Ramblings of a Deluded Soul
By
Jake Barton
‘Some mornings, it's just not worth chewing through the leather straps.’ ~ Emo Phillips.
‘Life is hell, most people are bastards and everything is bullshit.’ ~ George Black, father of Conrad.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed by a newspaper, magazine or journal.
Ramblings of a Deluded Soul
Jake Barton
Copyright 2010 by Jake Barton
Smashwords Edition
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental – apart from the real people described in personal recollections where names and, crucially, hairstyles may have been changed.
With grateful thanks to Poppet and Kim. Maureen, as usual, acted as first and last reviewer. Her insight and support, encouraging the writer to reveal aspects of his past that he’d intended to remain private changed the focus of so much of this book. Without you…
Jake Barton used to be someone completely different - this is a massive step down. Jake was known by another name for many years. He was young then, clever, hirsute, handsome, good company, sensible and superbly fit. Of these virtues, very little remains.
He writes crime fiction with a hard edge, making use of a life which frequently brought him into contact with major drug dealers, gang leaders, heroin addicts and many other denizens of society's underbelly.
During the course of an unconventional life, touched by wanderlust, involving much movement around the globe, he has been a labourer in a steel-works, taught English and History, been a work-study engineer, a restaurateur, civil servant, Nightclub bouncer, antique dealer, owned a small French vineyard and also had another job that he's not supposed to talk about.
Jake used the time he spent on Authonomy, a readers' website under the auspices of Harper Collins to refine his novels and engage with fellow writers. The Gold Star he earned for attaining a top five position on a site containing many thousands of authors has proved far less valuable than the continuing friendship of so many unpublished, unheralded and yet astonishingly talented writers. Without the support of whom, etc.
His first novel, Burn, Baby, Burn was a Kindle phenomenon, storming into the Top Ten of the Amazon All Books chart. As with so much else in his life, Jake managed to contain astonishment behind a façade of justifiable expectation.
To define Jake Barton in one word would be difficult. "Wastrel" comes pretty close.
He writes, sporadically. Very occasionally, his writing meets acceptable standards.
Random jottings from a disordered mind. A haphazard mélange of wisdom and nonsense.
Disclaimer: Not all posts contain wisdom.
Poems, scattered jottings, reminiscences on past experiences, the process and rationality of writing, work in progress, and quite a lot else. As it arrived, without any attempt to improve, eradicate, or adorn.
There are a few examples of what the author fondly, and possibly erroneously, regard as his best work in here, interspersed with some of the worst.
Make your own minds up.
Chapter 1
Muse? Yeah, turn up when YOU feel like it, why don’t you?
I finally got to bed at five o’clock this morning. No wild parties, (ha!), festive frolics or any such-like seasonal joys – just sitting on my arse, scribbling, tapping keyboard, in other words – WRITING!
Well, I’m a writer. Let’s face it; I don’t do much else of a constructive nature. What’s wrong with that? I’ll tell you what’s wrong with that – note to self, why are you having conversations while alone, answering your own questions? Get a grip, man. It’s all a matter of practicality. For months now, I’ve been faffing about, drifting along, going with the flow. It’s an easy life, no pressure, and suits my nature perfectly.
Then what happens, two days before Christmas if you please? The long-departed muse pops back again and boots me, figuratively, in the nuts. Not the Christmas nuts either.
Three in the morning. Like any other sensible person, fast asleep, perhaps dreaming of my precious Liverpool football club, when the call comes. Wide-awake, ideas flooding around what passes for a brain, my head jam- packed with people who don’t exist all busily rampaging around my skull.
I sit up, quietly in the interests of self-preservation, then slip out of a warm, cosy bed and slip, wraith-like, downstairs. It’s cold, dark, and only a deranged person would be here, but there I am. I put on a light, sit down, reach for a pen and notebook. My God, I’m writing again.
Three thousand words later I take a break. The love of my life appears, coffee cup in hand. She hadn’t even noticed my absence!
‘What are you doing?’
‘Just a bit of writing,’ I say, casually waving at the page of indecipherable scrawl on my lap.
‘About time too.’
Well, yes, I can relate to that.
I write for most of the day, toddle off to bed just before midnight, but twenty minutes later I’m back downstairs again.
In my chair.
Scribbling.
For another five hours.
It’s in my head. Must come out. I’m an all-or-nothing writer. Not one of those organised people who sit themselves down at a civilised hour and write. Probably without the crossings-out, snorts of derision, or nervous tics that are part and parcel of my ‘system.’ If it’s not in there, it won’t come out.
