We are history

No, I’m not warning of an imminent apocalypse!  That’s the title of a piece I’ve written as a guest blogger of Alison Morton (no relation), which appears today here

Alison Morton

 

Alison is a historian; she was my blog guest on May 11 – see here.

Her alternate history Roma Nova novels are becoming very popular, as I’ve mentioned. Her website is packed with fascinating details. Please pop over there and enjoy.

 
The impetus for the piece was to discuss how history affected my novel writing. The article barely scratched the surface. Many of my short stories have a historical bent, too – whether that’s WWII, the English Civil War, the Spanish Civil War, the fall of the Berlin Wall, the conflict in Bosnia and so on.  History informs the present and to a large extent makes us who we are.

In Write a Western in 30 Days, there's chapter 4 that deals with Theme and ideas. Here, apart from discussing emotional response and taglines, I offer up about ten pages of ideas for stories, ranging over a variety of subjects - railroads, mining, pioneers, townships, ranchers, soldiers, women, and the Civil War.  In Bullets for a Ballot, the story revolves around the emancipation of women in Wyoming.

 

Amazon UK here and here

Amazon COM here and here

In Spanish Eye, Leon Cazador finds history touches upon his cases - such as the treasure of the Knights Templar in 'Relic Hunters', the Spanish Civil War in 'Grave Concerns', and the Tiananmen Square killings of 1989 in 'Dragon Lady'.

Amazon UK here

Amazon COM here

 

‘Absolute steal’

No, this post has nothing to do with Jack Absolute (see Friday’s Forgotten Book here). It’s simply a comment from a reviewer in one of our local newspapers here in Spain, The Coastrider.

The review is for Spanish Eye, 22 short stories about Leon Cazador, private eye, ‘in his own words’.

There’s a received wisdom that short stories don’t sell and aren’t read these days. One aspect of this is as the reviewer, Paul Mutter, explains, ‘A particular difficulty with short stories is that they are exactly that – short. All too often they can be over before they have really begun, leaving the reader somewhat frustrated.’

Happily, although Mr Mutter isn’t too keen on short stories, he enjoyed this collection – ’22 individual stories … are absolute little gems. The pace of each is perfectly judged to reach its conclusion at just the right time and in just the right way.’

He concludes, ‘Not only will the tales appeal to general lovers of short stories but in particular those with experience of living in Spain will I’m sure feel a certain resonance with these stories. My only regret is that there aren’t more of them… Leon Cazador deserves some much longer tales…. Obtained through Amazon as a paperback for £4.99 or for download as a Kindle edition for £1.99 and it is an absolute steal at that price.’

The review is here (click on the image and you'll get the full readable text):

Thank you, Mr Mutter. Your review is very much appreciated. And yes, more tales are planned, including a full-length adventure. A new Leon Cazador story is featured in the Crooked Cat's Tales (UK) here and COM here - 20 stories from Crooked Cat's authors - also at a steal of a price!

 

 

 ***

 

Spanish Eye,

featuring Leon Cazador, private eye in 22 cases
is  published by Crooked Cat Publishing
and can be obtained from

Amazon UK here

Amazon COM here

The vigilante through history – a brief view

Sudden Vengeance is about a vigilante – male or female, you'll learn which eventually – who metes out some kind of justice against the guilty when it is widely perceived that the law has ‘gone soft’ on criminals.

Released on good behaviour today -

Sudden Vengeance from Crooked Cat Publishing!

The following is extracted from a lengthy and interesting article about vigilantes through history. It can be found here

Briefly, vigilantism has often been espoused by folkloric heroes and legendary outlaws (e.g., Robin Hood being the most obvious example). Vigilantism in literature, folklore and legend is connected to the fundamental issues of dissatisfied morality, injustice, the perceived failures of authority and the ethical adequacy of legitimate governance.

Not all vigilantism is aimed at the bad guys, though. It’s all in the perceptions of the aggrieved, and that of course is the danger.  And there are documented instances where mistaken identity has meant the death of innocents. Here are some examples, the good and the bad, perhaps, from Wikipedia:

In 1858 San Luis Obispo vigilantes ended the murderous reign of the bandit gang of Pío Linares on El Camino Real between San Luis and Santa Barbara.

In October 1862 in northern Texas, several Unionist sympathizers were arrested and taken to Gainesville, Texas for trial on charges of treason and insurrection. Seven were tried and hanged, and 14 were hanged without trial. A few weeks later, Unionist sympathizers were hanged without trial across northern Texas. Known as "The Great Hanging at Gainesville", it may have been the deadliest act of vigilante violence in U.S. history.

