Christmas story 2 of 3

 

Over the years I’ve been asked to contribute a Christmas story to a variety of publications. In the next few days I’ll feature some of them. Here is ‘The Trilby Hat’ which was read on BBC Forces Radio Malta in 1975 and published in The Portsmouth Post magazine in 2003, after some judicious tinkering. It is one of 18 historical stories in Codename Gaby, my fourth collection of stories, here.

THE TRILBY HAT

Portsmouth, England, 1995

It was a snow-laden Christmas Eve. Police Constable Paul Knight was approaching the end of his shift and glad of it as he rounded the corner of Fenchurch Street.

Then he saw them. Two youths. Faces partly covered by woollen scarves, they were leaning threateningly over an old man in a snow-heaped gutter. Paul broke into an unsteady run, careful lest he slipped on ice. It looked like Alfred Munro, the loner.

Wisps of breath gushing out of his mouth, Paul lifted the cold whistle to his blue lips.

The two muggers froze at the shrill noise.

‘The filth!’ one of them yelled.

Paul was barely yards from them when his boots slipped. Although he retained his balance, the few seconds delay gave the two thugs time to scurry off.

He was tempted to follow, but Alfred seemed in a bad way. There was no blood or obvious injury, but the old man was sobbing.

‘It's all right, Alfred,’ he said. ‘They've run off.’ He helped the frail old man up.

Alfred wiped his blood-shot eyes. ‘I - I'm all right,’ he wheezed, ‘But - it's my hat - they stole my trilby.’

Thinking back, Paul did recall one of the youths had worn a hat. They must have been baiting Alfred. He flushed hotly. ‘I'll see what I can do,’ Paul promised, not holding out much hope.

But Alfred didn't seem to hear. ‘Must get it back - You see, I've had it nigh on fifty-two years. Christmas...’

***

The war was in its fifth Christmas.

Alfred gazed at the 1943 calendar with its popular painted scene of skating on the Thames in the days of Queen Bess.

He thought about Liz, his wife, who died six years ago.

Thank God she missed this terrible war.

He looked around the cosy room: utility furniture, an embroidered pouf, a wicker basket sewing box and a well-placed chintz-covered suite that concealed the thread-bare carpet's many patches, whilst the dining table stood cluttered with the remains of their frugal evening meal.

The tiny coal fire flickered warmly in the tiled fire-place, its firelight reflected from the far corner where stood the proud Christmas tree, a battered fairy perched precariously on top; sparkling tinsel was draped over the branches. The tub, tightly packed with fresh black soil was wrapped with brown paper, which had been painted by Connie, his grand-daughter.

The other decorations were sparse, but for all that the festive season shone from wherever Alfred looked.

There was a gaiety, a family warmth, an atmosphere here that no war could possibly destroy.

Beyond the shielding hills of their small Hampshire town, air-raid sirens wailed.

Alan, his son-in-law stopped playing with Connie on the hearth-rug. ‘They seem closer tonight, Pop,’ he said.

Denise, his daughter, paused from her knitting and her troubled eyes sought Alfred.

He forced a smile of reassurance. ‘We've nothing worth bombing.’ Accepting this, they returned to their own amusements, whilst Alfred smiled contentedly to himself and looked at his daughter.

She's grown into a fine woman, he thought. Liz would have been proud of her. A full- no, a comely - figure, married so young, with her mother's auburn hair and hazel eyes aglow in the firelight. But she possessed his stubbornness.

And the memories flooded back. With an effort he blinked them away.

Yes, and Alan made a good husband. Denise was lucky to have Alan home, in a reserved occupation in the dockyard. Alan stood by her side, his thick spectacles reflecting the fairy lights.

He just had to look at young Connie there, the best of both of them already noticeable in her. Precocious, certainly, with a will of her own at times, but a little darling with it. He spoiled her unashamedly. And Denise scolded him, but she didn't mind, not really. Surely all grand-fathers are the same.

In a few more hours they would be opening their gifts. But he couldn't face that yet; it still sorely reminded him of Liz and how they used to dote over Denise... Perhaps next year the wound would have healed sufficiently, though of course never completely; he didn't want to forget her, just to deaden the hurt at times like this.

