A SMALL STEP… SO FAR

Today, I got a pleasant surprise when I learned that my story ‘A Gigantic Leap’ featured in Midnight Street #13 (Editor: Trevor Denyer)is on the rather long long list of short stories nominated for the 2010 British Fantasy Society’s awards. Those listed are all nominations from BFS members.

Review from Gareth d Jones, sfcrowsnest.com
"Nik Morton takes us on 'A Gigantic Leap' as he re-imagines a piece of Soviet history and wonders what might happen if the American paranoia about space-born germs had been justified. It's a gently told story, narrated by an old man who has seen too much in his hard life. Then in the last few paragraphs, the stress and alarm build up nicely. All of the international panic and national security issues occur in the background, though, so as not to spoil the calm flow of the story. It's nicely done."

This tale is a particular favourite of mine, so fingers crossed, though it’s up against very stiff competition and several big names. Still, nice to be included.

Pictured is the first page of the story from the magazine, with an excellent relevant illustration from Surabhi Wade.

In alphabetical order, here is the short story long list
(from http://www.britishfantasysociety.org/):

A GIGANTIC LEAP, Nik Morton, Midnight Street #13
ANOTHER END OF THE EMPIRE, Tim Pratt, in Strange Horizons, June 22
AT FIRST SIGHT, John Llewellyn Probert, in The Catacombs of Fear (Gray Friar)
BRYSON FEEDS FAMILIES, T.F. Davenport, Black Static #12
CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR, Justin Carroll, in Dragontales: Short Stories of Flame, Tooth and Scale, ed. Holly Stacey (Wyvern)
CAT AND MOUSE, Marie O’Regan, in NVF #4 and Deadly Dolls (NVF)
CERTAIN DEATH FOR A KNOWN PERSON, Steve Duffy, in Apparitions, ed. Michael Kelly (Undertow)
CHARMS, Shweta Narayan, Strange Horizons, August 24
CLOCKATRICE, Tanith Lee, Fantasy Magazine, October 5 post
DEADHOUSE STEPS, Mark Chadbourn, in The BFS Yearbook 2009, ed. Guy Adams (BFS)
EDISON’S FRANKENSTEIN, Chris Roberson, in Edison’s Frankenstein (Postscripts #20/21), ed. Peter Crowther and Nick Gevers (PS)
FINISTERRE, Maria Deira, Strange Horizons, August 10th
FISHERMEN, Al Robertson, Interzone #221 (TTA)
FUTURE CITIES, Allen Ashley, from Once And Future Cities (Eibonvale)
GEORGE CLOONEY’S MOUSTACHE, Rob Shearman, in The BFS Yearbook 2009, ed. Guy Adams (BFS)
GOLDEN LILIES, Aliette de Bodard, Fantasy Magazine, August 10 post
GRANNY’S GRINNING, Robert Shearman, in The Dead That Walk, ed. Stephen Jones (Ulysses)
GROWING PAINS, Ian Whates, Hub #101
HERE WE ARE FALLING THROUGH SHADOWS, Jason Sanford, Interzone #225
IF WISHES WERE HORSES, Tiffani Angus-Bodie, Strange Horizons, May 25
IMAGES OF ANNA, Nancy Kress, Fantasy Magazine, September 14 post
IN THE GARDEN, Rosalie Parker, in The Fifth Black Book of Horror, ed. Charles Black (Mortbury)
IN THE PORCHES OF MY EARS, Norman Prentiss, from This Is the Summer of Love (Postscripts #18), ed, Peter Crowther and Nick Gevers (PS)
JOLLY ROGER, Robert Shearman, from Love Songs for the Shy and Cynical (Big Finish)
LIFE AFTER DEATH, Mark Butler, New Horizons #4 (BFS)
LIFE-O-MATIC, Paul Kane, Estronomicon, May 2009 (Screaming Dreams)
LILY GLASS, Veronica Schanoes, Strange Horizons, April 27
LOVE AMONG THE LOBELIAS, Robert Shearman, from Love Songs for the Shy and Cynical (Big Finish)
MARLEY’S HAUNTING, Simon Kurt Unsworth (Ghostwriter)