The Great Hanging at Gainesville - Wikipedia commons

In 1865, the Ku Klux Klan was formed in Pulaski, Tennessee by a group of six Confederate War veterans. The KKK or "Klan" sought to use extralegal force to resist Reconstruction in the post-Civil War South of the United States. The KKK became a leading agent of racist violence in the US.

In the early 20th century, the White Finns founded the Protection Corps as a paramilitary vigilante organisation in Finland. It formed the nucleus of the White Army in the Finnish Civil War (January-May, 1918).

In the 1920s, the Big Sword Society of China protected life and property in a state of anarchy.

The Guardian Angels organization was founded February 13, 1979 in New York City by Curtis Sliwa and has chapters in 15 countries and 144 cities around the world.

Recognized since the 1980s, Sombra Negra or "Black Shadow" of El Salvador is a group of mostly retired police officers and military personnel whose sole duty is to cleanse the country of "impure" social elements by killing criminals and gang members. Along with several other organizations, Sombra Negra are a remnant of the death squads from the civil war of the 1970s and 1980s.

 
In Hampshire, England (where Sudden Vengeance is set!), during 2006, a vigilante slashed the tyres of more than twenty cars, leaving a note made from cut-out newsprint stating "Warning: you have been seen while using your mobile phone". Driving whilst using a mobile is a criminal offence in the UK, since individuals using their mobiles while driving have caused death and serious injury, but critics feel the law is little observed or enforced.
 
On April 15, 2011 a group of women in Cherán armed with rocks and fireworks attacked a bus carrying illegal loggers armed with machine guns in Michoacán associated with the Mexican drug cartel La Familia Michoacana. They assumed control over the town, expelled the police force and blocked roads leading to oak timber on a nearby mountain. Vigilante activity has spread to the nearby community of Opopeo. The government of Mexico has recognized Cherán as a self-governing indigenous community, but criminals continue to murder residents in the forest.

There are many more examples.

***

Available from e-book and paperback outlets online

Please purchase from Amazon UK here

Please purchase from Amazon COM here

 

'Instil fear in black uncaring hearts!’

Some of the background to my crime novel Sudden Vengeance is based on real crime reports in local newspapers in UK. Needless to say, the names have been changed. You might detect a trend – crimes against property tend to warrant more severe punishment. These snippets are relevant to the story; they might go some way to explain why somebody would consider becoming a vigilante, in order to obtain justice on behalf of victims. It’s a big moral question, posed more than once in the novel.

News reports from the book:

Shocking Death

An old age pensioner, 80, was robbed and badly beaten in her ground floor warden-controlled flat. Mrs. Dorothy Monk was declared dead on arrival at the Queen Alexandra Hospital.
– The Alverbank Chronicle

‘Justice denied’

Mr. Terry Pryce, 19, charged with manslaughter, was acquitted today. Mrs. Michelle Boynton, 38, the widow of the man Pryce was accused of killing, broke down when she heard the verdict.

Last June Mr. Geoff Boynton, 42, objected to Pryce damaging his garden fence with a screwdriver. Pryce allegedly became abusive and stabbed Mr. Boynton in the chest five times. Mrs. Boynton beat off Pryce with a garden rake and later identified him.

After today’s verdict, Mrs. Boynton’s solicitor stated that they would “consider a civil action or other alternatives to get justice”.

 – The Alverbank Chronicle

Youth Let Off

Judge Wallside dismissed the case against Steven Campion, 17, charged with sexually assaulting his neighbour’s six-year-old girl. “I understand that while you babysat, the girl was provocative in her nightdress,” the judge said.

The parents of the child intend to appeal.

A Child Protection Agency spokeswoman said, “This sends out entirely the wrong signals. The judge’s comments were wholly inappropriate.”

– The Alverbank Chronicle
 
Embezzler Jailed
Keith Stewart, 43, a computer analyst-programmer at HBT Inc, Southampton, admitted embezzling £40,000 from the company. He was found guilty and sentenced to 10 years in prison.
– The Alverbank Chronicle
 
Rape Hoaxer Guilty
Bethany Harmon, 26, was today found guilty of blackmail. She made a practice of obtaining lifts from lone men and, once in the car, she cried rape unless the driver paid up. Judge Franks said, “Your actions are wantonly despicable and I have no option but to set an example of you.” She was given a prison sentence of 15 years.
– The Alverbank Chronicle

Vandals Blamed For Heart Attack

Mr. Fred Testcombe, 71, died of a heart attack yesterday when he discovered his allotment had been vandalised. His wife, Doris, has been inconsolable. Their neighbour, Mrs. Bessie Evans, 62, of Hardy Close, said that Mr. Testcombe “considered the allotment his pride and joy. He took up gardening for therapy reasons after a bad heart attack some years ago. It’s been a terrible shock to Doris. Whoever did this ought to be horse-whipped.”
– The Alverbank Chronicle.
 