Reluctantly he rose from his comfortable chair. ‘Denise.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Denise, I think I'll be off now. It's getting late for me - and for you, Connie - Father Christmas will want to climb down the chimney soon...’

Connie giggled excitedly at mention of Santa.

Denise bundled her knitting into an embroidered bag. ‘As you wish, Dad.’ She helped him on with his great-coat.

‘Granda!’ Connie shouted, crushing herself against his legs. ‘You can't go yet. You haven't had your present.’

Alfred patted his coat-pockets, each filled with a package from Denise and Alan to open first thing tomorrow morning before his return here for lunch. ‘But I have. I wouldn't forget these.’

Connie shook her head vigorously. ‘No, Granda! No, you haven't had mine!’

Alfred noticed a puzzled look between Denise and Alan. Apparently, then, their daughter had kept her secret well.

Perhaps their neighbour had bought the present. With great ceremony his grand-daughter walked to the under-stairs cupboard and tossed out two gas-masks in cardboard boxes then handed over a large brown-paper parcel. It seemed to be a gift-wrapped boot-box.

‘Thank you, darling,’ he said and he leaned forward to kiss her.

But she backed away, lips pouted. ‘Aren't you going to open it now, Granda?’

‘But it isn't Christmas yet.’ He pointed to the mantel clock. ‘A few hours to midnight, you see?’

‘Please, Granda,’ she pleaded, face slightly pulled.

‘Well... all right, but only if you promise to stop making faces.’

She stopped almost at once, changing her grimace into a mischievous smile.

Slowly and carefully he unwrapped the gift.

‘Hurry, Granda.’

It was an old boot-box. He lifted the lid and the sight took his breath away. Nestling amidst a bed of tissue paper was a brown trilby hat, its brim slightly bent so it would fit into the confines of the box.

‘Put it on, Granda!’

He swallowed hard but the lump in his throat persisted. Alan and Denise smiled.

Removing the hat reverently from the box, he knelt in front of her. ‘No, you put it on for me, Connie.’

She almost knocked him over as she dashed to do just that.

As it finally sat snuggly, a perfect fit, he held Connie at arm's-length and asked if she thought it suited him.

‘Oh, yes! You look just like a Granda. Really important.’

And they all laughed.

Then he suddenly lifted her high, almost touching her head to the ceiling. Connie shrieked happily.

Presently, he lowered her and kissed her flushed cheeks.

‘Well, merry Christmas, everybody,’ he wished them as he walked to the door with Connie's small hand in his. He carefully wrapped his long woolly scarf round his neck, criss-crossed his chest then buttoned up his great-coat. ‘I must go now, Connie.’

Denise opened the front door.

The cold air made them all gasp. The snow still fell silently, lending a bright peaceful glow to the otherwise drab street.

‘I'll keep this hat always. I promise,’ he said.

Connie's little chest swelled and her smile seemed to fill the doorway. Alan held his daughter back. ‘Merry Christmas, Granda!’ she said.

Shivering in the cold air, Denise whispered, ‘Is the hat all right, Dad?’ He nodded. She then whispered, ‘It was a gift to Alan from his poor Mum, but he doesn't like hats... We didn't know Connie'd planned this - ‘

‘It's all right, love. It's a smashing present. Now, go back in, it's cold out here. I'll see you tomorrow for Christmas dinner...’

Quickly he stepped onto the crisp snow. Flakes wisped onto his shoulders and the brim of his new hat. He waved. ‘Merry Christmas!’ His voice echoed through the snow-filled night.

Far-off could be heard the crump of bombs and ack-ack, but not here.

At that moment a whistle shrilled. An ARP warden came running up the street. ‘Put that light out!’ he called.

Turning, Alfred noticed the hall light on and his family silhouetted in the doorway. Hurriedly waving, they closed the door and the house darkened.

Further over to the east he spotted searchlights. The snow was like dust in a light-beam. Tracer and ack-ack blossomed, more reminiscent of Guy Fawkes than Christmas Eve.

He then took off his hat and wiped the snow-deposits away. It was a beautiful hat. Really good quality and hard-wearing. Yes, it would last for years.