MASQUES, Paul Kane, in Return of the Raven, ed. Maria Grazia Cavicchioli (HorrorBound)
MICROCOSMOS, Nina Allan, Interzone #222
MOTHER SPONGE, Mur Lafferty, Hub #83
MY BROTHER’S KEEPER, Nina Allan, Black Static #12
MY SECRET CHILDREN, James Cooper, Black Static #13
NINJA RATS ON HARLEYS, Elizabeth A. Vaughan, in Zombie Raccoons & Killer Bunnies, ed. Martin H. Greenberg and Kerrie Hughes (DAW)
NON-ZERO PROBABILITIES, N.K. Jemisin, Clarkesworld #36
NOTES TOWARD A COMPARATIVE MYTHOLOGY, Nicole Kornher-Stace, Fantasy Magazine, August 5th post
OF MELEI, OF ULTHAR, Gord Sellar, Clarkesworld #37
OFFERINGS, Stephanie Burgis, Fantasy Magazine, August 24 post
ON CONSIDERATION OF THE MUSES, Eric Stener Carlson, in Cinnabar’s Gnosis, ed. Dan Ghetu (Ex Occidente)
ONE LAST LOVE SONG, Rob Shearman, from Love Songs for the Shy and Cynical (Big Finish)
PELICAN BAR, Karen Joy Fowler, Eclipse Three, ed. Jonathan Strahan (Night Shade)
PLAYING WITH SPADES, Mari Ness, Fantasy Magazine, August 3 post
PROOF, Gary McMahon, in Apparitions, ed. Michael Kelly (Undertow)
RED CHRISTMAS, Jim Steel, Supernatural Tales #16
SALT’S FATHER, Eric Gregory, Strange Horizons, August 3
SANCTUARY RUN, Daniel Mills, in Strange Tales III, ed. Rosalie Parker (Tartarus)
SERVITOR, Paul Kane, DeathRay #21 (Blackfish)
SHUCKED, Adrian Joyce, Interzone #225
SILENCE AND ROSES, Suzanne Palmer, Interzone #223
SURVIVOR’S GUILT, Rosanne Rabinowitz, Black Static #14
THE BELOVED TIME OF THEIR LIVES, Ian Watson & Roberto Quaglia, from The Beloved of My Beloved (NewCon)
THE BLACK FLOWERS OF SEVAN, James Lecky, Heroic Fantasy Quarterly #1
THE CHYMICAL WEDDING OF DES ESSEINTES, Brendan Connell, from Cinnabar’s Gnosis ed. Dan Ghetu (Ex Occidente)
THE CONFESSOR’S TALE, Sarah Pinborough, in Hellbound Hearts, ed. Marie O’Regan and Paul Kane (Pocket)
THE CONVENT AT BAZZANO, Allyson Bird, in The BFS Yearbook 2009, ed. Guy Adams (BFS)
THE DEVONSHIRE ARMS, Alex Dally MacFarlane, Clarkesworld #32
THE ELEVENTH DAY, Christopher Fowler, Black Static #14
THE GHOST OF ONIONS, Marcie Lynn Tentchoff, Strange Horizons, July 20
THE KILLING STREETS, Colin Harvey, Interzone #226
THE LAST GALLERY, Joel Lane, Midnight Street #12
THE MYSTERY, Peter Atkins, in Spook City (PS)
THE PICTURE, Rosalie Parker, Supernatural Tales #15
THE RULEBOOK, Christopher Fowler, in The Dead That Walk (Ulysses)
THE STRETCH, Christopher Fowler, in The BFS Yearbook 2009, ed. Guy Adams (BFS)
THE TRUE VINTAGE OF ERZINE THALE, Robert Silverberg, from Songs of the Dying Earth: Stories in Honour of Jack Vance, ed. George R.R. Martin and Gardner Dozois (HarperVoyager)
THE WAGER, Daniel McGachey, in They That Dwell in Dark Places (Dark Regions)
THE WHITE BULL OF TARA, Fiona Patton, in Zombie Raccoons & Killer Bunnies, ed. Martin H. Greenberg and Kerrie Hughes (DAW)
THE WORLD ENTIRE, Ron Weighell, in Cinnabar’s Gnosis, ed. Dan Ghetu (Ex Occidente)
TWAIN, James Barclay, in The BFS Yearbook 2009, ed. Guy Adams (BFS)
VENETIAN PAPERWEIGHT, from Mostly Monochrome, John Travis (Exaggerated)
VIC, Maura McHugh, Black Static #10
WALKING WITH A GHOST, Nick Mamatas, Clarkesworld #33
WELCOME TO THE HOTEL MARIANAS, Mike Chinn, from The Bitter End: Tales of Nautical Terror, ed. Jessy Marie Roberts (Pill Hill)
WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU WAKE UP IN THE NIGHT, Michael Marshall Smith (Nightjar)
WHITE CHARLES, Sarah Monette, Clarkesworld #36
WORLD WITHOUT END, Marie O’Regan, The Thinking Man’s Crumpet #2