The Vigilante – Right Or Wrong?
The vigilante is not new in this country. They were around long before Robin Hood. We know why people turn to vigilantism: they see their world falling prey to anarchy; they feel the establishment cannot hold back the tide of evil. The forces of law and order will say that people cannot take the law into their own hands, for that way truly lies anarchy. Yet those who espouse the vigilante’s cause might argue that since the law enforcers are incapable of applying the law sensibly, then someone else must do it.

But what drives this latest manifestation? What motivates The Black Knight? Has he suffered the tragic death of his parents at the hands of some criminal, some drunken driver? Perhaps he is consciously using a similar trademark name to those gaudy characters featured in violent American comics. Yet the pleasant south-coast town of Alverbank is no Gotham, surely?

Whatever his reasons for taking on this guise, he is intriguing. We are going to hear a great deal more from him.

A police spokesperson, who wishes to remain anonymous, states that the criminal fraternity is anxious about this vigilante. They want him caught, “before he kills somebody.” Me, I hope he stays loose, to instil fear in those black uncaring hearts!

– The Alverbank Chronicle Comment

Sudden Vengeance is published by Crooked Cat Publishing tomorrow, 20 May 2014

Please purchase the e-book from Amazon UK here

 

Please purchase the e-book from Amazon COM here

 

 

 

Vigilante justice is good justice!

SUDDEN VENGEANCE

 

Nik Morton

 

(Published by Crooked Cat Publishing on 20 May 2014)

 

Vigilante justice is good justice!

PROLOGUE

NO ROOM FOR SELF-WORTH

 

SUNDAY

 

It was bitterly cold – a bloody night to remember, Janice Beaverstock thought as she ran across the cobbles of upmarket Spitbank Mews. The only sound was the clacking of her strapless high-heels. Steaming wisps of breath feathered the air. Heart hammering, she glanced over her shoulder, and her stomach churned with fear and anger.

            The bastard stood at his upstairs window, the bedroom light a yellow frame for his large bulky silhouette. Then, with a contemptuous shrug of big shoulders, he turned away and drew the curtains, cutting off the light though not the images, not the pain.

            She leaned against the brick wall of a townhouse and pulled the torn blouse over her cut breasts. Tears streaming, she moved on and walked unsteadily round the corner, thankfully out of sight of the swine’s flat.

            Even though every pace was agony, Janice ran. Sticky blood seeped through her tight green skirt, where her buttocks had been brutally lashed with his whip.

            His words throbbed in her head, wouldn’t go away: “When you sit down, you’ll remember me. The pain will remind you.”

Get help, she thought. Witnesses, the Samaritans – anybody! But she had no proof, nothing. She was a known prostitute. Who’d believe her word against his? Besides, he could blackmail her, make things worse for Jamie.

            Swallow your pride, Janice told herself and laughed, though not with mirth. Pride? What the hell was that, anyway? It sure as hell didn’t put food in your belly or clothes on your back. She’d learned long ago, if you wanted the good things in life, selling your body was one way to make it happen. Some of the things her customers asked of her left no room for self-worth, let alone pride. Only the money mattered. Jamie didn’t like it but he understood. Jamie had pride, the stupid fool. And that had landed him in the clink.

            She slowed to a slightly less painful walk. She knew that the scars would heal. In time.

***

Moving away from the window, a satisfied smile played on her persecutor’s thick lips.

            The room now plunged in darkness, he pointed the remote control and the portable television screen on top of the MFI bedside drawers flickered into life.

            After a moment, the hidden video camera revealed his bedroom. He was in his Y-fronts and vest, Janice was only wearing her black frilly panties. The sound was not good but he heard his mumbled, “Is it okay if I do it with you tied up?”

            She shrugged, slipping out of her panties, and said, “Whatever turns you on, love.”

            Licking his thick lips, he crouched entranced by the images on the television. He watched himself tie Janice face-down to the bed. The thrill of expectancy ran through him all over again and he was aroused.

            Then he watched himself on the screen as he slowly removed the leather whip from the top bedside drawer.

            He stabbed the freeze button.

            The look of abject horror on her face was exquisite! Oh, yes, indeed. Exquisite!