The sudden whistling alerted him first. A terrible coldness clutched his heart. The bomb cluster was close and there wasn't an air-raid shelter near.

He froze fearfully to the spot, panic weakening his limbs.

Seconds later, the explosion's impact reached him, blinding yellow and red, the shock waves throwing him painfully to the sludge on the road.

All around stark blasts deafened him. Flashes of light and flames sprouted everywhere. Black smoke mush-roomed into the wintry night sky.

Still giddy, he regained his feet. A sickly knowing feeling in the pit of his stomach gave strength to his ageing legs. Ignoring the dull ache of a bruised hip and shoulder, he rushed back to the ruin.

An ARP warden and a couple of neighbours were already sifting through the rubble, even though the dust cloud hadn't settled yet.

Mercifully the houses on either side had been spared, only their windows shattered, a few roof slates dislodged.

Alfred stood, unable to move, and his mouth felt very dry. Somewhere a fire bell clanged, and another.

A fractured water-main gushed high, sparkling in the torch-light.

Hardly aware of what he was doing, Alfred knelt by the debris where the front of the house had been. ‘Here!’ he cried out to the frantic helpers. ‘They were here!’ And he started heaving bricks to one side, gashing his knees and hands in his haste, heedless of the cold.

The ARP warden who shouted the warning earlier was soon panting by his side. ‘They won't have known what happened, mate. It will've been over quick. A direct hit, you see?’

Two hours later Alfred collapsed, exhausted, after they unearthed the battered Christmas tree. Miraculously, the fairy survived intact. The ARP carried him to the doorstep next door. There, a kindly neighbour gave him a chipped metal mug of sweet tea.

Now, shakily, he got to his feet and shuffled over to identify them. His whole family, wiped out. He would never forget the joyous look on little Connie's face, he thought, gripping his trilby hat tight.

***

Paul Knight was on his way home when he heard scuffling in the dark. He flashed the beam of his torch across the nearby waste-land and relaxed. It was only a fox.

Then he picked out the shape of a battered hat and he recalled the incident earlier with old Alfred. Could this be his trilby? It looked the same colour. But it was so timeworn, and crumpled.

The hat felt dry though cold and it was reasonably clean. It hadn't been lying here long, then. The label was faded but he could just make out GRANDA and LOVE. Might as well call round on my way home, he decided, and tucked it inside his overcoat.

The dawn light was streaming down the deserted street as Paul walked up to the door. A few curtains twitched in the neighbouring terraced houses even at this hour. He rang once, his eyes drawn to the flaking paintwork.

The door opened. A musty smell greeted him, of untended dust, of age. Alfred stood shivering in his worsted trousers, shirt sleeves and braces. In the weak hall light Paul noticed a bruise under the old man's left eye. ‘You all right?’

Alfred nodded, eyes questioning.

‘I think I recognised those louts,’ Paul continued. ‘Would you come to an identity parade?’

Alfred's three remaining teeth shone as he smiled. ‘Yes, it'll be a bloody great pleasure.’ He hesitated on the doorstep. ‘It was good of you to call. Erm, come in.’

‘No, I can't stop. I'm expected home,’ Paul explained. He rummaged inside his coat. ‘Is this yours?’ he asked awkwardly, handing over the aged trilby hat.

The expression on Alfred's face had Paul worried for a moment. Then the old man seemed to collect himself. ‘You've made me very happy, constable.’ Tears gathered around his weak grey eyes.

Feeling uncomfortable all of a sudden, Paul backed away and bid Alfred good-morning.

‘Merry Christmas!’ Alfred called after him. ‘Merry Christmas.’

Paul waved.

He couldn't understand it. It was as though he had bestowed some wondrous gift on Alfred. Then he remembered the label in the hat. Granda and Love.

Indeed, it was sometimes easy to forget in this material world, Christmas was not only a time for giving but also a time for remembering.

‘Merry Christmas!’ Paul replied.

Christmas story-1 of 3

Over the years I’ve been asked to contribute a Christmas story to a variety of publications. In the next few days I’ll feature some of them. Here is  ‘Outcast’ which was published in Outpost magazine in 1989. It is one of 21 stories in Nourish a Blind Life, my second collection of stories., here

OUTCAST

She came out of the godforsaken planet’s seasonal mists, struggling under her immense weight. She wasn’t welcome.