Mention by the Western Writers of America

Congratulations to Matthew P Mayo for getting his short story 'Half a Pig' (from A Fistful of Legends - Express Westerns) mentioned as a finalist in this year's prestigious Spur Awards. Well done, Matt!

Write and write some more

Interesting agent’s blog. http://www.thecroceagency.com/
which is currently featuring an excellent short interview of Ray Bradbury about his writing schedule. He is an inspiration to all writers - if they half a wit to notice.

Write, write and write some more is the way to go. I should know, I've been doing that for 40 years or more!

His books are on my shelf and I can still remember so many of his tales, which is he measure of the man and the writer.

As Stephen Vincent Benet said, 'A short story is something that can be read in an hour and remembered for a lifetime.' That's Ray Bradbury.

Book of the film: Vertigo

The book Vertigo was originally written by Pierre Boileau and Thomas Narcejac in French, D’Entre Les Mortes (1954) and translated by Geoffrey Sainsbury as The Living and the Dead in 1956. I don’t believe the book’s beginning would attract a publisher nowadays; as it contains far too much exposition via lengthy dialogue. Still, the story itself is intriguing – hence the adaptation for Hitchcock’s 1958 film. Perhaps not surprisingly, the film diverges considerably from the book, save for the crucial deception.

The book's protagonist Flavières left the police due to his inability to cope with vertigo (or possibly acrophobia), and seemed at a loose end so he was grateful when his old friend Paul Gévigne asked for his help. However, Flavières wasn’t too happy when he found out he was hired to follow Paul’s wife, Madeleine. She was a mystery, it seemed. She had altered psychologically since they married and was obsessed with her strange past. Worse, Flavières found himself being obsessed by the beautiful Madeleine.

Unlike Kim Novak’s curvy blonde character of the movie, the book’s Madeleine was dark and slim. Of course we know that Hitchcock seemed to have his own obsession with blonde actresses. Madeleine wore a grey suit – as did Novak. And only her name was retained for the film; Flavières became Scotty Ferguson (James Stewart) and Paul became Gavin Elster.

The story begins during the phoney war, before the Germans had invaded France. As it was written some nine years after the war, there’s no obvious reason why it wasn’t set in the 1950s, save that perhaps there’s a parallel between the fall from grace of Flavières and the collapse of his country. It’s obviously a French story, as Flavières ponders about Paul’s concern for his wife: after all, Madeleine ‘had every right to have a lover if she wanted to.’ Yes, typically French, that. Though even at this early stage (p22), Flavières found that he hoped she didn’t have a lover, as he felt he’d suffer acutely at the knowledge.

I don’t believe the film realistically showed the growing obsession James Stewart had for Kim Novak. The book conveys this gradually, subtly: ‘… he was mortified by the joy he felt at the prospect’ of following Madeleine. By p32 ‘he had only to think of her to lose his sense of proportion.’

Following the tragic events of Madeleine’s suicide, the German offensive of France began in earnest. Flavières went to pieces and ‘made little distinction now between the national disaster and his own. France was Madeleine lying crushed and bleeding at the foot of a church tower.’

At the beginning of Part Two, Flavières returns to post-war Paris, and his past seems to haunt him still. The similarities between the book and the film are there, though the Paul character died during the war. It would be unfair to detail much else, save to observe that since this is a French novel, it most definitely has noir undertones with an unhappy ending, in effect to gratify Flavières’ ‘taste for melancholy, solitude, and impotence.’

Two books sold in two months

I don’t think I can maintain this pace, but it’s a great feeling.

In January, I sold my 9th book, the erotic novel Assignment Kilimanjaro, to Xcite Books and it’s already available as an e-book on their website and on iTunes. If you’re offended by graphic sex, don’t go there.

In February, I’ve just sold my fourth western Blind Justice at Wedlock to Robert Hale.

I’ve got a couple of manuscripts out with publishers, but don’t hold out much hope of getting a hat trick in March…!

Still awaiting the publication of the fantasy quest novel Wings of the Overlord, sometime soon from Libros, I hope...

Remorseless Time

My 91st short story just published!

Today I received a cheque and complimentary copy of Telling Tales #4 – Winter 2009 – for my science fiction story ‘Remorseless Time’, which is featured and begins:

‘Why do you go back?’ the very thin and pallid temporal engineer asked, the last in a long litany of familiar questions. One of these days, he might get a different answer from me. But not this time.

‘I want to suffer contrition,’ I said, as usual, ‘but can’t.’

Sitting opposite, the NB judge leaned back and sighed. ‘You can’t change the past, Mr Thurston.’ The judiciary’d dispensed with wigs fifty years ago. He looked like a kindly uncle rather than a hanging judge. Not that they hung anybody in New Britain. In a way, indoctrination was much worse. Death was final. Indoctrination seemed like a living death to free spirits like Donna, Tim and me…

Telling Tales is a well-produced, attractive A5 magazine, and the editor pays, which is laudable. Whether you’re a reader or a writer, why not try out a subscription? Check it out at www.meadowpublications.co.uk or contact the editor, Andrew at andy.jackson@talktalk.net.

Hammer and Honey

For many years I’ve wanted to write a WWII Resistance thriller. It seems that I’m gradually working up to it. The recent short story win with ‘Codename Gaby’ is my second story of that period of heroism and betrayal. My first was published in the Coastal Press in 2007 and was inspired by the fact that in France old soldiers are afforded respect and gratitude by the populace.

HAMMER AND HONEY


Smart and imposing in their blue uniforms, two traffic policemen stood on the small concrete island in the centre of the congested Paris crossroads. Suddenly, the elderly gendarme saluted an old man who shambled past on the western boulevard’s pavement. The old man didn’t acknowledge the mark of respect. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed.

‘Emile,’ the younger gendarme asked, ‘why did you salute that old guy? Was he an ex-Commissioner of Police?’

‘No he wasn’t, Henri. But he deserves my respect, nevertheless. In fact, all Paris should salute Monsieur Meline. In France, we honour our old war heroes while across La Manche their government and youth mug them...’

This was Emile Girard’s last day of duty and young Henri was his replacement. Emile was due to attend his retirement party later that evening at Le Chat restaurant. ‘I don’t ask it lightly, Henri, but make sure you salute whenever you see Monsieur Meline.’

Puzzled, Henri removed his kepi and scratched his head. ‘Naturally. I only wish you wouldn’t be so mysterious.’

