Saturday Story - 'Missives to Mina'

MISSIVES TO MINA

 

Nik Morton

 

Carpathian mountains - Wiki commons

Bistritz,

4 May, 1897

Dearest Mina,

            My profoundest apologies for not committing myself to paper to you before this day but the long and arduous journey has been decidedly hectic, more of which anon, and it has taken me all my time to maintain my journal in short-hand.

            I hope this missive finds you well. As I write I am ensconced in a cubicle constructed of ancient black oak, near to a crackling fire at one end of this old hostelry, The Golden Krone Hotel. But a moment ago I looked up, to perceive the embers of a ravaged log, and I could have sworn therein was an image of your dear friend Lucy. Whimsical, I know! I must strongly resist a tendency towards journalism when writing to my family, friends and loved ones!

            Since leaving hearth and home I have had no communication from my prospective host, but I have managed to follow his travel instructions to the letter. It has been quite an adventure!

            The journey began in earnest when I embarked upon the packet steamer 'Dark Star' bound for Dubrovnik. The cabin appointments left a great deal to be desired, with coal-dust from the boiler-room seeming to cover everything.

            That first evening, after an atrocious greasy meal, I had settled myself to write to you, but alas there blew up out of nowhere one of the fiercest storms ever encountered by our bluff but likeable captain Conrad. Much to my shame, I retired to my uncompromisingly hard bunk where, feeling awfully sorry for myself, I lay for the entire crossing.

            As you know, I have crossed the Atlantic to my cousins in New York on several occasions, and visited Uncle Silas in Eire, but I have never succumbed to 'mal de mer' before.

            You can be assured that it is not a pleasant experience! It is not simply an out-of-sorts sensation in one's stomach: one's head swims, as if it too is adrift in the very storm that belabours the vessel, and there is a disorienting muzziness engulfing the brain so that any cohesive thought is tantamount to being impossible to accomplish. A weariness encompasses the limbs, and a shivering weakness pervades the very soul. Sacrilegious to remark, but at one's lowest ebb one almost wishes for the Great Adventure, death, itself!

            Happily, on our approach to the port, the sea calmed and these varied ailments deserted me, though I confess to being left like a piece of damp cloth, wrung through.

            The carriage my host promised to provide was indeed awaiting me at the quayside. It was a splendid affair, most resembling a landau, with four strong black horses, all caparisoned in shining leather and brass livery.

            A rather cadaverous pair of men perched on its high seat, fancifully reminding me of those crows we used to stone in farmer Bayliss's field! My host's two retainers were taciturn to the point of rudeness, yet they speedily progressed me through the official formalities and, once my baggage was installed in the luggage compartment, we were on our way.

            If you believe our coaches are unpleasant contrivances, with the ubiquitous dust and bone-jarring springs, do not ever consider journeying in these continental contraptions! Within the hour I seemed to be bruised all over.

            At the outset, the plush upholstery had smelled of luxurious leather, but in no time at all the interior was clogged with a russet-coloured dust.

            I shall complete this epistle to you later. I am assured there is a post office at our next place of call for we must journey on this very night before the storm breaks.

            Your loving Jonathan.

 

Carpathians

5 May, 1897

 

Dearest Mina,

            Disaster struck! Last night, while our coachman drove our poor beasts pell-mell through a violent rainstorm, a wheel sheered from the vehicle. He was catapulted off the mountainside to an awful certain death, while I myself barely escaped with a bruised jaw and a sprained ankle.

            Fortunately, the surviving retainer, Arpad, knows the mountains well. He called some mediaeval curse upon the driver who had lost his life for his impetuousness, then directed me to follow him up through a winding overgrown defile. Rainwater sluiced down the rocks from above, and I was very soon drenched. I abandoned my portmanteau but struggled manfully with the carpetbag. Arpad deigned not to assist me.

            Eventually, Arpad found this shelter. It is an old ruined fortress, the walls long ago dismantled to supply the local populace with dry-stone walls and low-ceilinged hovels.

            The rain has ceased. I must confess to an uneasiness in the presence of Arpad. He is a great hulking fellow, with a low brow, beady black eyes and enormous hands. He hardly ever speaks, and when he does it is in guttural fractured Serbo-Croat.

            But as I gaze out the slit window, across these mountains, irrational worry departs.

            If only you could share this view with me, dearest Mina!

            The condensation from the night's rain has now become a romantic mist, half-clouding the mauve and grey peaks, with the rays of the rising sun glinting on outcrops of unblemished snow and twinkling ice. And the air is so fresh. This land must surely be blessed!

            I broke off writing for a moment as Arpad explained we must be getting on. He even gave me two swigs of his slivovice, a rather tart plum brandy, which perked me up considerably.

            I hope to write again soon, my dear. But I must close and slip this letter into its envelope. According to Arpad, his master will endeavour to send this on to you from his ancestral demesne.

            Strangely, I feel a trifle light-headed, probably on account of that liquor - a little sleepy. I am sure that Arpad will look after me, as his master has expressed a great interest in my writing style.

            Yes, indeed, I am greatly looking forward to meeting Count Dracula in his Transylvanian castle.

            Yours,

            Jonathan.

***

Note: If you haven’t read Dracula by Bram Stoker, I recommend it.

Even though you know the evil count, thanks to many films, you’re still bound to read with dread anticipation the epistolary story of Jonathan Harker, his family and friends.