 

CHAPTER 1

LIKE SOME CANCEROUS MAGGOT

  

SHOCKING DEATH

An old age pensioner, 80, was robbed and badly beaten in her ground floor warden-controlled flat. Mrs. Dorothy Monk was declared dead on arrival at the Queen Alexandra Hospital.

– The Alverbank Chronicle

 

MONDAY

 

About twenty mourners, mostly dressed in black, clustered around the newly-dug grave at the rear of the graveyard. His ecclesiastical robes flapped in the wind as the minister stood at the head of the yawning black oblong hole in the ground. A few women held onto their black-veiled hats. The Knight family huddled together around the coffin that rested on wooden slats, clasping their coats against the cold insistent wind, attempting to retain body heat. It seemed as if in that same action they were also trying to contain swelling anger and hate.

The Norman church and graveyard overlooked the beautiful wide Alver estuary. White wings of seagulls flashed in the bruised blue winter sky and, as if in reflection, white sails, boosted by a chill wind from Siberia, scudded across the harbour waters. The cries of the birds were shrill, giving voice to the ache that seemed to hover here. Cypress boughs snaked, offering shade to a few final resting places. Several yew trees – almost the essential complement of churchyards – were of advanced age; symbols not of the end of life but of its continuance in the resurrection to come. Many of the gravestones were weather-beaten and illegible, or cracked with the incursions of ivy and bindweed, while a handful of others seemed relatively new. There were several headstones with military insignia chiselled into their marble surfaces.

Cold wind brushed Paul Knight’s cheek and made him blink. The tears he’d held back until now finally started their downward course. Self-consciously, he wiped them away with a large-boned hand and looked around, but nobody was paying him any attention.

Family and friends were all intent on the vicar and his words. Not that Paul was ashamed of crying for Gran, but he felt that as a police constable of four years’ seniority he should set a good example. “An old head on young shoulders,” Gran always said. And, at twenty-two, he was the eldest. After all, he had attended some scenes of crime where no amount of tears would wash away the horror.

That was it, he supposed: the horror of Gran’s sudden death.

Some bugger had broken into her neat little flat and panicked when she discovered him pocketing her few valuables. The cowardly bastard knocked her to the floor and beat her over the head with an heirloom candlestick. He escaped while she crawled to her alarm button. Gran died in the ambulance.

Judging by Gran’s latest cash withdrawal entry in her TSB passbook, the bastard got away with about ten quid – and a couple of silver picture frames and her jewels. He’d left fingerprints and a sole imprint in the soil outside her kitchen window, the distinctive marks of a Nike Air Max running shoe. There was no description of the assailant to work on and the stolen items had not turned up at any of the usual outlets, either the fence in Alverbank High Street or the various local car boot sales.

Paul remembered Gran’s tearful joy when all those years ago he gave her a brooch he’d bought with his paper-round money. He must have been about ten or eleven. It was only base metal, with coloured glass masquerading as her birthday stones, amethysts. But to hear her reminisce about it, the gift could have been the crown jewels. She’d worn the brooch often.

The thief was not discerning; he’d taken the fake brooch as well as the real jewellery, probably to finance a drug habit.

A good guess, drugs: the dabs had tallied with the Lloyds Chemist break-in last month. But as the druggie had no criminal record, there was no way to trace him.

When Paul revealed these facts to the family, they’d been both appalled and disillusioned.

Gran had moved to Sunnydale House at the family’s insistence, because they thought she’d be safe there. Christ, nobody was safe these days!

Gulls shrieked, as if echoing his anguish…

 ***

When justice fails, a vigilante steps forward

In the broken Britain of today, faith in the police is faltering. Justice and fairness are flouted. Victims are not seen as hurt people but simply as statistics.

Paul’s family is but one example of those victims of unpunished criminals. In the English south coast town of Alverbank, many others are damaged and grieving. It cannot go on. There has to be a response, some way of fighting back.

A vigilante soon emerges and delivers rough justice, breaking the bones and cracking the heads of those guilty individuals who cause pain without remorse.

Who is the vigilante?  He – or she – is called the Black Knight. The police warn against taking ‘the law into your own hands’.

But the press laud the vigilante’s efforts and respond: ‘What law?’

Will the Black Knight eventually cross the line and kill?

Paul and his family seem involved and they are going to suffer…

Kindle version available from Amazon UK here

 

Kindle version available from Amazon COM here

  

Saturday Story - 'HBT'

HBT

 

Nik Morton

 

London - Wikipedia commons

 

Bryony Easton shut her Gucci briefcase aggressively and eyed the man across the gleaming boardroom table. Yes, he was handsome enough to make a nun hyperventilate. But no way could his blatant sex appeal deflect Bryony Easton from her purpose. This company belonged to her, and she refused to allow the City’s darling Alastair Ross Fleming even the slightest chance of winning his hostile takeover of HBT.