Pursing his thick lips, Emile blew his whistle at a frantically gesticulating Citroen driver and peremptorily stopped the traffic, oblivious of the accompanying screech of brakes and inevitable chorus of honking horns. He signed for a bent grey-haired little old lady to cross the street and while she did so he said over his shoulder, ‘Tonight, Henri, at my party, I’ll tell you all about the old man.’
***
Shoulders stooped with the weight of years and memories, Pierre Meline stopped at the wrought-iron gate entrance to the small park and glanced briefly at the noisy traffic and the aged gendarme blowing his whistle. Good old Emile, he thought, I’m going to miss him.

Slowly, his aching bones obviously causing him much discomfort, Pierre walked through the gate, the new flowers affirming rebirth in the bright and shimmering sunshine.

Ah, Paris in Spring! His spirits soared, if only briefly.

Lowering himself onto an empty wooden bench, Pierre pulled out an orange from the pocket of his careworn jacket and expertly opened a penknife and expertly peeled the fruit.

Memories peeled back, too, of a time when he had been a strong young man...
***
‘This is Miel,’ said the underground network’s leader.

Miel was her code-name, the only name they would ever know her by, which had been bestowed upon her by some wag in Baker Street in recognition of her fluent and honeyed rendering of the French language.

Pierre Meline just stared.

Apparently, she was half-French and half-English and, apart from the fact that she had been landed by Lysander earlier this evening, that was all they knew about her.

He thought that her diluted French blood still showed in her deportment and those high aristocratic cheekbones. Her ancestors obviously fled the guillotine by crossing La Manche and settling there in England. But he could forgive her even that historic betrayal as long as he could gaze on her short curling auburn hair and intelligent glinting hazel eyes that didn’t seem to miss much.

Introductions consisted of code-names only. Pierre was Marteau.
***
Lucy Hardy’s eyes met Marteau’s and her legs suddenly went very weak. He was as short as her yet carried himself so well he appeared taller. Cheeks and chin were covered in what appeared to be perpetual stubble which gave him a down-cast appearance, which would doubtless help him to melt into any crowd, which was all to the good, considering Le Marteau – the hammer – was the French Resistance’s most deadly assassin. He was very proficient, ensuring that his victims all appeared to die in accidents, thus avoiding recriminations against the local populace. Yet his dark brown eyes were gentle, belying his deadly calling. She saw pain and compassion there and her heart fluttered. She had never before experienced such a strong and instant attraction to a man.

Mentally shaking herself, Lucy stepped forward and shook hands with Marteau and the four other men.

As a member of the Special Operations Executive, she’d been sent to form two elite explosives teams to destroy railway bridges and transport in preparation for the invasion, though Colonel Buckmaster obviously wasn’t saying when the Allied invasion would happen. It might be this April, 1943 or much later. Probably much later, she thought. But the sabotage teams needed to be trained and in place and ready to go whenever they were called upon. That was her job.

Lucy had no illusions about her chances of survival. Several other women – usually wireless operators – hadn’t returned to Baker Street. But she was undeterred and more determined than ever to ‘do her bit’ against the evil menace that threatened to thrust Europe back into the Dark Ages when fear alone ruled.

Over the next few months Lucy trained two teams of men in the art of blowing up things. She had learned her skills well in the highlands of Scotland a mere eleven months earlier. Then, it had seemed unreal. Now, she was in earnest. Lives were at stake. Every day she had to be vigilant. There were passwords to be used and lookouts to be posted and contacts to be trusted.

Betrayal was their biggest fear and cost lives. Brave people of so many underground networks had been informed on; then the Gestapo had dragged them away to Avenue Foch or some other dark basement where they suffered for their country, their ideals and their friends. Baker Street experts told every agent not to talk for at least forty-eight hours, as this would give the rest of the network time to get away. Fine, in theory... Betrayal was inevitable under those dark, lonely and sinister circumstances. After all, those who resisted were not super-human – just flesh and blood.

Time and again Lucy found herself being drawn to Marteau in their clandestine meetings in barns and under bridges. She felt sure that he was attracted to her too. But there was a war to fight and this was no time to go falling in love. She had a job to do.

These sensible arguments ran through her head each night that she lay restive in bed after she had returned from a meeting with Marteau. She knew that personal involvement could seriously affect the stability of their network. She must act responsibly. Certain emotions had to be held in check. She almost weakened during one unguarded moment as Marteau had whispered, ‘When this is all over, cheri, I would like to take you to my apartment – the view is magnificent.’

‘I would like that too,’ she had replied levelly though she felt her heart hammering.

‘You honour all my countrymen by fighting with us,’ he had said, kissing the back of her hand. Then he had slid away into the enveloping darkness.

Clearly, he would not take advantage of her. He respected her too much. In fact, Lucy had earned the respect of all of the Frenchmen she trained. On two terrible nights she had been out on raids and risked her life to bring back injured men – well, boys, really. Neither was more than nineteen, she knew. But that was not unusual. Even schoolchildren helped the Resistance. And everyone feared the reprisals. It was no wonder that there was treachery from time to time.
***
The woman was returning from a secret rendezvous, a parcel of fresh meat under her arm, when Lucy stepped out from concealment, the leaves of the bush rustling. ‘Have you been somewhere interesting, Adele?’ Lucy asked.