 This was written as an exercise under 1,000 words with the subject ‘Letters’.

Previously published in Costa TV Times, 2010. Copyright 2014, Nik Morton

My vampire novel is Death is Another Life (writing as Robert Morton) and is available only until May from Amazon com e-book here

and from Amazon UK paperback from here

 

*** 

Two other books that may be of interest are:

The Fluttering by David Whitehead and Curtains of Blood by Robert J Randisi

I have both on my Kindle but haven’t read them yet!

The Fluttering

Something terrifying has started happening in Eggerton. People are turning up drained of blood and very, very dead. Have vampire bats started attacking humans? If so, then who’s delivering the hammer-blow that finally kills the victims?

For Detective Inspector Jack Sears it’s a mystery that not even virologist Doctor Christopher Deacon can help fathom. But then the police get lucky. Against all the odds, one of the victims survives. But strangely enough, that’s when things go from bad to worse …

Show more Show less 

Curtains of Blood

 

London, 1888. A knife flashes in the fog. A madman has begun the most notorious and shocking series of murders in history. With each new discovery of a woman's mutilated body, the citywide panic grows. The police seem unable to stop the killer, even when he taunts them with letters. Letters signed...Jack the Ripper.

In another part of London, the reign of terror has touched a young writer and theatre manager named Bram Stoker. The police have closed his theatre's production of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and suspect its star of being Jack the Ripper. His livelihood endangered, Stoker sets out on his own to find the real killer. But Jack wants just as badly to find Stoker. When the madman and the author meet face to face, a new chapter will be written in the annals of horror.

FFB - The Leader

This 2003 thriller by Guy Walters falls into the ‘what if’ alternative history’ category of fiction. This kind of story goes a long way back – to the late 1800s. More modern examples are Ward Moore’s Bring the Jubilee (1953) where the South won the Civil War and Philip K. Dick’s The Man in the High Castle (1962) where the Allies lost WWII. British variants include novels where Hitler won, such as Len Deighton’s SSGB (1978), Murray Davies’ Collaborator (2003), Robert Harris’ Fatherland (1992) and the Soviet’s take over Britain, such as Constantine Fitzgibbon’s When the Kissing had to Stop (1960), and Clive Egleton’s A Piece of Resistance (1970), and S.J. Sansom’s Dominion (2012). Sophia McDougall's Romanitas, the first of a trilogy, is a contemporary novel where the Roman empire didn't fall but dominates half the world. There are plenty of others, of course.

In the case of The Leader, in 1936 Edward VIII defied all advice and opinion and refused to give up his throne or Mrs Simpson. Political turmoil resulted and into the vacuum stepped the pro-monarchy group, Oswald Mosley’s British Union of Fascists – renamed the British Union. In 1937 Mosley was in power and had the tacit support of the pro-fascist king and his wife.

Within weeks of Mosley walking into No.10, the Emergency Powers were invoked by Parliament and a nationwide curfew was installed. They ended the right of assembly and His Majesty’s Secret State Police was set up to ‘combat anti-patriotic activities’ and to take over the work of MI5. Identity papers were introduced and the press was taken over by the state and absorbed into the civil service.

Of course all these measures were ‘temporary – for the good of us all.’ Mosley’s Blackshirts caused terror wherever they went, fomenting racial unrest, notably against Jews. Mosley even consults his fascist pal Adolf Hitler on a ‘more permanent’ solution to the ‘Jewish problem’.  

The first manifestation of this dictatorship was the plethora of posters of Mosley – in his Blackshirt uniform – ‘The Leader – For the Good of Us All.’ The cult of personality rising above policy.

Like all regimes of terror, this one was run by thugs of doubtful intelligence. There were ways round the system, ways to fight back. The populace wasn’t completely cowed, it just needed a few well-placed leaders. Unfortunately, old Winston Churchill was a prisoner in the Isle of Man.

First World War hero James Armstrong, now an MP, soon realised that this was not the Britain he’d fought for in the trenches. He started meeting friends of like mind – until he was arrested, having been betrayed. Armstrong learned that you couldn’t trust anybody anymore. That was the state’s invisible power - distrust spreading like a malignant tumour – and what kept the Soviets in power for so long.

But Armstrong escaped and with cunning and bravery links up with some communists to fight back at the authoritarian government.

The story is convincing on several levels and moves along at a good pace. I was reminded of Buchan’s Thirty-nine Steps – it seems as though every hand is turned against the hero, he can’t trust anyone. And unknown to Armstrong, there are behind-the-scenes manipulations going on, engineered by Russian moles ...

 
The select bibliography cites nineteen books concerning, Mosley, Fascism in Britain, the 1930s, the Windsors and the Russians – research all used to good effect without slowing the pace or appearing didactic.
 
Of course much of the background is based on fact – Mosley was quite powerful in his day and the king held pro-fascist views. Indeed, this was a historical turning-point – the king abdicated in order to marry the American Mrs Simpson.
 
It’s possible that it could have happened like this. And just because the story takes place in 1937, it doesn’t mean Britain is now forever free of a dictatorship...
 

Writing tips - Size isn’t everything

“How many words are right for my novel?” That’s a familiar question raised by beginners. There will be as many answers as there are words, I imagine. My take on it follows.

We’re talking novels here – not novellas, novelettes, or long short stories.

