'time-flip' him now, while I'm watching, Vaclav?’ Scepticism shaded Kramer's request.

‘Certainly - but aren't you first going to enquire as to why I've built this machine?’

‘I never really thought about it. You mean, you have some application in mind?’

‘Certainly. One of the most important aspects would obviously be if we could exchange matter, even people, between our universe and this retrograde one. We would then have the nearest thing to immortality - a perpetual state of mutual regeneration... Nobody need ever get old!’

           Kramer was dumfounded. ‘Why, that's fantastic - if it works ... But how do you know when to bring our universe's people back?’

‘It could prove awkward - in the early stages, mind. My indispensable computer has produced some fairly interesting figures, estimates of the time it takes to age a year, and so on... I haven't proved them, yet.’

‘Well, if I could see the machine working, and it did actually produce the effects you're postulating, then I would certainly change my opinion, Vaclav. We'll be rich, famous - it would be a marvellous contraption - in circumspect hands, of course...’

‘That's why I brought you round, Austin,’ Wiacek said. ‘I wanted you to see, first-hand what this “contraption” is capable of.’

‘First... hand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ridiculous is this But.’

Kramer tried attacking Wiacek, suddenly aware that the ray-beam had been bathing him all the while. But Wiacek simply floated through him like a ghost. Within minutes, Wiacek dwarfed him then disappeared completely.

He was shrinking. He looked at his hands: the calluses, the lines, all had gone ... He was getting younger! This was incredible. He forgave Wiacek the trick he'd played; he couldn't wait to be returned to the time of his own universe, to congratulate him...

He wondered how much of a ray-dosage he'd undergone... Indeed, how did Wiacek know what the right dosage would be?

He was small now. Thoughts fogged. He felt afraid.

He wanted his Mama...

Burp!

SLAP! Scream: gasping his first lungful of air...

So warm, so secure; he moved slightly, kicked, but remained in the foetal position...

            The single spermatozoon fused with the ovum... just as Wiacek reached down for them, beneath the microscope. ‘So, you've returned! That'll teach you to disbelieve me,’ Wiacek chortled and popped the fertilised egg in a test tube and sealed it.

‘Now, who else thinks I'm mad and harmless,’ he asked himself, searching his memory for all the critics and detractors in his career.

***

Previously published in Dream Magazine in 1989.

Copyright Nik Morton, 2014

At the time of originally writing this story (the late 1970s, it underwent several rewrites!), I hadn’t heard of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s 1921 short story ‘The Curious Case of Benjamin Button’ published in his collection Tales of the Jazz Age.

 

If you enjoyed this story, you might like Spanish Eye,

my short story collection featuring Leon Cazador, private eye in 22 cases

published by Crooked Cat Publishing.

http://www.crookedcatbooks.com/

 US: http://amazon.com/dp/B00GXK5C6S
Canada: http://amazon.ca/dp/B00GXK5C6S
UK: http://amazon.co.uk/dp/B00GXK5C6S
France: http://amazon.fr/dp/B00GXK5C6S
Germany: http://amazon.de/dp/B00GXK5C6S
Austria: http://amazon.at/dp/B00GXK5C6S
Italy: http://amazon.it/dp/B00GXK5C6S
Spain: http://amazon.es/dp/B00GXK5C6S
Japan: http://amazon.jp/dp/B00GXK5C6S

 

It’s how the cards fall, Ma’am

Fascinating report today in the news, about UK TV presenter and journalist Victoria Coren Mitchell. She has just made poker history, becoming the first ever two-time winner of the European Poker Tour (EPT) by winning the latest season of the tournament in Sanremo, Italy.

This is no mean feat, as she beat off 556 competitors to win a cash prize of £391,000 (476,100 euros) and a watch worth more than £4,000.

She knocked out fellow competitor Jordan Westmorland and was left at the table with Italian Giacomo Fundaro at the 98th EPT main event.

In London in 2006 Victoria became the first woman to win an EPT event for £500,000 prize money. She is the daughter of the late broadcaster Alan Coren and is married to comedian David Mitchell. Well-deserved win; the word is that she was known for her poker playing long before becoming a presenter. Victoria presents the quirky BBC4 Only Connect quiz programme, which my wife and I enjoy.