‘Thank you for laying your cards on my table, Mr Fleming.’ Her ice-blue eyes lanced. ‘The Board will discuss your offer.’ Dismissal.

Levelling his own blue eyes on her, Fleming smiled thinly. ‘Don’t keep me waiting too long.’

Anger flushed her cheeks. Yet disconcertingly his look also sent a pleasurable shiver through her. His eyes lowered under her penetrating gaze. She was startled to realise that she actually desired him.

*

Leaving the tall HBT building, Fleming believed Bryony was one of those power-women who liked to dominate men, especially those in commercial conflict. His own appetites were as keen and he reckoned she would be an interesting challenge.

At least she was attractive and young, unlike some business conquests. Financial pundits often pondered the mystery of how she’d climbed so high to become so powerful at a young age. Maybe he would find out.

*

Gazing out the penthouse office window at the Thames, Bryony listened to Saunders on the phone: ‘Report’s half-done, Miss Easton.’

She bit back the instinctive retort that half isn’t good enough by half. Truth was, she wasn’t in a good mood even though the board had thrown out Fleming’s proposal. Bryony astutely calculated that two members were wavering and would cave-in if the bidding was to hot up. God, what a cowardly shower those men were! Of course she only had herself to blame – she’d promoted them, after all. But that was ages ago – now they’d changed and wanted a quiet comfortable life. Well, they were in for a shock. HBT was not going to fall prey to any asset-stripper. And, besides, she liked the power. An insidious knot twisted in her stomach. Surely Fleming didn’t know the truth? Perhaps he was after the power too...

 
‘Fine,’ she replied. ‘Well done, Mr Saunders. Send me what you’ve got now. And get the rest to me soon.’
 
Fleming was forty-two, married with two sons and adored by the City. He advocated quality time for families. And he was a liar.
 
Bryony read the first instalment of the report from Saunders in her bubble bath.
 
Saunders was a good private detective: he’d unearthed considerable dirt. Fleming played around – which labelled him a liar, a cheat and a hypocrite. Traits found in abundance in the business world. But these days powerful shareholders may take strong exception to a director’s dishonesty and dubious morals and effectively dump him. However, if he’d been a politician, they’d probably vote for him as Prime Minister.
 
Bryony smiled, sponging scented lather over her faultless skin. This knowledge could seriously damage Fleming and his bid for HBT. She liked that.

*

Facing him across the restaurant meal, Bryony thought Fleming had controlled the conversation with accomplished ease – a man after her own heart. She smiled at the phrase, only too aware of the frisson his nearness gave her.

 
He looked younger tonight. Stress and deceit obviously agreed with him.
 
She smiled, her full red lips lingering over the strawberry. ‘Would you like to come back to my penthouse?’ She bit into the fruit and juice dribbled. She licked her lip but some drooled onto her chin.
 
He leaned over and wiped her mouth with his napkin. ‘Yes, I’d like to come.’
 
It was rather blatant innuendo, but she let it pass. She would enjoy seducing him then revealing her knowledge about his other infidelities.

*

Sunlight beamed into her bedroom, disclosing Calvin Klein entwined with Janet Raeger on the thick fitted carpet.

 
Bryony awoke and stretched languorously, letting the silk sheet fall away from her naked body.

Careful not to disturb Fleming’s sleeping form, she sat up in the king-size bed. He was lying face down. Despite herself, she smiled. It had been one hell of a night. He was a superb lover. But she’d proven more than equal to his needs, and that fact alone vindicated her: she must keep HBT for herself, at all costs. His was the sleep of the exhausted, she thought with satisfaction. Power in the boardroom, power in the bedroom; she had both, and it pleased her.

 
Bryony quietly opened the bedside drawer and withdrew a slim blue folder.
 
Saunders had excelled himself. The report’s second half was waiting for her when she returned home with Fleming last night. Opening the file now she felt an exquisite thrill: it seemed daring to read about the man as he lay there.
 
But, after a few moments of reading, her blood ran cold. Stunned, she read on, shaking her head in disbelief. For the briefest of moments she reached out and stroked his head. And tears welled.

*

On the morning after, Fleming spread marmalade on toast and gave her a puzzled look. ‘Why should I back down?’

 
Bryony dropped the two Saunders Detective Agency files onto the breakfast table. She sipped her coffee then sighed. This wasn’t going to be easy. But he had a right to know. ‘I was fourteen and gave birth to an illegitimate son,’ she said. ‘He was adopted. Our family left town and I changed my name. The past was forgotten and when I had enough power I saw to it that no records of my pre-Bryony Easton past survived.’
 