A novel tells a story and you should use as many words as it takes to tell the story well. That’s the basic, rather glib answer, but it’s also valid, too. To tell the story properly, you need characterisation, a sense of place, imagery that immerses the reader into the fictional world, conflict, a beginning, a middle and an end. Usually, some change has to occur, whether in the protagonist’s life or worldview or in other characters’ lives.

Most publishers’ websites provide a useful guide to the word-count they’re looking for, and really you should attempt to comply with their requirements if you’re aiming for those publishers. Don’t try to be the exception.

Chuck Sambuchino talks at length about writers trying to ‘be the exception’. Truth is, there are a good number of authors who are the exception to ‘the rule’. But there are thousands of unpublished authors who thought their lengthy tomes were the exception too, and they’re still unpublished… The article is here.

Chuck provides a guide to the desired length of commercial and literary adult novels – say, 80,000 to 110,000 word might pass muster, anything longer might not. Certain genre fiction might differ – westerns, crime and sci-fi/fantasy, for example. Young adult seems to fit into the 55,000-70,000 bracket. Note the word 'might'...

At the outset, unless you’re aiming at a specified word-count required by a publisher, I feel that you shouldn’t unduly concern yourself with the number of words. Write the story, get the pacing and all the other aspects right, finish the novel, then self-edit, self-edit and self-edit to make each word and each scene count. When the writing does exactly what you want it to do and creates images in the mind’s eye, grabs your emotions, and doesn’t take forever to end, you’re probably ready to review the word-count. If it falls short of a publisher’s minimum requirement, examine each scene – have you wrung every ounce of emotion and drama from it? If the book is still too long by their requirements, put it aside for a while and come back to it with fresh eyes (meanwhile, work on your next book); if those fresh eyes still can’t see any non-essential scenes and repetitive dialogue, then search for another publisher that might fit better – or send it off anyway. Truth is, a book is never finished, it’s abandoned. The knack is not to abandon it too soon; be honest with yourself and be sure that you have honed it as well as  you are able.

The gate-keepers – agents and publishers – don’t know what they’re looking for with regard to content. They want to be lost in a story – whether that’s an engaging character or two, a believable created world or an absorbing theme that won’t let go. Truly, the word-count shouldn’t matter if you can supply what they want. Yet experience tells them that invariably, a long book usually means it hasn’t been edited adequately.

My wife Jennifer’s (as yet unpublished) romantic suspense novel The Wells Are Dry is 150,000-words long, even after much heart-searching editing and cutting down; yet its narrative flow doesn’t feel like it’s a long book. The same can be said of books by George R.R. Martin and Ken Follett, for example; they write hefty tomes, yet they’ve mastered narrative flow, keeping the story moving for the myriad characters, so it doesn’t seem like those 1,000-plus pages are long.

If you honestly feel you can’t cut another scene or word and you reckon the reader will lose herself in the work, then you’re in with a chance of acceptance, no matter what the word-count. Having said that, if you stick to the publisher’s requirements, you improve your chance of acceptance.

***

Some examples

49,000 words

 

 

52,000 words                  80,000 words

 

81,000 words

 

 

 

 

 



 

Book Review - Dark Deceit

When there’s talk about civil war in England, the allusion is thought to refer to The English Civil War between cavaliers and roundheads (1642-1651). Yet there was another English civil war, much earlier, from 1139 to 1153.

In 1135, Count Stephen sailed to England after learning of the death of his uncle King Henry I, who met his Maker due to overindulging in lampreys. He was crowned king in Westminster Abbey on 26 December in contravention of the oath he and leading English barons had sworn to King Henry I to support the Empress Matilda as Queen.

In 1139, the Empress Matilda and her husband Geoffrey of Anjou, in alliance with her half-brother, the illegitimate Robert, Earl of Gloucester, landed an army in south-west England, intent on claiming the throne and setting up their own court in Bristol. The following year, Earl Ranulf of Chester rose in revolt and captured Lincoln. In 1141, King Stephen was defeated by Robert, Earl of Gloucester, at the battle of Lincoln, on February 2. Stephen was imprisoned in chains in Gloucester’s castle.

This is the period in which Cathie Dunn’s atmospheric Dark Deceit is set.

 

Dunn thrusts us straight into the action and provides both depth of character and splendid sense of place.

Following the battle of Lincoln, Geoffrey de Mortagne is en route to link up with the Empress but interrupts the ambush of a local nobleman, Raymond. The mortally wounded Lord Raymond is father to Alleyne de Bellac. Geoffrey vows to the dying knight that he will protect Alleyne and her estate.

‘Alleyne waited for a sign, hardly daring to breathe. She rubbed her arms, uncertain of whether it was the biting February winds that seeped through her thin linen sleeves or premonition.’

With her father dead, Alleyne’s future looks bleak. Despite his good intentions, Geoffrey is a stranger to her. She must fall back on the old friendship of Will d’Arques. She was vulnerable, as a prospective bride and as a landowner.

Told alternately from Geoffrey’s and Alleyne’s viewpoint, this historical romance never flags. A story needs conflict and we have that – between Geoffrey and Alleyne, and Alleyne and Will, and between Will and Geoffrey.

Wounded in love many years ago, Geoffrey is reluctant to be ensnared again. ‘Her large eyes stared into the fire and he knew she floated miles away, perhaps even as far back as her childhood. Memories were prone to attack you in moments of grief, rendering you helpless. Swiftly, he shrugged off unwanted memories of his own.’