***

Not in the same league, but you too could be a winner if you purchased this e-book, a great collection of short stories about gambling, entitled Livin’ on Jacks and Queens available from online outlets (see below).

Legendary western writer and noted anthologist Robert J. Randisi offers up a winning hand with fourteen never-before-published tales of the Old West, each revolving around the central theme of gambling.

Robert J Randisi is an American author who writes in the detective and Western genres. He has authored more than 500 published books and has edited more than 30 anthologies of short stories. He co-founded and edited Mystery Scene magazine and co-founded the American Crime Writers League. He founded The Private Eye Writers of America in 1981, where he created the Shamus Award. He managed to do all that and yet he’s three years younger than me; that’s steaming.

Among the stories you can expect to be dealt in the collection are:

Jacks or Better by Johnny Boggs
A Cold Deck by Phil Dunlap
The Reckoning by Randy Lee Eickhoff
It Takes a Gambler by Jerry Guin
Odds on a Lawman by Christine Matthews
Pay the Ferryman by Matthew P. Mayo
White Face, Red Blood by Rod Miller
Hazard by Nik Morton
Acey Deucy by John Nesbitt
The Mark of an Imposter: An Evelyn Page/Calvin Carter Adventure by Scott Parker
Horseshoe and Pistols by Robert J. Randisi
Too Many Aces by Charlie Steel
Missouri Boat Race by Chuck Tyrell
The Legend of ‘Blind Ned’ Baldwin by Lori Van Pelt

Purchase from Amazon.com here

Purchase from Amazon.co.uk here



 

 

 

Saturday Story - 'Sewer Rats Rout'

SEWER RATS’ ROUT

 

Nik Morton

 

sewer - Wikipedia commons

A fat bristling grey rat brushed past, its scampering diseased claws echoing.

            ‘You – you sure this leads to the bank, Davey?’ Baker asked for the umpteenth time.

            ‘Of course, boss,’ Davey snapped, shrugging his narrow leather-jacketed shoulders. He launched the torch beam ahead again, its light discovering once more the damp sewer walls on either side of the warm scummy sewage.

            ‘I keep telling you, I pinched these plans last week. They’ll lead us there all right.’ He smiled. Sure, the plans would take them – straight up to the police station! He’d stolen the borough engineer’s plans, sure, but he’d neglected to explain how they’d been altered ever so slightly. He grinned. Just swapped over the bank and the cop shop.

In the funnel of light Davey spotted steam fronds and gaseous Will o’ the Wisps snaking eerily to the arched tunnel roof. Nauseous fumes continually wafted up his nose. Gasping for air, he grimly reflected that these four rats with him had finally found their own level.

            Serves them right. They shouldn’t have killed his brother over that bullion deal. Sending them behind bars would be sweet revenge.

            ‘The walkways here look freshly scrubbed,’ Baker announced suspiciously.

            Davey sighed. ‘They’re washed down by the Corporation’s flushers – sewer-men to you and me – to curb the bubonic Weil’s disease.’

            ‘B-bubonic disease?’

            He smiled at Baker’s evident discomfort. ‘Yes. Swells your head right out – caused by rats’ urine. Rare these days…’

            ‘Oh…’ Baker swore then added, ‘Well, get a move on!’

            Further up the narrow benching beside the canal he stopped a moment and glanced back warily. It better work, he told himself, or my life won’t be worth anything. Swallowing thickly, he moved on as the others approached.

            Soon, Davey signalled to the four of them. ‘Over here!’ Rubber boots wading through the bubbling sludge, he pointed up to a metal ladder. ‘That’s it, lads! Blast that and we’ll be rich men in no time!’

            Baker shoved Davey out of the way. Repeatedly wiping his greed-ridden palms on his sports jacket, he bellowed, ‘Right, get up the ladder, Blowie. Blast us out of this stink-hole!’

            Burly and be-whiskered, Blowie hefted his tool-bag up before him, the rungs clanging, tools clattering inside, echoing.

‘Okay,’ Baker told the others, ‘skip back there a yard or so till he blows.’