‘I might have,’ snapped Adele, gazing haughtily down her nose. ‘What is it to you, courtisane?’

Adele wasn’t the only woman in the area who believed that Lucy slept with all the men she trained and fought alongside. Lucy bit her lip, ignoring the insult, and stepped forward. Her mouth was dry. She didn’t like doing what she must do, but she had suspected Adele for weeks now. The presence of the black-market meat clinched it. The best trade for food was either money or information – and Adele didn’t have any money – and sex was rarely a good bartering tool. There could be no doubt, anyway, as she had seen Adele meeting with the SS officer.

When she had finished, Lucy wasn’t proud of herself. But it was necessary to silence the woman in order to safeguard the others. She didn’t linger, either, because she knew that Marteau was meeting the leader of another network and they were scheduled to move out five British airmen tonight. And Adele had known that too...

Her heart lurching with fear all the way, Lucy hurriedly pedalled to the secret cache behind the abandoned house. Here, she unearthed a bren-gun and shoved the weapon into the wicker basket on the front of her bicycle and covered it with a towel.

Praying she would be in time, she cycled towards the meeting-place.

Through the dark night Lucy pedalled across two fields and even carried the bicycle as she had to wade over a babbling brook.

Then, as clouds scudded away to reveal the full moon eerily lighting the treetops of the nearby forest, she wept with relief when she realised that she was almost there and she was going to be in time.

At that moment, motoring up the road a few yards below her was a convoy of two Wehrmacht personnel carriers and a staff car with Gestapo, army and SS officers.

Breathless now, her hands clammy with fear, Lucy grabbed the weapon and shoved her bike behind a bush. Hurriedly treading over dead branches and leaves, she moved forward and leaned against the trunk of a tree that overlooked the bend in the road. She was short of breath and her heart pounded against her ribcage. She braced herself.

Weapon safety off. Now all she had to do was pull the trigger. Simple, really. This was the first time that she had fired on real people. Do it! She told herself. For the others!

The bren’s stock kicked against her and the first fusillade went wild, smashing into trees to the left of the convoy, but she held steady and lowered her aim, peppering the wind-screens of the now swerving vehicles. The two personnel carriers crashed into roadside trees and the staff car slewed to the right and was abruptly upturned in a ditch.

As the troops jumped down from the rear of the personnel carriers and the officers hid behind their car, Lucy melted into the forest. She was quite satisfied. The gunshots would have been heard by Marteau and the others at their meeting-place. Now they would get away and be safe to fight the enemy another day.

The intensive search lasted all night.

Lucy was captured at dawn.
***
‘I don’t want to remember that time, Pierre,’ Lucy now said, sitting beside him in the park.

‘No, cheri, I can understand that.’ He glanced sideways at the bent grey-haired little old lady and handed her a segment of orange. She took it without comment. ‘I survived. That is what matters.’

She popped the segment into her mouth and smiled. ‘You know, it was years before I took for granted the wonderful taste of fresh fruit.’

‘Yes, me too.’ He nodded. ‘I heard about you. Even Ravensbruck could not quench your spirit.’

She had actually escaped from a bombed transport train en route to Ravensbruck and managed to find her way back to Britain. His underground cell was finally overrun but he got away to Spain. After the war she took a while to recover and by then the world had moved on. Indeed, they believed that the other was dead. Neither knew their real name so there was no possibility of organising any kind of trace; besides, there was still much secrecy after the war. She fell in love and married, but sadly their union was never blessed with children. Her dear husband had died five years past. She had nobody else. Then by chance a few weeks ago she had read about Pierre – her Marteau – being awarded yet another medal by his grateful country. Only then did she know that he too had survived.

‘We are old now, Pierre. We only have our memories – and our aching bones!’

‘No, cheri, we have something much greater. We have French blood in our veins.’ He looked askance at her and hunched his Gallic shoulders. ‘Well, half in your case, but it is dominant, no? And we have the honour to have fought in the French Underground Resistance.’

She smiled fleetingly and gazed into eyes that were now a lighter brown yet they still made her legs feel weak. ‘Honour, Pierre, in this day and age?’

He stood up a little unsteadily and bowed towards her, offering his hand. ‘But of course, Miel. May I have the honour of escorting you to my apartment? The view is still magnificent.’

She took his hand and got to her feet. ‘I had thought that you would never ask, Marteau.’

Arm in arm, they walked out of the park.
***
Emile the gendarme finally handed over to his replacement. As he reached the pavement he abruptly stopped and stared at the old man and woman who were leaving the park, strolling arm in arm. Paris, he thought, you still weave your magic, non?

END

If magazine length had allowed, I'd probably have used less exposition and addressed the point of view towards the end, but essentially this tale has to be omniscient POV to work. N

Codename Gaby

My World War II French Resistance story 'Codename Gaby' has just won the bookawards short story competition 2010. It can be read as a pdf document via
http://thebookawards.com/

Christmas Short Story – Inn Time

This story is printed in the bumper Christmas issue of the Costa TV Times, together with a plug for my psychic spy thriller The Tehran Transmission. The story features Leon Cazador, who is a private investigator. ‘My allegiance is split because I’m half-English and half-Spanish,’ he says. ‘Mother had a whirlwind romance with a Spanish waiter but, happily, it didn’t end when the holiday was over. The waiter pursued her to England and they were married.’ A somewhat longer version has been prepared for the Leon Cazador collection, tentatively titled Spanish Eye.