Geoffrey is very patient with Alleyne’s vacillations of heart, one of several traits that endear him to the reader. And, gradually, her character changes, mellowing with time and experience. But before that can happen, we have the pair jousting with their emotions: ‘Her dark glance down her nose assessed him coolly. She was too haughty, too dismissive. He felt like a piece of untreated meat, left in the heat to rot…’ They’re well-drawn characters, and I’m happy to be acquainted with them. ‘His heart pounding in his ears for reasons he could not fathom, he had spoken of his support, his plans. She had barely acknowledged him. In fact, she had withdrawn into a shell and he could not breach her defences.’

 
Stephen’s reign is often called ‘The Anarchy’ as it seemed that royal power was at its lowest while baronial power was at its height. Dark Deceit is the first in ‘The Anarchy Trilogy’.

I for one want to carry on with Alleyne and Geoffrey’s journey.

A shorter version of this review will appear on Amazon etc.

 

 

Recurrent images: beginnings and echoes

Using a leitmotif in your fiction can provide an added dimension. This is a recurrent idea or image. Indeed, there may be several different leitmotifs in the novel.

In my series of novels about Tana Standish, psychic spy of the Cold War, I begin each book with similar imagery. This serves a number of purposes – it thrusts the reader directly into the action and it reveals something about the characters involved, for example.

The first two books are out of print and seeking a new publisher; the third is a work in progress, with more to follow in time.

The Prague Papers - ONE: Prelude

Czechoslovakia, August, 1968

Six Soviet officers stood on the balcony overlooking St. Wenceslas Square and the definition through the sniper-scope was so good that Tana Standish could detect the black-heads round their noses and the blood-shot eyes that testified to late-night celebrating with alcohol. She had ten 7.5mm rounds, more than enough to kill all of them. 

            Tana had a steady grip but there was no risk of weapon-shake anyway as the new Giat F1 rifle rested on its bipod on the window-sill. She had also made sure that, as this weapon was fresh from the French production-line, it could not be traced back to England.            

            Dressed in his brown-grey greatcoat with bright red lapel flashes, General of the Army Ivan Pavlovsky cocked his head to the left while he listened attentively to his commanders. He was thick-set, with small dark eyes and a pug nose whose nostrils bristled with hair.

            Try as she might, she could not detect any thoughts from the officers. But she was able to lip-read. They were in a self-congratulatory mood, since the invasion had gone well, with only a few Czech and Slovak deaths. Vodka had indeed flowed last night.

            As one of the main architects of the offensive, Pavlovsky would have the honour to die first. She levelled the cross-hairs on the general’s forehead, just between the close-set eyes.

            For God’s sake, don’t! Along with the words that she snatched from Laco’s tumbling thoughts came a familiar dull ache at the back of her neck. Her mouth went very dry. Tana lifted her finger away from the trigger and felt cold sweat start its trail down the side of her brow.

            She turned her head as, seconds later, Laco unlocked the apartment door and rushed inside, slamming the door behind him.

            ‘Thank God I caught you in time!’ he gasped, eyes staring at the rifle on its stand.

            ‘We agreed,’ Tana said evenly, ‘if we got the opportunity, it was too good to pass up.’ Out of the corner of her eye she watched the Soviet officers. They weren’t going anywhere. Two of them were pointing down into the street, where a car was on fire.          

            Laco heaved a sigh of resignation. ‘We intercepted a radio message.’ He rested his back against the wall by the door and slowly sank down on his haunches, head in his hands. ‘They said there will be reprisals if we kill any of their officers.’

            ‘If I was one of the other ranks,’ she said, ‘I’d be a bit upset about that.’ But it wasn’t a joking matter. Reprisal was not a nice word in Czechoslovakia.

            She drew the lace curtain across the window, concealing the weapon.

            Kneeling beside Laco, Tana gently took his hands in hers. She understood. He was only nineteen and he didn’t want another Lidice on his conscience. ‘One day, we’ll beat them,’ she said, ‘I promise.’

FR1 rifle - Wikipedia commons

 

The Tehran Transcript – ONE: HEART

Friday, September 8, 1978

Iran
Dressed in his sinister black SAVAK uniform, Captain Hassan Mokhtarian looked every inch the evil man he was. A man who deserved to die.

            Tana Standish could see him quite clearly through the telescopic sight, even making allowances for the poor light as dusk descended over Tehran and the city’s surrounding mountains, turning the overshadowing snow-capped cone of Mount Damavand a delicate shade of mauve. At least today the city smog didn’t obscure the peak of the volcano which still belched out sulphurous fumes from time to time and killed the odd stray sheep.

            Hassan exuded an air of danger with his pitted complexion and deep-set ebony eyes under a prominent forehead ridge. While SAVAK was a civilian organisation, many of its officers were military men and they relished wearing a uniform which instilled fear in the population.

            Standing in the open doorway of his villa, he exhaled smoke through his nostrils and dropped the Marlboro cigarette to the lightly coloured marble-tiled step, grinding it under the toe of his boot. His eyes glinted, as if he took pleasure in the destruction of even small things.

Hassan smiled as he closed the door behind him and stepped down to the waiting limousine with its bullet-proof smoked-glass windows. The government driver opened the door.