He bit into a finger of marmalade-covered toast. ‘Why’re you telling me this?’
 
‘Because that was in 1964...’

‘That’s hard to believe, Bryony.’ He laughed. ‘I’d say you’re no more than thirty – and that was forty-five years ago – as it happens, I was born then...’ His smile froze and he stared.

 
‘Actually, I’m fifty-nine. Hold Back Time isn’t just a lucrative anti-ageing cream business to add to your portfolio. Though not for public consumption, one of HBT’s products actually arrests ageing. The discrete rich pay well for the secret and the privilege. I discovered the cream and make use of it.’ She forced a smile, despite the situation. ‘And I’m living proof that it works.’
 
‘Oh, my God...’ he said, his toast forgotten. ‘Last night, we – we–’
 
She nodded. ‘I know... How do you think I feel?’
 
He stared in disbelief at his mother.

***

Previously published in Beat to a Pulp webzine, 2010.

Copyright Nik Morton, 2014

 

More exotic tales can be found in my book Spanish Eye,

22 tales of Leon Cazador, private eye, 'in his own words'

 

 

Spanish Eye, which can be purchased post-free world-wide from here

 

and the Spanish Eye e-book bought from Amazon com here

or bought from Amazon co uk here

 

FFB - Jack Absolute - a new historical hero

Jack Absolute (2004) is the first in a trilogy of books by C.C. Humphreys. The period of the American Revolution – and in particular the year these events take place, 1777 - is filled with adventure and intrigue, when the English troops and the rebels recruited Native Americans to their cause. And of course the French, still smarting at being bested in Canada, are only too keen to side with the rebels to wrest the colony from the Crown. It is a time when colonial families are split, some being loyal to the Crown while others want freedom. Into this powder-keg strides a new and most welcome hero, Jack Absolute.

Jack has an interesting history, although we only snatch a few glimpses of it in this eponymous novel, which promises to be the first of a series. Several years before the events in this book, Jack was captured then adopted by the Iroquois, learning their language and way of life. Now, he is recruited to rally these warriors to the Crown’s cause.

Unfortunately, there’s a spy in the English army and Jack must also find this spy and kill him.

Well-researched, exciting and a quick read, Jack Absolute contains plenty of ingredients to keep your interest. Clearly knowledgeable about sword-play, Humphreys inflicts a London duel on his hero at the beginning of the story and this contest echoes and haunts Jack even in the new continent. Canadian author Humphreys is an actor and it was while playing Jack Absolute in Sheridan’s The Rivals that he became captivated by the character. The man wouldn’t let him be, so eventually he conceded and this adventure is the result. Thus Jack returns from adventuring in India to find his name and earlier exploits have been used by Sheridan in his new play...

There are apt literary allusions, a poignant love story, believable and vicious fighting, humour and irony and a magnificent foil for Jack in the guise of his Native blood-brother Até.

Discovering this character reminds me of those long-ago heady and exciting days when I first found Cornwell’s early Sharpe novels. Jack Absolute has that same page-turning quality and definitely provides sheer reading pleasure.

The other two books are The Blooding of Jack Absolute (2005), which is a prequel, and Absolute Honour (2006).

 

Mary Stewart, R.I.P.

Author Mary Stewart was born in Sunderland in 1916 and died in Scotland on 10 May at the grand age of 97. I find it fascinating that her maiden name was Rainbow – she certainly brought colour and magic into the lives of thousands of readers.

In the 1960s and 1970s, I read quite a few of Mary Stewart’s books. At the time, she, along with Paul Gallico, was one of my favourite non-genre authors. She was very popular indeed and managed to break out of genre labelling with her suspense, mystery and fantasy works.

She wrote about contemporary and historical periods with equal assurance, whether the settings were Crete, Corfu, Austria, Lebanon, Provence, Northumberland, Cornwall, or the Scottish Hebrides.

It’s a long while back since I read her books, but I recall that my particular favourites were:

Touch Not the Cat (1976) about a heroine who possesses the gift of telepathy and involves suspense, deceit and attempted murder.

Madam, will you talk? (1854), her first published novel is a murder mystery set mainly in France.

  

And of course the Arthurian trilogy The Crystal Cave (1970), The Hollow Hills (1973), The Last Enchantment (1979). (I have still to read the succeeding books in the series, The Wicked Day (1983) and The Prince and the Pilgrim (1995); yes, I know, I have too many books still unread!) These books inspired the acclaimed BBC TV series Merlin. [In my as yet unpublished time-travel dystopian novel Time With A Gift Of Tears, my hero travels to Arthurian times and arrives in a crystal cave; my nod to her book).