Davey knew the team well. He was the only outsider, relegated to a spectating position now, which suited him fine. Gems was thin and angular, the jewel expert who’d been brought in to vet the precious stones in the vault. Ruggles, all nerves and bone, was the safe-maestro: there wasn’t a make he couldn’t crack. Blowie was an ex-boxer, the heavy of the gang and one-time explosives king.

‘You stay with me, Davey,’ Baker snapped.

‘Still don’t trust me, eh, boss?’

‘Too right.’ Peering up at Blowie fixing the explosives, he sneered. ‘Didn’t trust your brother, don’t trust you.’

That pricked him hard. He promised himself he’d relish putting the boot in Baker’s face before running out on them.

Trouble was, being so closely watched would hamper his getaway at the crucial moment. He wanted them caught, not himself.

But the stuff went off prematurely.

Davey was suddenly sickened as bits of Blowie and slabs of crumbling brick poured down in a deafening roaring wave.

Abruptly, a wall of dark water about three feet high engulfed him. He lost his footing and was carried along, instinctively holding his breath and nose under the reeking murky liquid.

It was warm under there and the noises sounded muffled, far-off. As he grabbed at a guard-chain strung across the sewer, the rumbling and echoing died. The turgid water lapped round him like smelly treacle.

Panic surged in his entrails as he felt small hurried movements brushing against his face and hands. He clamped shut his eyes even tighter. Then he felt a bite on his thigh, and another on his cheek.

With a foul taste on screaming lips, he surfaced and disgorged his breakfast. Though his torch was intact, smoke and dust clouds thickened the air, knocking visibility down to zero.

Some distance away the others were coughing, suffocating in the clogging dust.

Seconds later, alarms blared, clamouring for police attention.

They got the hell out of there fast, clambering through the smoky maze of sewers, splashing frantically into the steaming water. Rats and effluent ran by at a staggering rate.

Thoroughly soaked, retching repeatedly, bruised with bashing into walls and huge drain-ducts, Davey stumbled on and on, deaf to everything.

Eventually, breathless, he stopped.

He’d lost the others. They must have taken another turning back there.

Completely exhausted, his ears ringing, his stomach gyrating, Davey leaned against the curving wall. Catching his breath in gulps, he reckoned that contacting the others after this shambles was suicidal. They’d probably accuse him of deserting them and mete out their own form of chastisement – just like they’d done to his brother.

At a loss where to turn next, he shone the torch.

A fork lay ahead. Beyond, miles of sewer – some without footpaths, and only five feet high.

Sweating, his sodden clothes weighing him down, he remove his leather jacket. Then, as the sheet of paper crinkled in his inside pocket, he remembered the map. It was a bit tatty and some of the ink had run, but it was readable.

He checked the wall-markings. Yes, he was well in the clear.

As he climbed the nearby shaft, the aches and bruises he’d sustained intensified. Maybe revenge isn’t so sweet, after all, he thought wearily.

Again and again during the laborious climb, his wet soles slipped on the metal rungs. He was sure that his scent buds would never recover. He dreamed of soaking in a hot scented bath – sheer luxury!

For an instant, his heart seemed to miss a beat or two as he paused beneath the manhole cover. Then, with a final surge of adrenalin, he thrust the metal disc up and to one side. It rattled deafeningly on the tarmac.

He sucked in deeply, but this time his lungs didn’t burn with welcome fresh air. They burned all right, with a sulphurous smell that caught at the back of his throat. He stood unsteadily on the rungs, hands rigidly gripping the manhole rim. All around him was absolute blackness. No stars tonight. But he couldn’t even see the deserted street.

He peered to the left and detected images shimmering: a crowd clustered round a traffic intersection box-junction. Three bedraggled figures had emerged right in the middle, immediately at the traffic-policeman’s feet.

He stemmed a loud belly laugh. Must get away, lie low for a few weeks, keep out of circulation till the heat eases off.

Abruptly, alarmingly, a booming voice startled him: ‘You stayed out of circulation till it was too late, Davey.’

He jerked round, his neck cricked.

‘Here,’ the voice said, echoing in his head, ‘have another look at yourself.’

An obsidian mirror materialized in front of him, glistening black.

Deep within him, some hideous fear tried averting his eyes, as though he had foreknowledge. But to no avail; he felt compelled: he looked.