            Going to fat, his black silk shirt taut against his stomach, Hassan paused, one shining boot in the vehicle, and glanced back at the window to the right of the entrance. His wife Rosa waved.

            He had excelled himself with the Koofteh Berenji. The balls of meat had been filled with barberries, walnuts and fried onions. They were delicious. Normally, Rosa arranged for the chief maid to buy their meat for the chef, but on this occasion he’d insisted they take from the freezer the most recent gift from headquarters.

            Rosa allowed his odd whim – it was about once a month, he supposed, that he dictated what they ate and actually cooked it himself. It just depended on the quality of the source. He joked that it made him stronger, more capable of doing the Shah’s work, and of course the chef got a day off into the bargain.

            Now he grinned broadly at the memory and he experienced a thrilling shiver down his spine. Hassan wondered what Rosa would say if she realised the ground meat they’d eaten was the heart of Savak Hoveyda, a particularly recalcitrant activist for “people’s rights”.

            He used his big nicotine-stained fingers to brush back the oiled hair from his forehead, gave Rosa a cursory wave and, abruptly, his heart lurched and his normally emotionless features contorted in distress, deep furrows appearing in his prominent forehead, and his eyes screwed tight as sudden intense pain assailed his hands. It was as if his fingernails were being pulled out by the same pincers his men had used on Hoveyda, the same he had planned to use tonight on the anonymous Mojahedin woman.

            Shaking violently, Hassan staggered back and fortunately his driver caught him before he could fall on the hard marble steps.

 

Tears streamed down Tana’s face and dampened the black cotton material of her chador as she watched Hassan Mokhtarian stumble backwards into his driver’s arms. The optical telescopic sight – the Mauser SP66 had no obscuring iron sights - provided her with a very detailed picture of her target’s sudden facial transformation.

            It wasn’t enough, though. It never would be, she thought, the familiar taste of iron in her dry mouth.

            Thought-transference was something quite alien to the self-satisfied torturer of the Shah’s Security and Intelligence Service, SAVAK. It pained her as much this time as it had when she’d received the psychic echoes from her friend Savak Hoveyda – so ironically did they give their security and intelligence service the acronym which was a common Persian name!

Mauser SP66 rifle - Wikipedia commons

The Khyber Code – ONE: HERAT

Wednesday, February 14, 1979
Afghanistan
Cross-hairs of the telescopic sight centred on the man’s creased forehead, just below his brown and grey woollen hat. Steadying the weapon, Clayton tried calming the anger and disgust that threshed in his body. He needed a quick, clean shot. Stop breathing, squeeze the trigger. Now!

            The stock of the Mannlicher-Carcano carbine thudded into his shoulder as the gun’s report bounced off the hills. The 6.5mm calibre bullet made a bloody mess of the man’s head, splattering blood over his long-sleeved astrakhan coat. A lifeless hand dropped the curved knife.

            As the echo of his shot died, Clayton levered the bolt, feeding another cartridge into the breech, and fired again.

 

Not too many minutes earlier, Clayton had been on foot, gingerly leading his horse down the rocky scree slope towards the village. Although it was cold, he wore tough hide sandals, as did all tribesmen in the mountains. His disguise required it, since he was liable to pray five times a day and that meant preceding his devotions with ablutions of cold water on the back of the neck and feet. Few devout Afghans could be bothered with lace-up boots, they took too long to remove. He wore chalwar kameez, a wool hat and a black leather patch over his left eye. His pattu was slung over his back.

            He was about an hour early to pick up young Sher, his helper and guide, who reckoned that he’d found a buried ancient minaret just two days’ ride away.

            He stopped, noticing a gathering of men and a young woman outside an adobe house on the edge of the village. Two horses were standing idle by a hitching rail. Further down the village street, people watched furtively from windows and doorways, heads hooded, only their eyes visible.

            Clayton lifted the false eye-patch to get a better view of the group. Their body language indicated that something was amiss.

            Old instinct kicked in. Withdrawing the rifle from its leather boot under his woollen saddle-cloth, he sat back on the slope and rested his elbow on his knee and studied the group through the telescopic sight.

            Sher was being restrained by two stocky villagers with bushy black beards. A young woman was being held by two more men. Her shawl had been pulled away and her big brown eyes stared fearfully at the tall bearded man in the astrakhan coat. Clayton recognised him – he was Sher’s father, Asad Sattar.

            Clayton was too far away to hear what was being said, but he could read Asad’s lips, translating from the tribe’s Pashtu language: ‘You bring shame to my house, Nura!’

            ‘No, father, it is not like that!’

            ‘I have been informed that you dare to gaze with lust on an unworthy man!’

            ‘No, it is Ramin, he is jealous, he wants me but I don’t want him!’

            ‘What you want is of no consequence! You dishonour me and all your family!’

            ‘No, father,’ Sher objected, ‘that is not true!’

            Asad cuffed his son with the back of his big hand. ‘Silence, boy, or I shall cut out your tongue!’ Asad turned back to his daughter. ‘For your transgression, I shall pluck your eyes out and cast you into the wilderness!’

            Asad moved shockingly fast, pulling his curved knife from its belt sheath and flicking its point at Nura’s left eye.