You can get view the original blurbs and dust-jackets of her novels here

An excellent writer, who put you there, in the scene, and made you care about the characters.

 

A Departure - Book review

This book, A Departure,  has gathered quite a momentum of praise and exposure. Admittedly, some of this is due to the youth of the author. Tom Ward was about twenty-three when he wrote it. Received wisdom would have us believe that the age of the author is not relevant, it’s the story that counts – either it works or it doesn’t, it either involves the reader or it doesn’t. I’d go along with that. Still, once I’d read the book and then checked out the Amazon reviews, I was struck by the range in comments. A Departure has acquired an enviable number of reviews. Yet some of the reviews are not real reviews, simply stating something along the lines of ‘A great book, I couldn’t put it down, look forward to Tom Ward’s next one.’ Other less complimentary reviews highlighted his age and perceived inexperience, while several commented on typos. [The publisher has since attended to the typos].

Tom Ward took a risk, embarking on a debut novel in the dystopian genre. There’s a long history of this type of work, going back even before John Wyndham and Brian Aldiss, the authors who introduced me to the sub-genre . The conceit is depicting how ordinary individuals cope with their new and darkened circumstances, and to a large extent I believe Tom Ward achieves that, despite some stylistic flaws.

 

Michael Taylor is approaching the end of his teens when ‘the event’ occurs. We don’t get told what happened, though it’s hinted that it might have had something to do with global warming. Plenty of disaster novels don’t give the reasons – simply thrusting their characters into the new changed world. Whatever the cause, it seems that the vast majority of people have succumbed – simply died in their tracks. Eerily empty streets, beloved of disaster movies, are depicted realistically. Michael’s encounter with a man who intends to steal the family car is the first of several scenes where extreme violence raises its head – and it’s uncomfortable in its depiction, and in Michael’s psyche.

Michael returned home briefly after his family’s failed attempt to leave the country met with the deaths of his parents and sister. Now, he sets off in a stolen car, heading first to his grandparents’ house. Already, he’s quite hardened to the sight of dead bodies. His eventual leave-taking of his proud grandfather is moving without being mawkish. ‘Something sank in Michael’s chest as his bottom lip began to quiver. Suddenly, he was a young boy again, crying at his grandparents’ house after falling over, but this time a plaster and some Germolene would not make things better.’

He then goes south, in a hazy attempt at finding succour. On his way, he encounters a mixture of strange, interesting, violent people, all understandably affected by the apocalyptic event. He is not alone for long, soon joining up with Judith, then David and Zanna, encountering a religious group, a pseudo-government-run tent camp, a supermarket refuge for youths, and an isolated farmer and wife.

There is a danger with this kind of novel that it will be bleak throughout: ‘The corpses were scattered over the fields like seeds in spring.’

Yet we know from first-hand accounts that even survivors of the Holocaust had cause to rely on humour to get them through their horrendous ordeal. Humour is part of the human condition. And so Tom Ward gives us humour, too, for example:

 
‘Michael walked on, guitar song assaulting his ears from all directions. It seemed as though guitar players had been exempt from the apocalypse.’

There are many glimpses of good metaphor and description, too: ‘… June sun quickly turned the air thick and warm, the tent walls sagging inwards like a surrendered lung that could breathe no more of the heavy air.’ And I liked this description – ‘Judith cut in, her voice hard as a week-old scone.’

 
Unexplained disasters throw up survivors and in some way they prove the theory of the survival of the fittest; not necessarily fit in a physical sense, or exhibiting a higher capacity of intelligence; it may be something as simple as the fitness of certain genetic pointers carried by those who live on.

And the book’s title can be viewed on several levels. The story is a departure for Michael, moving from boyhood to manhood, since it’s definitely a coming-of-age tale. It is also a departure for the survivors from everything they knew, everything familiar. And ultimately it’s a departure by some survivors from the UK.

 
I particularly liked the neat ‘golden’ reference at the beginning and its echo at the end of the book.
 
A worthy debut novel. Tom Ward should be encouraged to keep writing. I would hope that he doesn't take the negative comments too much to heart and make his literary departure. For he has much to offer readers as he evolves. (I've been writing for over forty years and I'm still evolving!)

[A shorter version of the above review will be posted in Amazon and Goodreads.]

A week to go… and Vengeance will be mine

I know, it’s almost a steal from Mickey Spillane’s book title, Vengeance is Mine! (1950) – the third Mike Hammer novel. The exclamation mark is Spillane’s though it doesn't always appear on the cover.