Skin pimpled and stomach writhing emptily, he looked upon the bloated pink image. The reflection of his head was hairless, almost twice normal size, covered in enormous buboes and weeping jaundice-coloured puss. Eyes that were merely pinpricks squinted. He watched himself dying before his own eyes.

‘The others died of the plague in prison, Davey. But you elected to die alone, in hiding. Now, you can start all over again…’

Nodding the flesh-torn skull, Davey – for the seven-hundredth time – did as the Devil bid.

A rat brushed past, its scampering diseased claws echoing.

‘You – you sure this leads to the bank, Davey?’ Baker asked for – all eternity.

 

***

Previously published in The New Coastal Press, 2010. Copyright Nik Morton, 2014.

 

***

Spanish Eye by Nik Morton - published by Crooked Cat

22 stories about Leon Cazador, private eye – Spanish Eye – review excerpts

E. B. Sullivan (California)

While reading these stories I experienced myriad emotions. I laughed, cried, and became incensed. I cheered and clapped, but most of all I felt a confirmation of universal values.

D. Thorne (Bartlett, TN United States)
… His voice is so unique, and his stories are as thought provoking as they are entertaining. There are beautiful moments in the prose that never get purple or fluffy.

Kay Lesley Reeves (Spain)
As an ex-pat living on the Costa Blanca, I found much that was familiar combined with an insight into a very different and darker side of Spanish life. The colourful characters and intriguing twists made these stories a really enjoyable read and one I would recommend.

 
Laura Graham (Sinalunga, Italy)
These stories are humorous, insightful and sometimes tragic. Leon Cazador is not afraid to bring the bad men to justice, and so help to restore the balance in this world. Beautifully written, with a simple and uncluttered style, which draws you in to the heart of the story. Highly recommended!

Charles D. Ameringer (USA)

… each story is unique in setting and plot, drawing on the author's remarkable breadth of knowledge and extraordinarily full life, spiced by a genuine loathing for evil and wrong-doing. We learn a great deal about the history, culture, lore, and landscape of Spain and meet a diverse cast of characters, as Cazador sees to it that a variety of miscreants, petty and grand, are appropriately done in…

 

 

A NIGHT TO REMEMBER

A pastiche short story, homage to the 1950s private eye and science fiction movies.

              

 

It’s also a puzzle: find at least 43 film titles in the story!

 

by Nik Morton

 

The thin man stepped down off the big bus as it pulled into the bus-stop of the snow-bound metropolis.

            A gust blew his hat off but instead of chasing it he stopped in his tracks.  By the time he remembered the head-gear it had gone with the wind.  He felt sickly cold.  His dark victory over the alien creatures at Barbary Coast, his last port of call, was hollow, he realised with an awful dread, as he looked at the woman in red who stood on the corner of Hanover Street above a diner sign-plate for "The Black Cat".

            He said, "Don't look now, but the blob of goo on the sidewalk is moving, just by your feet!"

            Alarmed, she stepped back and glanced down.  And, against all odds, she avoided the goo that, cutting fast and loose, sprayed out at her.  She let out a piercing scream and fainted, falling against the wall.

            Within seconds he bundled himself and the woman into the diner, slamming the door shut behind them; the window panes rattled.

            When she came to, she said, "What am I doing here?  Who are you?  Who?"

            "Don't worry, you seem okay now, Mildred Pierce."  Her eyes showed surprise.  "I took the liberty of checking your purse, in case you needed medication.  I'm a doctor, by the way.  Elmer Gantry."

            Then she must have remembered, and shuddered.  "It's stifling in here," she said and stood up to leave.

            He grabbed her wrist, said, "That wasn't some dream, lady.  There are aliens out there.  On some incredible journey, I reckon, from here to eternity for all I really know. And they like the temperature high - in fact, some like it hot."

            She gaped.  "You can't be serious!  That - that goo - it can't have changed the temperature..."  Mildred stared out the window. 

            People passed, all sweating profusely.  "The whole city's in a heat wave - in December! Niagara's frozen over, for god's sakes!"

            At that moment a strange scrabbling distracted them both.  They turned, to stare at the dark at the top of the stairs of the diner. Something moved about up there, and it cast a giant shadow on the wall.