            Clayton’s stomach lurched as the girl screamed. Sher’s eyes brimmed with tears but he didn’t cry out; like all young Afghan men, he was stoic in adversity for he had learned not to cry even if seriously hurt. Clayton steadied his arm and hands, aimed and shot Asad in the head. It was bad enough that anyone would do that to another human being, but for a father to be so brutal beggared belief. He knew all about the medieval practice of Islamic honour killings, but he’d never witnessed any; usually, they occurred behind closed doors. Girls as young as nine were sold or wed to old men and death while giving birth was commonplace.

            Trembling with after-shock, Clayton fired again. This second shot pierced the shoulder of the man on Nura’s left. His third shattered the kneecap of one of the men restraining Sher. Only seconds had elapsed and in that time the remaining men let go of the two youngsters and, helping their wounded comrades, turned and hurried towards the house. For an archaeologist, Clayton thought, he was a pretty good shot. The quality of the rifle helped, he supposed; nothing to brag about, the same type was used in the assassination of President Kennedy.

            Quick-wittedly, Sher spotted Clayton, waved briefly then ran over to his wailing sister who was crouched on the ground, hands covering her face. He grabbed her arm and tugged; reluctantly, she stood, covering one eye with a hand. They ran to the horses and Sher swung into the saddle and hauled his sister up behind him. In seconds, the pair was racing in Clayton’s direction, abandoning their home and village and family forever.

            Sher drew the horse beside Clayton; his sister hugged him tight, burying her face against Sher’s jacket.

            Clayton sheathed the rifle and swung into the saddle. ‘We must lose the pursuit, my friends,’ he shouted, pointing towards the village.

            Sher glanced over his shoulder, past the bowed head of his sobbing sister. Already, four horsemen were riding out of the village, furs flying out behind them, each brandishing long-barrelled jezails; sun glinted on the muskets’ elaborate lattices of mother-of-pearl.

            ‘Let’s go!’ Clayton said, urging his horse up the scree. An experienced young horseman, Sher followed, his sister clinging to him as if for dear life. Seven days from now, I had promised to be in Herat, Clayton fumed. Now, I may spend all that time eluding those damnable tribesmen!

            About an hour later, they entered a narrow defile and he halted his mount. ‘Sher, find me a place where I can transmit a message to Herat.’ His radio was concealed in several hollow sections of his saddle.

            The youngster nodded, his tone serious: ‘Yes, Greystock,’ using one of Clayton’s aliases. He signed for Clayton to follow him as he led his horse to the east.

Me at the gate (baab) to the Khyber Pass (1969)

***

Until I find a publisher for the series, I probably won’t finish Khyber (it’s one-third written already, however, and fully plotted).

 

Writing tips - visualisation

Time and again, in writers’ early drafts I encounter a lack of visualisation. They don’t see the scene, so can’t accurately convey what is happening to the reader.

Some writers prefer dialogue, which admittedly moves the story along. Yet, while people are speaking, they’re usually moving from one room to another, or using props of some kind, otherwise it’s a very static story. I’ve read about characters chatting over a meal, yet from the POV of the main character it would be difficult to know what they ate or drank! If the meal is of no consequence, then why is it in the story? It’s a prop? Well, it should be used as a specific entity, not as a vague ‘thing’. Characters might comment on the quality of the food, or reminisce about a grand meal they had in the past, even if merely asides pertinent to the conversation – and direction of the story. No, we don’t want flab inserted for the sake of word-count, but we do want to feel we’re there, and one sure-fire way of doing that is to indulge in specifics.

An entire book could be written about setting the scene, about showing the reader your characters’ world and how they fit into it.

The following is an extract, so a few points above are made here also:

Visualization

Remember, a book is a movie inside a reader’s head. Setting the scene means seeing it in your mind’s eye. This might entail zooming in on details or even panning around a street scene, particularly when you’re writing in omniscient mode.

Visualization is often neglected, especially in a first draft. If you can’t ‘see’ it, then your readers most certainly can’t.

People don’t exist in a vacuum – they’re standing, sitting, lounging, and walking in a solid world of your making. Let the readers see it – but let them see through your characters’ eyes.

This applies for every scene, to varying degrees, depending on the importance of the dramatic incident.

Use all the senses when possible – sight, touch, smell, sound and taste.

‘Well, come in.’ She stood aside, swept the slight train of her dress behind her and gestured for him to enter the hallway. She shut the door. ‘You’ve come to the right place, to be sure. Hang your hat, Mister.’

         He hung the slouch on a mahogany hook by the door.

         Turning on her heel with a swishing sound of satin, she said, ‘Follow me, sir.’

         He did so, trailing behind her swaying red bustle as it swept over the narrow strip of hall carpet. Even though it was still day, wall sconces were lit, projecting a warm ruddy glow everywhere Corbin looked. There was a sickly-sweet smell of cheap perfume, which he surmised probably served to keep at bay the pungent aroma of body odour and tobacco smoke. He heard murmuring up ahead.

Once he had passed through an arched doorway, a heavy brocade curtain fell behind him and all sound ceased. They were in a large room, each wall lined with two or three chaises longue, the walls papered in a crimson flock design. Seats were either occupied by young women with painted faces or anxious-looking men of all ages. The women wore white dimity wide skirts and soft ringlets of hair cascaded over bare shoulders; some fluttered lace fans in front of dark coquettish eyes. Most of the men only gave him a cursory look then returned to studying their boots or chatting to each other; the women too resumed their conversation, ignoring him. It was as if they were all congregated in a railway station waiting room. Only here the tickets were to Paradise, even if it was ephemeral. (The $300 Man, p 15)

      You need to personalise the visualization, too.