And of course he borrowed it from the Bible – ‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord, and I will repay.’ (Romans 12:19)

Two other variations crop up in the good book:

‘To me belongeth vengeance, and recompense; their foot shall slide in due time: for the day of their calamity is at hand, and the things that shall come upon them make haste.’ (Deuteronomy 32:35)

And Hebrews 10:30 more or less reiterates Deuteronomy.

It’s a popular quotation employed as a book title, although I'd guess that in every case the vengeance isn’t left to God but to the books’ characters.

My book, Sudden Vengeance, published on 20 May by Crooked Cat Publishing gets its title from an Alexander Pope poem, Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady (1717); he wrote: ‘On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates.’ This poem also has the line, ‘Is it, in heav’n, a crime to love too well?’ which has cropped up a few times too, certainly as an earlier variant in Shakespeare’s Othello, Act 5, scene 2 – ‘loved not wisely, but too well…’

 

 

Here’s a quotation from Sudden Vengeance:

Joe Rothwell was known as a drunken bully throughout the entire neighbourhood of Spithead Estate. He was about five-ten in his rank-smelling socks, sported a perpetual five-o’clock shadow, and his belt-overhanging belly advertised his liking for Whitbread beer.

            Nobody usually looked into his dull brown eyes for more than a fleeting second, because he was prone to take offence, exclaiming, “What-you-starin’-at?” just before his fists flailed out. But if anyone had been brave or foolhardy enough to look into Joe Rothwell’s eyes, they would have glimpsed, deep within, a hurt and frightened child.

            Perhaps the elfin Irene had managed to fathom these depths when they were courting. Possibly he appealed to her mothering instinct, which in her plain timidity she interpreted as love. The unplanned pregnancy and her ex-boxer father precipitated their marriage and, shortly after the birth of their son, Justin, and the fatal brain-haemorrhage of Irene’s dad, Joe took to the bottle with a vengeance.

            From Justin’s birthday on, for the last eight years, Joe beat Irene for the slightest perceived transgression in his booze-fogged brain.

            Fortunately, their son avoided Joe’s violent outbursts, even though he often unwittingly caused them. Irene took the brunt intended for her child.

            Friends and neighbours pleaded with Irene to leave Joe. Yet it was easier said than done. Since she was seventeen, she’d been emotionally tied to him. The house was rented. She had no money of her own, no work experience, and no relatives to fall back upon. And she had an eight-year-old child to consider. She’d stick it out. Things might improve. But in her heart she feared one day soon he would kill her.

            Recovering consciousness, Joe felt dizzy, the blood rushing to his head. The pain in his skull made him nauseous. He opened his eyes and vomited, spluttering and spitting, the vile outpourings spreading all over his face and up his nose.

            Christ, I’m upside down!

            Coughing, squinting through wet lids, he realised his arms were tied behind his back. He shivered with the cold, which was not surprising as he was naked, suspended from a pedestrian overpass on the Spithead Estate.

            It was still night, the few streetlamps that had survived vandalism offering a weak yellow glow. Night. Now he remembered. He’d been stumbling home from the pub when a dark shape loomed up in front of him. Then blackness, nothing...

            His ankles ached with the weight of his body. One leg seemed numb. His heart hammered as he worried about his circulation. Didn’t gangrene set in or something if you–?

            “Hello, Joe.” On the grassy embankment alongside the flyover was the same black figure, arms folded, the trilby cocked over the brow, shadows concealing the face.

***

So, it would seem Irene had loved unwisely and too well. The black figure is a vigilante who doesn’t take kindly to wife-beaters. The book blurb reads:

When justice fails, a vigilante steps forward

In the broken Britain of today, faith in the police is faltering. Justice and fairness are flouted. Victims are not seen as hurt people but simply as statistics.

 
Paul’s family is but one example of those victims of unpunished criminals. In the English south coast town of Alverbank, many others are damaged and grieving. It cannot go on. There has to be a response, some way of fighting back.
 
A vigilante soon emerges and delivers rough justice, breaking the bones and cracking the heads of those guilty individuals who cause pain without remorse.
 
Who is the vigilante?  He – or she – is called the Black Knight. The police warn against taking ‘the law into your own hands’. But the press laud the vigilante’s efforts and respond: ‘What law?’
 
Will the Black Knight eventually cross the line and kill?
 
Paul and his family seem involved and they are going to suffer…
 
[This book is an improved reprint of A Sudden Vengeance Waits, previously out-of-print]
 
Please watch this space for further announcements about Sudden Vengeance (without the exclamation mark!)