#

Just my luck, snow had started to fall the day before I left and, by the time I drove my Seat into the mountains, it was lying thick. Not the most auspicious start to the Christmas holidays, I thought, as the windscreen wipers beat a monotonous rhythm.

The road climbed and twisted. Oncoming traffic lights glared, blinding. My heart lurched. I instinctively touched the brake. If I’d been driving a little faster in these conditions, I’d have hit the rear end of the parked car.

I let the engine idle. I was late and the weather was hell. Drive round and move on. I fished in the glove compartment for a torch, switched off the engine, switched on the hazard lights, shoved the shift into gear and ratcheted the handbrake another notch. I opened the door and stepped out.

The snow stopped.

The interior light was on and the windows were steamed up. Not the best place for courting couples. The electric window lowered and a young man peered out. ‘Thank God, you stopped,’ he said. ‘The car won’t go and my wife’s pregnant. We were going to the hospital!’

I shone the torch inside. She was half-lying, half-sitting on the rear seat. One hand rested on her bump, the other gripped the headrest post. She blinked and glanced away. ‘Sorry.’ I lowered the torch.

‘We need to push your car off the road or it’s going to cause an accident,’ I told him. ‘Then we’ll see about getting your wife to the hospital.’

‘Yes, of course.’

I walked to the back of the car. I pocketed the torch and braced myself, ready to push. The road surface was firm enough to give me purchase. ‘Handbrake off!’ I called.

After a few seconds of intense effort, the car started to move forward and gradually it turned off the road.

At that moment, a lorry bore down on my Seat, horn blaring, brakes squealing. The crunch was deafening, my car jammed under its front bumper. Sparks flew as the heavy vehicle dragged mine and slewed across the road. It demolished the crash barrier. Both vehicles tumbled over the edge, leaving only a flurry of snow in their wake.

My mouth was dry. I glanced at the expectant father. He stared in shock at the gap in the road barrier. I took out my mobile, but there was no signal. I enquired but the husband’s phone was inoperative as well, so we couldn’t alert the emergency services.
Suddenly, there was an enormous explosion and flames briefly spouted up from the fallen vehicles. In the fleeting flash of light, I thought I saw something that gave me hope.

Now, the snow started up again, but this time it hit us horizontally, driven by the cierzo, the cold dry wind from the northwest. I moved round and opened the door, slumped into the passenger seat. I explained that we could sit in the car and slowly freeze to death, or try to get to some shelter. ‘Not the greatest options,’ I said, ‘especially in your condition, Señora…’

‘Maria Delacruz,’ she said. ‘My husband, he is Jacinto.’

I nodded. ‘Leon Cazador.’

‘But we don’t know of any shelter,’ said Jacinto. ‘I don’t recall passing any building.’

‘When the truck blew up, the flames highlighted a rooftop over there.’ I pointed down a rough track. ‘Maybe somebody lives there.’

‘They might have a phone!’ Maria said.

‘Very well, we’ll risk it,’ Jacinto said.
#
The sloping track led to a double gate with a chain and padlock, which opened to useful skills I learned some years ago. Jacinto whispered, ‘How’d you…?’

‘Don’t ask,’ I said.

For a further ten metres the track curved towards a two storey building, its roof covered in snow. The door sign read: Posado del Belén. Inviting enough. I rang the doorbell. The trees were snow-laden, the gardens virgin white. I hoped there wasn’t a frustrated writer acting as a caretaker with a penchant for axing doors. I was relieved there was no answer. I paced to a bay window; it revealed a lounge, an empty hearth. A window on the right showed a bar area, dance floor, stacked tables and chairs. ‘Closed for the season,’ I said.

‘What do we do now?’ Jacinto wailed, stamping his feet, an arm round Maria.

I picked the lock. ‘This way.’ I shut the door behind us and shepherded them into the lounge on the left. Logs were piled to one side. ‘Let’s get a fire going.’

It didn’t take long to warm the place. Maria removed her coat and lay on the leather sofa in front of the roaring fire. Jacinto and I raided the kitchens and found in-date lamb in the fridge and made sandwiches. While Jacinto heated some vegetable soup, I checked out the rest of the building, in search of towels and blankets for Maria.

The reception desk phone didn’t work. I pored over the guest book. The last visitors left two months ago. The inn didn’t have a musty smell and seemed to serve as a hotel, with eight double rooms, the furniture in all of them draped by dustsheets.

In one wardrobe I found a cache of weapons and explosives, but I decided to keep the discovery to myself.

‘The baby,’ shouted Jacinto, ‘it’s coming!’

I raced downstairs and asked Maria about her contractions.

She nodded and wheezed, taking great breaths.

‘There’s still time to eat,’ I told Jacinto. ‘But you must abstain, Maria.’

A couple of hours later, I said, ‘Jacinto, now it’s time. Hot water. Towels.’ He got up and hurried towards the kitchens. It was a few years since I’d delivered a baby, but I told myself it was like riding a bike. As long as no wheels came off, I thought.
#
Maria gave birth to a lovely boy, without any complications. I’d left Jacinto with his wife and newborn while I cleaned up and took the towels and cloths to the kitchen.