      Using an earlier sequence where Corbin meets   Jean after many years, I’ll give an example:

Her smile hadn’t been that way before, he realised. Something had altered her face – her nose still turned up at the tip, but it had been broken and was now slightly askew. The freckles were barely noticeable under the powder. Her thin lips usually offered the promise of a winsome smile but now they were dark red and unnatural. At one time her hazel eyes sent his heart soaring when she looked at him, but now she was hardly focussing on him or her world. Her mind was in some dark and distant place. Life once brimmed from her, now it was little more than a flickering candle in a gale.

She’d offered him a lopsided smile, which set off his memory of a younger, more innocent Jean. We see how she is now and how she was, in stark contrast. It’s visual description, but combined with Corbin’s emotion-filled memories and the maturity he’d gained since last seeing her.

- Write a Western in 30 Days, (pp131-133)

 

Amazon.co.uk here

Amazon.com here

 

 

Amazon.co.uk here

Book depository post-free worldwide here

Robert Hale (UK) here

Uncomfortable news from Crimea

2014 news from Crimea: Unidentified armed men entered the Crimean parliament in the regional capital Simferopol by force on Thursday morning, and hoisted a Russian flag on the roof. They were cheered by a handful of pro-Russian demonstrators who gathered round the building, despite a police cordon. We've been waiting for this moment for 20 years," the protest leader said. "We want a united Russia."

If I correctly recall my history, and William L. Shirer’s The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, there are uncomfortable echoes of 1939 Poland in these current events. ‘Unidentified armed men’, indeed.

A work which everyone should read - Hugh Trevor-Roper

 

1939. The German assault on Poland was originally scheduled to begin at 04:00 on 26 August. However, the day before, a pact was signed in which Britain committed itself to the defence of Poland, guaranteeing to preserve Polish independence. Hitler postponed his attack until 1 September.

However, there was one exception: in the night of 25–6 August, a German sabotage group which had not heard anything about a delay of the invasion made an attack on the Jablunkov Pass and Mosty railway station in Silesia. On the morning of 26 August, this group was repelled by Polish troops. The German side described all this as an incident "caused by an insane individual".

On 29 August, the German government stated that it aimed not only for the restoration of Danzig but also the Polish Corridor (which had not previously been part of Hitler’s demands) in addition to the safeguarding of the German minority in Poland (my italics). It said that they were willing to commence negotiations, but indicated that a Polish representative with the power to sign an agreement had to arrive in Berlin the next day while in the meantime it would draw up a set of proposals. Needless to say, it was engineered that this ultimatum was impossible to meet and when no such representative could reach Berlin in time, it was then broadcast that Poland had rejected Germany's offer, and negotiations with Poland came to an end. Hitler issued orders for the invasion to commence soon afterwards.

That same day, German saboteurs planted a bomb at the railway station in Tarnów and killed 21 passengers, leaving 35 wounded.

During the night of 31 August, a false flag attack on the radio station, was staged near the border city of Gleiwitz by German units posing as Polish troops (my italics) in Upper Silesia as part of the wider operation… On 31 August 1939, Hitler ordered hostilities against Poland to start at 4:45 the next morning. Because of these political vacillations over the previous week, Poland managed to mobilize only 70% of its planned forces, and many units were still forming or moving to their designated frontline positions when the blitzkrieg began. [Memory jogged by Wikipedia.]

2014. There is still no official confirmation of who the armed men surrounding key areas in Crimea really are. They wear uniforms without insignia and drive unidentified vehicles. Some say they are locals organising themselves into a self-defence unit against the Ukrainian uprising…

Uncomfortable echoes indeed.

Saturday Story - 'Wrecked!'

WRECKED!

 

Nik Morton

 

photo - Wikipedia commons

 

From his windy vantage-point on the parched leg of land jutting into the Mediterranean, Jack Gilzean slowly pivoted his 10 x 50 binoculars across the horizon beyond the guitar-shaped island of Tabarca.

There they are! He adjusted the focus.

About four miles out, he spotted their motor-boat bobbing on the postcard-blue sea. With unzipped wet suit revealing a black hairy chest, Alan Seymour was leaning over the gunwale, helping his brother Bill inboard.

They were grinning. And now Jack could see why.

Slowly, they heaved on a line and with a rush of spray they bundled a barnacle-encrusted old theodolite onboard . . .

Jack's lean tanned features crinkled in a broad grin. So! That's where their precious wreck's lying! 

Bending over his chart, he plotted the wreck's position. "Well," he mused aloud, turning to his jeep, "the Seymours have just lost their exclusive rights to this wreck!"

He was at the crowded Torrevieja marina as Bill and Alan heaved-to. Through the jumbled masts and rigging, he watched them unload a bulky hessian sack -- doubtless crammed with Second World War relics!  Jack was an expert on that period.  His mouth watered at the thought of all the plunder waiting to be brought to the surface...

Later that evening, Jack crossed the twilit sand towards the Cabo Roig beach barbecue that was in progress. The brazier's charcoal fumes irritated his eyes as he approached Alan Seymour who was lazing against a pile of boxes filled with cans of beer. The camp fires highlighted the distinctive Seymour aquiline nose. Jack also picked out Bill further up the beach, dancing with a shapely bikini-clad blonde.