Abraham Hertzog didn’t like company. That’s why he had settled in this inhospitable place, a last fuelling stop at the rim of the galaxy: a bleak station, where sand and dust vied with alien plants, neither succeeding for long to cling onto the barren rocky landscape. Planetary storms were too frequent. 

Which reminded him: he was due to telecast Headquarters. It was a full 3 months since he last ordered victuals.

His metal shack abutted onto the side of a towering ultramarine cliff. The rock was heavily pitted, from recent meteor showers and severe gales: he used the nearest caves for storage. But now stocks were running low.

He squinted out the porthole, past the thousand-meter landing pad, the fuelling depot and its attendant robot-mechanics.

As the green six-legged creature stumbled onto the tarmac, a robot wheeled solicitously toward her and helped her to large ungainly feet. Even from this distance, Abraham could detect the gratefulness in her protruding eyes. They were so damned trusting!

Perhaps that was why he didn’t want to see her?

Guilt?

Not a thousand kilometres to the west there had been a luxuriant mauve forest, sprouting from purple springy grass. Now there were just a few tree-stumps; the rest was overbuilt by settlers. When mankind seeded the stars, he also brought diseases, pollution, greed, prejudices and weapons... The aliens were decimated, the survivors now outcasts on their own planet.

The robot helped the creature to the door, which chimed.

‘Just a minute,’ Abraham called, ‘Oy veh!’

The airlock whispered and he stepped out of the air-conditioned atmosphere onto the metal veranda. The air was thick with dust, the ozone crackling. ‘What is it?’

But he needn’t ask. The pregnant creature was exhausted, and near term.

Against his better judgement, he directed the robot to bring her round the back and made room in the half-empty storage cave.

‘Stay here with her,’ he instructed the robot, ‘while I get some halvah.’

Later, as he dialled Headquarters about those victuals, he looked out the rear port.

The creature had managed a guttural approximation of English: her name was Yram; she had voraciously devoured his offered confection and now lay contented, watched by a number of mechanic and haulage robots. His attention was suddenly drawn to the green bundle of limbs swathed in sacking as the telecast speaker announced: ‘Merry Christmas, Abe!’

And he looked up at a star, twinkling overhead, brighter than any he’d seen on his journeys through the Milky Way.

‘Yes, of course. It would be, wouldn’t it?’ he mused and realised that perhaps this planet wasn’t God-forsaken after all.

DAY OF JUDGMENT - Book review

 Vintage Jack Higgins! Day of Judgment was published in 1978. This is the third and final Simon Vaughn novel, as originally written under the pen-name Martin Fallon.

It’s 1963. The story mainly centres on Berlin and East Germany. Father Sean Conlin, a survivor of the concentration camps Sachsenhausen and Dachau, was responsible for smuggling people out of Communist East Germany. Unfortunately, on one such mission he was betrayed, captured and taken to the nearby Schloss Neustadt. The Communists intend to employ a rogue American, Harry Van Buren to brainwash the old priest so he could reveal he was working for the CIA; he would announce this publicly at the time of President Kennedy’s visit to Berlin, thus creating massive embarrassment and public humiliation for the West.

Secret agent Vaughn, ‘the beast of Selangor’, is tasked with rescuing Father Conlin from the seemingly impregnable schloss before the president’s visit in a few weeks’ time. Vaughn brings together a formidable team, including Lutheran monks, an American Jesuit, an ex-Luftwaffe ace, a Jewish undertaker, and the ex-SS caretaker of the schloss itself.

The method of penetration into the schloss is imaginative, quite unique and particularly unpleasant and fraught with danger. The map provided actually gives away the means of access, but does not detract from the actual drama and difficulties encountered.

Towards the end there’s a poignant sequence involving Father Hartmann, a man who has found his purpose in life at last.

Higgins effortlessly creates the claustrophobic communist environment the characters have to contend with; as Kennedy remarked at the time: ‘Freedom has many difficulties and democracy is not perfect, but we never had to put up a wall to keep our people in.’ 

Sadly, even now, freedoms we take for granted were – and are – crushed or perverted in certain communist states.