I was on my way back to the lounge when the front door was opened with a key. Most civilised, I thought. Two men and a woman stood in the doorway. I was surprised to see anybody; their expressions reflected more shock than surprise.

They exchanged glances with each other then the woman demanded, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Her voice echoed in the lobby.

‘Hola,’ I said. ‘We took shelter from the storm.’ I gestured at the half-open lounge door that emitted a warm glow. ‘It was an emergency.’

‘Emergency?’ she said.

‘We’ve just delivered a baby – come and see.’

With some reluctance, the three of them followed me inside.

‘We’ve got visitors,’ I said.

Jacinto stood up and Maria hugged her son to her.

I eyed the woman. ‘Are you the owners?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m Melita Reyes and this is my husband, Beltran and my brother-in-law Casimiro.’ She looked at the empty plates.

‘We’ll pay for what we’ve used,’ said Jacinto.

Melita smiled. ‘No need – it can be our gift.’

Her husband tugged at her sleeve and gruffly whispered something. She shook her head. ‘You go with Casi,’ she said, dismissing him.

The two Reyes brothers turned and left the lounge.

‘I’m just going to the kitchen,’ I told Melita. ‘Do you want a drink?’

She sat on the edge of a seat and studied the mother and child. ‘No, thank you,’ she said without looking up.

I eased the door back and was in time to observe the brothers climb the stairs. I sighed, because I knew where they were headed.

There was an alcove under the stairs. I pulled out from my ankle holster the lightweight Colt Officer’s ACP LW automatic. The Astra A-100 automatic was amidst the burnt-out wreckage of my Seat. I had an uninterrupted view of the door to the lounge and the foot of the staircase. I waited.

Ten minutes later, Casi and Beltran descended the stairs, their hands full. I stepped out, my gun levelled on their chests. ‘Is this the new version, eh? Instead of frankincense, myrrh and gold, you bring the babe explosives, detonators and bullets…’

‘What are you talking about?’ Beltran snapped.

Melita emerged through the doorway. As she noticed my weapon, she reached inside her parka.

‘Don’t,’ I warned. ‘I’m a good shot.’

‘You cannot shoot all three of us.’

‘I don’t want to shoot any of you, but I can’t let you leave here, either.’

‘This is our property, Señor. You have no right to…’

‘You’ve no right to blow people up, either.’

‘It is what we believe in,’ said Beltran gruffly.

‘Then it’s about time you got a new belief system.’

‘We want self-determination and territoriality,’ said Casi. ‘This is how we will get it.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ I said.

‘We fight injustice and tyranny,’ said Beltran.

‘Franco’s been dead over thirty years. Open your eyes to the world. If you and Melita ever decided to have children, no dictator is telling you to restrict yourselves to one child. You’re free to follow any religion or none, without persecution. If you’re law-abiding, you need not fear the knock on the door at three in the morning. You have drinking water on tap, and shops filled with food and clothing. You can read any material you wish without censorship. Need I go on?’

‘The government tramples on our aspirations!’ snapped Casi.

‘Your bombs kill innocent people,’ I said.

‘They’re not innocent. They work for the government!’

‘Those Guardia Civil men and women were fathers and mothers, sons and daughters. They were not government tyrants.’ I gestured at the lounge doorway. ‘Inside there is a mother and baby. Innocents.’

‘What would you have us do?’ Melita said, her tone sombre.

‘Give yourselves up. Renounce violence. If your aims are just and legitimate, fight for them by peaceful means. Don’t create orphans and widows.’

Beltran laughed. ‘You’d have us surrender, for the sake of that one baby in there?’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘and why not?’

‘It’s absurd!’ said Casi.

‘Is it? Just over two thousand years ago, another baby boy came into the world to spread the word. Peace to mankind. His word’s been diluted over the centuries, maybe, but it still holds true today, tonight. This is Christmas Day, after all.’

‘It’s just a baby,’ said Casi.

Beltran pursed his lips and looked at his wife. Her eyes were moist and she nodded briefly. Then he lowered the weapons and bags to the floor.

‘Your weapon, please.’ I held out my hand to Melita.

Carefully, she took out the revolver, gave it to me and I shoved it in my pocket.

Casimiro swore. ‘This is stupid! We’ve sworn to fight together till…’

‘Until one or more of you are dead?’ I said and shook my head. ‘Your so-called cause has gained you nothing but it has killed over eight hundred people, including women and children, and maimed hundreds more, ruining so many lives. Lives that are for living…’ I could easily have been talking to godless killers, but I’d seen the look in Melita’s eyes when she sat with the mother and child, and I believed her maternal instinct had been deeply stirred.

Melita glanced at the lounge doorway again then moved over to her brother-in-law. ‘Bury the hate and love life,’ she whispered. ‘It’s a good belief system, I think.’ She laid a hand on his arm. ‘Please, Casi.’

Casimiro glared at me then flung his bundle to the floor. I flinched as the bag made a noise but nothing exploded. Melita hugged him then went back to her husband.

‘What will you do with us now?’ she asked.

‘Give yourselves up when the snow stops.’

‘Very well.’