            A fly came out of that darkness and buzzed over their table. For the first time they both realised nobody else was inside the diner.  The fly landed and suddenly it started to grow and to change shape: in mere seconds it had transformed into a hand!  The hand was disembodied in the truest of senses and it crawled sluggishly, fingers moving like a bizarre imitation of a crab.

            Dr Gantry laughed ironically, "Guess who's coming to dinner!"

            Mildred called out, "Dr - no!"

            And Dr Gantry crashed down his chair onto the beast with five fingers.  But it wasn't finished, it melded into the wood of the broken chair, began taking the form of Dr Gantry.

            He upset the table on top of the half-formed creation and hurried with Mildred to the rear of the diner.  "It's worse than the last time in Barbary Coast, lady.  They're even more difficult to kill - they die hard."

            Gantry held her hands, said, "Look, Mildred, you've got to get out of the city, get help somehow, the National Guard... I'll lead them away."  She started to protest, eyeing the shape that now cast a crooked shadow, but he cut her off, pulled her round to face him, "Look who's talking, Mildred.  I'm of insignificance compared to all the people under threat out there!"  He ran up the stairs, stopped halfway and turned, shouted, "Farewell, my lovely!" and rushed headlong into the shadows.

            His terms of endearment rang in her ears as she heard eldritch screams and shouts.  Slowly, she crept out the back door.  Wherever she looked, small puddles of goo shimmered amidst the melting snow. 

            Movement above startled her, but it was only a lonesome dove, landing on the building's eaves.  Abruptly, it screeched and feathers scattered and it was no more; instead the guttering of the building began to move with an intelligent purpose, the attached drainpipe snaking towards her!

            She ran, leaping over the goo puddles, miraculously dodging the gouts of alien spume that darted up at her.  As she ran onto Elm Street, she wondered about Dr Gantry.  Had he survived?  Her heart hammered, but not with the exertion of running.  In a different time and place, their meeting could have been a love story - or at least an affair to remember.  Instead, this was, she realised, a Nightmare on Elm Street...

 

762 words - answers tomorrow!

Spanish Eye - a review

Reviews are generally thin on the ground. Even moreso for e-books, or so it seems. So I was pleased to find one on the Solstice website regarding Spanish Eye. From Charles Whipple, no less:

Nik Morton has used his storytelling skills to ultimate effect. Leon Cazador offers not only the experience of righting wrongs and helping the society become a safer place, he also spends time ruminating about the whys and wherefores of societal maladies. The book is a good read, for the entertainment, of course, and for the social commentary as well. Highly recommended.

Much appreciated, Charlie.

Spanish Eye Talks Radio

On Thursday afternoon, I had a telephone interview to talk about Spanish Eye and the character Leon Cazador. It was on The Hannah Murray Show, Talkradioeurope.

Extract of Talkradioeurope listing:
19 August
2:20 - Nik Morton - Author of 'Spanish Eye' - Private Investigator Leon Cazador is half-English, half-Spanish and wholly against the ungodly. He is indeed a man driven to hunt down felons of all kinds, to redress the balance of good against evil. Sometimes, Cazador operates in disguise under several aliases. In his adventurous life, he's witnessed many travesties of justice, so as a private investigator, he will use his skills.

http://www.talkradioeurope.com/

There's a 'listen again' button on the website but it may be a while till the August interviews are loaded. It was an interesting experience. A TV interview is scheduled for early September.

SPANISH EYE

Tales from Leon Cazador, Private Investigator

I’ve just signed a contract with Solstice Publishing, USA for this book of 21 short stories featuring Leon Cazador. The stories were published between 2005-2009 but I have rewritten them for this collection.

The Solstice cover was designed within a day or so and I reckon it’s very eye-catching.

The book still has to go through the Solstice edit process so I don’t know yet when it will be available as an e-book and a print book. Watch this space.