Day of Judgment is An exciting, fast-paced page-turning adventure. (But this copy has a very poor dust jacket.)

Editorial comment.

Oddly, in the text ‘judgement’ is spelled with an ‘e’ – unlike the book title.

A female character ‘wore a man’s trench-coat and a scarf tied peasant-fashion round her head’ (p12). I’ve lost count of the Higgins books where the ‘scarf worn peasant-fashion’ is used.

THE LINDISFARNE GOSPELS - Book review

 Jen and I went to the exhibition of The Lindisfarne Gospels at the Laing Gallery, Newcastle upon Tyne. Its usual home is the British Library, London; however it has been on loan for display in Durham in 1987 and 2013 and in Newcastle upon Tyne in 1996, 2000 and this year.

This book about the ancient tome was published 2022 by the British Library, written by Eleanor Jackson, Curator of Illuminated Manuscripts, and comprises 96 full-colour pages, relating the history of The Lindisfarne Gospels, and, for any book-lover, is a minor treasure in itself.

The Lindisfarne Gospels was hand-written and decorated over 1,300 years ago. Considering its age, it is in remarkably good condition.

As you’d expect it comprises the four gospels, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, inscribed in Latin. In the tenth century an Old English translation was added between the lines, which is in fact the earliest surviving translation of the Gospels into the English language.

After the fall of the Roman Empire in the fifth century, the lands formerly under Roman control fragmented into a series of kingdoms. Although there were small groups of Christian Romano-British people in the far reaches of the north of the British Isles, they were mostly displaced by Germanic-speaking settlers who brought with them their pantheon of pagan gods – among them, Tiw, Woden, Thunor and Frig, from which we derived certain days of the week.

In Northumberland – the lands north of the River Humber – the pagan people here did not possess books. The arrival of Christianity – a religion of the book – stimulated book production, ‘culminating in the period of heightened artistic and literary achievement sometimes known as the Golden Age of Northumbria’ (p16).

In the British Isles there were several centres where books were produced, and the monastery of Lindisfarne was but one. Others were in Durham and Ireland. The monastery’s first bishop was Aidan (died: 651AD), who effectively established Christianity in Northumbria with the help of his missionaries. However, it was not until the new bishop of Lindisfarne, Eadfrith (died: 722) took up the post that The Lindisfarne Gospels were written (taking him from five to ten years). It has 518 pages each measuring 34x25cm; the parchment pages are probably calfskin (velum). ‘All inks were handmade from natural sources – animal, vegetable or mineral. Some of the pigments include red lead (orange), indigo or woad (blue), orpiment (yellow), verdigris (green), carbon (black), white lead (white), and chalk (beige)’ (p35). And, noticeable in small quantities, gold was also used. There are also highly decorated pages of the evangelists, and so-called carpet pages – exquisite full-colour block patterns in the Islamic style, though creatures are inserted in amidst the tangle of interlaced designs. Then there are the incipit pages, opposite the carpet pages, which are effectively the opening words of the text, beautifully illuminated.

The early months of 793 featured a series of alarming omens: lightning, whirlwinds and fiery dragons flying in the air. Famine followed and then, on 8 June, heathen men landed their ships on Lindisfarne and raided the monastery. They destroyed the church, stole many treasures and killed many of the island’s inhabitants. This was only the beginning of the invasion of the Northmen. Remarkably, certain artefacts escaped the marauders’ notice – including the body of St Cuthbert, the revered remains of others, and The Lindisfarne Gospels. The surviving monks fled inland with whatever they could carry. And, amazingly, The Lindisfarne Gospels have endured to this day – though its original binding was lost and only replaced through the efforts of the Bishop of Durham in the 1800s.

You can visit The Lindisfarne Gospels online at:

www.bl.uk/manuscripts/FullDisplay.aspx?ref=Cotton_MS_Nero_D_IV

(An explanation for this numbering is contained in the book). 

A TEST OF WILLS - Book review

Charles Todd’s debut book A Test of Wills (1996) is an unusual well-written mystery novel.