"Hi, Alan -- bring up anything of interest to the authorities?" Jack enquired pointedly. As far as he could gather, they'd kept the wreck's discovery a secret...

Alan's drink slurped. "What - ­what do you mean?"

Jack sneered. "Don't pretend you haven't found a wartime wreck -- I saw you this afternoon. I also have its position ... Perhaps the Spanish govern­ment officials would be interested in your find?"

Alan lowered his glass. His head cocked sideways. "What are you after?"

"A share of the spoils . . ." Jack shrugged. "Nothing too much, I’m not greedy, you know . . ."

Momentarily, Alan cast an anxious eye at his brother. "Look," he said, gesturing towards Bill, "I can't make that decision -- Bill discovered the ship." He hesitated, bit his lip. "Anyway, I think we're -- ah, here he is!"

Tattooed arm looped around the blonde, Bill sauntered up to them. "Enjoying the party?"

Jack nodded, then switched his cold grey eyes to Alan.

"Bill, I -- could we talk alone a minute?" Alan stammered, edging away towards the shoreline.

"Go dance, pet!" Bill said, slapping the blonde's rump, then followed Alan.

Alone, Jack gulped his beer and watched them talking by the phos­phorescent waterline, arms gesticulat­ing, their raised voices distorted by the faint night breeze.

He opened another can just as the brothers returned.

Bill's rugged face appeared cloudy, black brows lowered.  "Your scheme’s meaningless now, Gilzean . . . You see, we're reporting the wreck tomorrow -- it's too dan­gerous . . ." He grinned. "Tough, eh?"

"But --" They left him with mouth gaping and joined the hubbub of voices and music.

Staring after them, Jack grimaced and kicked up sand angrily. Damn! They're probably scared of a few unstable explosives!

Never found a valuable wreck in my life, he thought, and when a chance comes, I'm stymied! Unless... He grinned, thoughtfully stroking his dimpled chin.

*

Jack parked his jeep and rushed up the hospital steps, heart hammering fearfully.

"They're both on the critical list, sir . . ." the doctor explained in English outside the ward. "They'll be unconscious about twenty-four hours . . ."

"Thanks, doc."

So his meddling with their car hadn't killed them, after all. With any luck, they'd pull through.

            I only wanted to delay them, make sure they didn't report the wreck yet.  Still, they wouldn't be doing any talking today, not to anyone.  Time for one dive...

Grinning under the cloudless sunny sky, he flung his diving gear into the back of the jeep and motored to the jetty. Once there, he leapt aboard his old MFV and steered for the wreck's co-ordinates.

About twenty minutes later he con­firmed the position and cut the engine and anchored. Impatiently strapping on his two twelve-litre aluminium cylinders and ten-pound weight-belt, he smiled thinly. At last, an almost unspoiled wreck!

He tested the makeshift winch and pulley he'd set-up amidships. Should hoist a few items with that!

Slowly he lowered himself back­wards into the warm waters. The viz was good.

Equalising his ears at about twenty feet, he could just make out the wreck's framework below. It seemed split in half.

Odd, nobody noticing it before. Then he remembered the profusion of rocky sea-beds around here.  Without an accurate fix or sheer good luck like the Seymours had, it would never be found.

Legs pumping, eager hands guiding him over the barnacle-covered guardrail, he snaked across the bows. Her name looked like, Graf Skagerrak.  German.

Ropes and hawsers littered the canted deck. A lifeboat hung lopsidedly in its davits. Fish lazed in the well-deck's shadows till his passage disturbed them.

He switched on his torch. Barnacles glistened. Fish darted away.  Weeds billowed gracefully, shadows cavorted.

Up in the wheel-house he uncovered a ship's compass beneath the remains of a corpse -- all bone, silvery white.

He'd come back later for the compass and that pair of binoculars draped round the skeleton.

            Jack finned down the companion-way, into the hulk's depths. Light lanced through numerous holes in the hull.

Emerging from the rent open stokehold, he finned over to the after section. Here he came across a closed cargo hatch. As he braced himself against the coaming, he heaved open the rusted hatch, its creaking sound carrying underwater.

There was no release of pressure from inside: Bill or someone else must have opened it earlier.

It was a spacious hold. Huge packing-cases were piled at the end.

He swam over.

The clamorous clang startled him. 

He swirled round in a flurry of bubbles.

The hatch had slammed shut, probably with the swift current hereabouts.

He shrugged.  Wedge it open later.  He headed for the crates.  Some were smashed open, revealing carboys nesting in straw. A number of these were cracked.  Although he couldn't tell what was inside, tiny bubbles issued from the cracks.

Then his light discovered the German writing stencilled on the crates. 

Tabun – Anorgarna GmbH, Dyhernfurth.

Wartime nerve-agent...

His heart raced as he wheeled for the exit-hatch above. But it wouldn't budge...

***

Previously published as ‘The Wreck Hunter’ by Platen Syder, 1973, in Parade; revised as ‘Wrecked!’ and published in The Coastal Press, 2005. Copyright Nik Morton 2011.

If you’d like to read more of my published (and prize-winning) short stories, please refer to When the Flowers are in Bloom (Solstice Publishing), 2011. This anthology might become a collector’s item as it will be out of print as from May, 2014.

Another collection, Spanish Eye, features 22 cases from Leon Cazador, private eye, and is available as an e-book and paperback. Published by Crooked Cat.