At that moment, Jacinto stepped out of the lounge. He trembled as he stared at the discarded weapons and explosives. ‘Madre de Dios!’

I nodded. ‘Maybe this time there won’t be any death of the innocents. Let’s go in and look at the Christmas child.’

#

Spanish translation note: posado= inn; Belén = Bethlehem; rey = king; reyes = kings; Madre de Dios = Mother of God.

A Fistful of Legends - progress report-04

Although the book A Fistful of Legends is now 'published', due to the vagaries of online setup etc, you can't order this until 31 January 2010. Its ISBN is 978-0-557-19954-9. But it's worth the wait and starts the new year and new decade with several bangs! Here are the front and back covers.

The introduction is by James Reasoner. He has written over 200 novels, including ten books in the Civil War Battle series; he's renowned for the mystery Texas Wind and his latest two books are Death Head Crossing and Gabriel Hunt at the Well of Eternity. Visit him at his blog http://jamesreasoner.blogspot.com and also at www.jamesreasoner.net.

As was proven in the previous anthology, Where Legends Ride, and reiterated by James Reasoner in this book’s Introduction, the western can cover all manner of storylines relevant to today’s readership. And this collection endorses that belief in spades.

The line-up and page-numbers...
DEAD MAN TALKING Derek Rutherford 7
BILLY Lance Howard 20
LONIGAN MUST DIE! Ben Bridges 29
THE MAN WHO SHOT GARFIELD DELANY I J Parnham 44
HALF A PIG Matthew P Mayo 51
BLOODHOUND Courtney Joyner 56
MORE THAN MEETS THE EYE Gillian F Taylor 66
BIG ENOUGH Chuck Tyrell 78
ONE DAY IN LIBERTY Jack Giles 91
SHADOWS ON THE HORIZON Bobby Nash 104
ON THE RUN Alfred Wallon 117
THE GIMP Jack Martin 125
VISITORS Ross Morton 134
THE NIGHTHAWK Michael D George 147
THE PRIDE OF THE CROCKETTS Evan Lewis 153
DARKE JUSTICE Peter Avarillo 165
ANGELO AND THE STRONGBOX Cody Wells 176
CRIB GIRLS Kit Churchill 193
MAN OF IRON Chuck Tyrell 206
CASH LARAMIE AND THE MASKED DEVIL Edward A Grainger 215
DEAD MAN WALKING Lee Walker 227

Legends ride again.

Midnight Street

A new story of mine - 'A Gigantic Leap' is featured in Midnight Street magazine #13. It can be obtained at:
http://www.midnightstreet.co.uk/

The story begins:

I remember the date well - June 30, 1971 – as that was when my world changed forever.

A little less than a month earlier, I, Kolya Volkov, had been one of the proudest children in the Soviet Union. Anxious but proud. My father, Vladislav Volkov, was a cosmonaut. Now, it is hard to comprehend the primitive nature of our nation’s space-craft in those days. As my father joked once over dinner, ‘we went into space by the seat of our pants!’ He was a charming handsome man with gentle features, small eyes and dark hair.

An indescribable mixture of emotions ran through me when my mother and I learned that the designated crew for Soyuz 11 had to step down as one of them had suspected tuberculosis. My father, with Georgi Dobrovolski and Viktor Patsayev, were the stand-by crew. Four days before the launch, they took over the mission.
He was confident and never doubted his ability as the flight engineer. After all, this wasn’t his first journey into space as he’d been there before in Soyuz 7.

The preceding mission, in Soyuz 10, had been a failure as they had been unable to dock with Salyut 1, the world’s first space station. Now that honour rested with Soyuz 11 and my father.

My mother and I were transfixed as we watched from the secure buildings of Baikonur Cosmodrome. She nervously twisted her lace-bordered cotton handkerchief with one hand, a habit I had observed more than once. She had a box of these handkerchiefs and I recalled her saying in exasperation, ‘My grandmother gave them to me. She laughed at what she called our silly village superstitions. Remember, Kolya, you never give handkerchiefs or knifes as a gift.’

There were other odd things she inculcated into me, such as never celebrating a birthday early – as if you would; and never show your newborn baby to a stranger until it’s forty days old. (I abided by that with my little baby Nessa, foolish man that I am.)

My mother gripped my arm tightly with her free hand as the blast off turned our vision red and yellow. I felt my insides surging with joy and immense pride as the spectacular flame rose into the sky on that day on June 6. D-Day, they call it in the West. Was that for ‘Doom’, ‘Destiny’ or something else? I’m sure I knew but now I forget.

The day following the launch, Soyuz 11 successfully docked with Salyut 1. How the cheers exploded around the mission planning centre. I know now that you must grasp those moments of body-thrumming pleasure because they are rare. The effusive joy was short-lived as bad news came into the centre and within seconds everyone’s face looked downcast.
...

Nik

A Fistful of Legends - progress report-03

I'm pleased to announce that this anthology's publication date is 12 December 2009.

Due to the setup requirements for online retailers etc, it won't be available to the general public till 31 January 2010.

All contributors can obtain copies any time after 12 December by contacting the publisher, Ian Parnham.

The full cover, ISBN number and price details will be released on 12 December also.

Nik Morton (Editor)