It’s 1919 and Inspector Ian Rutledge returns from the Front to take up his job in Scotland Yard. His fiancée Jean walked away from him while he convalesced in a clinic. However, the trench warfare has left an indelible mark on his mind, though there are no outward signs of shell-shock. ‘he’d discovered din the trenches of France that hell itself was not half so frightening as the darkest corners of the human mind’ (p167).

[The cover is excellent - those hands holding the sufferer's head resembling the flames of conflict.]

Rutledge hopes that getting back into the work groove will finally heal him. Hamish is not so sure. Hamish is a Scot, killed in the war, and now Rutledge’s pestering conscience. ‘He’d seen his return mainly as the answer to his desperate need to stay busy, to shut out Hamish, to shut out Jean, to shut out, indeed, the shambles of his life’ (p64).  ‘Nightmares strip the soul’ he is told. Rutledge found no answers for that’ (p124).

It begins with the murder of Colonel Harris by person or persons unknown in a Warwickshire village. The main suspect is Captain Wilton, VC. But there are other likely candidates, too: Lettice Wood is the ward of the late Colonel and the fiancée of Wilton; Mrs Davenant, previously in love with Wilton; Catherine Tarrant, a famous painter cursed by scandal; Reverend Carfield, who lusts after Miss Wood; Royston, who looks after Mallows, the Colonel’s home; Mavers, an unpleasant individual who has always plagued the Colonel; and Hickam, a village drunk who suffers from shell-shock and nightmares.

Rutledge felt he had to understand the murdered man, no easy task; at one time, before the war, he’d found it much easier. ‘How do you put your finger on the pulse of a dead man and bring him to life?’ (p63).

About halfway through Rutledge experiences a flashback to the trenches and in a mere three pages Todd conveys the terror and futility of trench warfare – very telling scenes that explain a great deal, including the voice of Hamish.

There are many instances of fine writing and description. When viewing Catherine Tarrant’s paintings, for example: ‘If you wanted to capture the waste of war, what better expression was there than this, the very antithesis of the dashing recruitment posters?  A girl in a rose-splashed gown whirling in  ecstasy under the spreading limbs of an aged oak. The lost world of 1914, the innocence and brightness and abandonment to joy that was gone forever’ (p119).

A bird began to sing in the trees beyond an open window of the Inquest room. ‘The sound was sweet, liquid, but oddly out of place as a background to a quiet discussion of death’ (p172).

The doctor’s housekeeper observes about Hickam: ‘… that man suffered. Whatever he did in the war, good or evil, he’s paid for it every hour since’ (p139).

The book’s title doubtless stems from this passage: ‘She looked up at him, eyes defensive but resolute. It was a strange test of wills, and he wasn’t sure exactly where it was leading…’ (p226).

The denouement is well done, shifting the book into psychological mystery territory.

At present there are twenty-two Inspector Rutledge books available, which is no mean feat for any author!

Editorial comment

My bête noir is this: ‘he thought to himself’ – (p89). He thought would suffice. ‘Himself’ is tautology.

Charles Todd is American and on the whole has successfully captured the English nuances. The text contains US English spelling. Many, many years ago a family friend used to work for Penguin books in London and her task was to Anglicise American spelling in books written by their US authors. I suspect this is no longer considered necessary or even viable. For interest, here are a few Americanisms I detected:

‘You’d better come, they’re about to lynch that stupid devil Mavers!’ – In England we’d say ‘hang’ not ‘lynch’.

 ‘He just lays there…’ (p138) – In England we’d say ‘he just lies there…’

‘… questions had gotten him nowhere. (p189) – In England we’d say ‘questions got him nowhere…’

American English uses ‘toward’ while UK English uses ‘towards’.

And, inevitably, Rutledge walks along a sidewalk instead of a path or pavement. (‘Pavement’ in US English is the road). Separated by a common language, indeed.

THE SENTINEL - Book review

 

The Sentinel (2020) is the first Jack Reacher novel co-written by Lee Child and his brother Andrew.

Some readers have voiced their disappointment; and I can understand that to a certain degree. Yet I cannot see the join. How much is Lee, how much is Andrew? I couldn’t even guess. There are the usual scenes one comes to expect in a Reacher novel; some many pages long, where it’s talk-talk to reason everything out and tell us what’s what, interspersed infrequently with explosive action. The one-word sentences are still there. The repetitions. Even people who are named are referred to by their role, job or other aspect rather than their name, which can become tedious. Maybe there’s not so much wit or dry humour. But in the final analysis none of that matters: the style and the story inevitably suck the reader in yet again.