Blurb:

Private Investigator Leon Cazador is half-English, half-Spanish and wholly against the ungodly. Sometimes he adopts an alias, Carlos Santos: he is a modern day Simon Templar, willing to hold back the encroaching night of unreason and help the gullible and downtrodden. He combats drug-traffickers, grave robbers, al-Qaeda infiltrators, misguided terrorists and conmen. Dodgy Spanish developers and shady expat English face his wrath. Traders in human beings, stolen vehicles and endangered species meet their match. Kidnappers, crooked mayors and conniving Lotharios come within his orbit of ire. Vengeful Chinese and indebted Japanese are his friends – and his enemies. Leon Cazador fights injustice in all its forms. It’s what he does.

Writing Guide-01

WRITING THE PRIVATE EYE NOVEL
Edited by Robert J Randisi
(Writer’s Diget Books, hardback)

For a number of years I’ve wanted to write a private eye novel so I bought this book when it was new – 1997. There hasn’t been a new edition since, but really there’s little call for one. Virtually everything said in these pages still holds true. This won’t tell you how to write a mystery and few specifics are covered, but its advice will certainly prove useful and probably save a lot of time for anyone embarking on a PI novel. And, if you want to go down those mean streets, the recommendation is go for a series character. To do that, start building his or her backstory before you write the first book; that includes friends, relations and the neighbourhood. Sound advice for any novel, actually, but for a series character it’s almost essential.

Founder of the Private Eye Writers of America and creator of the Shamus Award, Robert J Randisi has gathered together a number of accomplished authors to offer their nuggets of writerly wisdom.

Lawrence Block advocates gripping the reader at the outset, never letting go till the end. He quotes Mickey Spillane, who said, ‘The first chapter sells the book; the last chapter sells the next book.’ We all know that beginnings are important; but don’t neglect the end – don’t rush it, don’t over-explain and don’t leave the reader disappointed. Intriguingly, Block says that his literary apprenticeship began with writing soft-core sex novels, which taught him to avoid sections of novel that were liable to lose the reader’s attention: keep the action going.

Loren D Estleman spells it out. ‘Suspension of disbelief is a high-wire act, requiring enough plausibility on one end of the balance pole to counter the pull of audacious invention on the other.’ He advises beginners to beware of proven authors who might ‘break the rules’; they can afford to, they have a fan base, followers. Beginners should stick with what works. For example, avoid soliloquies and clunking lengthy expositions at the end. He concludes that your book should ‘keep the reader tied up until the last knot is unravelled, then make them want to be tied up all over again.’

Ed Gorman advocates that writers should read – anything and everything. But especially as much as possible in your chosen genre. Choose four or five favourite books and analyse their chapters, characters, motivation etc and before long the mysteries won’t be that mysterious. That’s what many writing guides do, actually, they relieve prospective authors from wading through entire volumes doing their own research: the offer up the nuggets in digestible form. But even so, writers have to apply themselves rigorously and simply write and write and write.

Female private eyes are discussed, and writing a first person narrative from the perspective of the opposite sex. The setting of a PI novel can become a character in the series in its own right; so you need to know as much as possible about the chosen environment where the action takes place.

Max Allan Collins contributes twice – which isn’t surprising since he’s been nominated and won the Shamus Award more than once. His first foray discusses historical PI fiction, citing his award winning Nathan Heller novels which cover the early decades of last century. Needless to say, this kind of approach entails considerable research. Mr Collins’s second item is about writing private eye comic books. The market isn’t so great, but if you have a visual as well as a dramatic sense, then this may be worth investigating. You could check out Mr Collins’s Ms Tree graphic novels.

Writing the PI short story is covered too. This is quite difficult as the PI tale invariably relies on character and atmosphere, both of which eat up precious words. The writer of this section, Christine Matthews, quotes Stephen Vincent Benet: ‘A sort story is something that can be read in an hour and remembered for a lifetime.’ She also mentions the latest trend (1997) is Church lady mysteries. (It was about that time when I first thought up my Sister Rose character (Pain Wears No Mask), so that’s intriguing!

John Lutz emphasises the four main elements of fiction – character, setting, situation and theme. Whatever the fiction. Though in most good PI fiction, character dominates.

And of course there are crossover possibilities, mixing and matching more than one genre with your PI tale. They can work, and have the advantage of perhaps appealing to two distinct sets of genre readers.

An encouraging book if you’re inclined to write a private eye story. One of many useful books from Writer’s Digest Books. Check out their Howdunit Series for details about everything from poisons to weapons.