The book begins in Nashville where Reacher comes to the aid of a band of musicians who are denied their earnings by a nasty club owner. We know how that’s going to play out… This seems like pure Reacher even if the incident has no relevance to the main story.

Hitching a lift, Reacher ends up in a town where he prevents a civilian being kidnapped – in daylight. The town is suffering computer outage and the guy he rescues, Rusty Rutherford, is being blamed for it and has been sacked from his IT job. Of course there’s more to it than that. Is it just a simple case of computer blackmail? You get your systems back if you pay the ransom. Or is it something more? Some of the plot seems overly contrived and even confusing, with ludicrous misdirection pertaining to the Second World War.

The Macguffin this time is the The Sentinel, a computer application, the country’s last line of defence against computer terrorism – illuminatingly explained on p265 with regard to ‘stolen elections’ etc; which is nice and topical. And yet it isn’t mentioned until p195, over half-way through the book. Like so many Reacher titles, this one is not memorable; after a short while it will blend in with all the others.

Rusty’s helper is an ex-FBI agent (that’s useful!) called Sands. Behind the scenes is a guy called Speranski who is calling the shots, pulling the strings, and trying to track down Rutherford. There’s mention of the Center, whatever that is. Possibly I missed something, but the Speranski guy seems to vanish from the story at some point; I might have blinked. Maybe the Childs ran out of space or time so left it to the FBI to sweep up the bad guys, one of whom is presumably Speranski. Perhaps less description of furniture and buildings that have no relevance might have allowed for more space to bring alive the Speranski anomaly. I blame the editor. Unless Speranski is going to figure in the next book, of course...

Reacher’s charisma must be slipping, too. There was no sex though an invitation was implied…

Not one of ‘his’ best efforts, alas. Not a ‘keeper’. In my view.

THE GOOD LIAR - Book of the film

Nicholas Searle’s debut novel The Good Liar was published in 2016 and the film was released three years later.

The story concerns Roy, a conman, and Betty, a widow; both are in their eighties but reasonably fit for their age, though Roy is plagued by a ‘difficult leg’. They meet for the first time through an online dating connection. And they seem to get on well. The protagonists are played by two consummate actors, Ian McKellen and Helen Mirren, who effortlessly inhabit their personas. Roy comes across as a particularly unpleasant man in both book and film.

The book’s story is told in the present tense and in the third person past historic, and jumps around quite a bit – the present (probably 2009), 1998, 1973, 1963, 1957, 1946, and 1938.  The ‘present’ is a bit woolly in the book but since certain characters were youngsters in 1938, the ‘present’ must be around the 2009 date to realistically fit.

After a couple of dinner dates, Betty takes pity on Roy and asks him to stay at her home – with the proviso their relationship would be for companionship only. He is willing to accept her kind offer. The majority of the flashbacks relate to Roy and the various predicaments he found himself in: impersonating a man accidentally killed in Norfolk, conning widows out of their savings. It is soon obvious that he has designs on Betty’s nest-egg. The only fly in the ointment is her grandson who appears over-protective.

Searle commits the modern cardinal sin of head-jumping from Roy’s thoughts to Betty’s in the same scene. Yet in this instance it works, emphasizing not only a battle of wills but imbuing the tale with mystery about Betty’s motivation.

The gradual twists and revelations are served up towards the end.

This is one of those rare occasions where the screenplay improves on the book. In the book, the fate of Roy is a rather prosaic damp squib, yet in the film it is far more brutal and, dare one say, satisfying. In the book some events are considered but not carried through; in the film these events are enacted and enhance the drama. The book deals with the horror of the Nazi concentration camps, where the film barely touches upon this. The screenplay is by Jeffrey Hatcher.

A worthwhile psychological thriller that maintains its grip on the reader to the end.

It does not matter if you see the film before or after reading the book: the book provides more telling background regarding Roy, while the film is a gripping experience in its own right thanks to the lead actress and actor.