The trouble is: it’s Christmas; other demands on my time. Why now, of all times? Go AWOL for months then wait for the most inconvenient time possible to come charging back, brooking no argument, like an attention seeking toddler.
Oh well, so long as you’re here, might as well make use of you. I’m writing. Again. Any doubts on my part, along the well-trodden path of ‘what’s the point of writing if nobody wants to read your tedious drivel?’ – and, yes, been there many times – were knocked back by an email I had last night. From an agent, a good one I’d happily give 50% of all future earnings to secure – although not actually intending to mention this to her – who asked to see my novel three or four months ago.
She’d rang me at home, enthused about my writing, made all the right noises, all good stuff. At the end, she rejected me.
Nicely, but still rejected me.
A rejection accompanied by, ‘I know you can write. Your book is commercial. Any other year, any other financial climate, I’d beg to take you, confident I could place your book.’ So, close, but no cigar.
Oh well. Onwards!
Chapter 2
Is this too nasty for Christmas Day?
I’ve been looking over some old notes; scribblings from a few years ago, and came across an outline for a new crime novel.
It isn’t pleasant, but that’s okay, I can write ‘nasty’ when the mood takes me. I may not press ahead with this – two other projects in my head already, but I’ll put an excerpt out, see if anyone likes the idea. This is the opening of Chapter 2.
*******
‘Soon now.’ The voice was barely more than a murmur but he heard it clearly. He could always hear that voice.
Even when they tried to make him into a different person, to change the type of man he was. The type of man he’d always been. Even as they were sticking the needles in his arm, he could hear the voice. The voice, deep inside his head, that spoke to him alone.
No one else.
The voice that came from deep inside his head was the only remnant of sanity in this bloody place.
In the room across the corridor, a man screamed. The high keening wail of a soul in torment. The tattooed man ignored the scream as he ignored every other aspect of his confinement. His fellow inmates, the warders and doctors, they were nothing.
He heard footsteps in the corridor and turned to face the door. The regime never changed. Medication was the lifeblood of the system and three times a day they came. The drugs were not intended to improve his health. This facility was not interested in rehabilitation. Only control.
The ward orderly entered the room carrying his clipboard with a cheap plastic pen attached by a length of twine. The man glanced at the clipboard and ticked a box on the sheet of paper. He held out a small plastic container containing three tablets together with a paper cup of water. The orderly didn’t look at him and the tattooed man would have expected nothing else. Even though he had recently paid a large amount to this man, it had been purely a business transaction. Their relationship was based on fear and the tattooed man was content with that arrangement.
The money had paid for a telephone call in private. The call had been important and had been very expensive. The money was not important; he had a great deal of money. Once, he’d had a great deal more money but, even though some of that had gone now, he still had the power. The influence. When he asked for something, it would be provided.
The telephone call had been to a man now retired from his former trade and living in Spain. When the call came, the man in Spain had only one option. A refusal would swiftly bring to an end his retirement in the sun. Permanently. The tattooed man was never denied a request. Not even when that request came from a prison cell.
The orderly looked frightened. He always looked frightened when he came into this room. The rules were very clear: the tattooed man was never to be approached by a lone member of staff, but the orderly had regularly chosen to break this particular rule. His venal nature had overcome his fear and the rewards had been considerable. He always offered the medication, that was his job, but the tablets had not been accepted for the past three months and the orderly disposed of the unwanted medication when he completed his shift.
The provision of the pay as you go mobile ‘phone had been a dramatic escalation of their relationship and the tattooed man had paid a small fortune to obtain it. The call had been crucial.
Loose ends.
The man he’d called insisted on hearing his instructions from the person who was paying his fee. That was only proper. The tattooed man had paid a great deal of money and expected to get the best man for the job. He had been locked away in this place for two years, but still possessed the ability to plan the death of a person who’d once been a member of his inner circle. A person he’d trusted and who had betrayed that trust. He’d have preferred to do the job himself, but that wouldn’t be possible. They were never going to let him leave this place and someone else would punish the betrayer.
It was a matter of honour.
He’d thought for a long time that another man had grassed him to the police. A man with as much to lose as himself. He’d had the man killed while in police custody, but his informant had been wrong. The dead man had also been a victim of the super-grass, just like himself. The tattooed man had no regrets. The dead man had been a rival gang leader and he had no reason to mourn his passing. What mattered now was getting the job done and a contract had been agreed.
The only stipulation had been that the man concerned had to die in a manner befitting the seriousness of his crime. His betrayer’s identity was confirmed and the realisation was like a dagger in his guts. A young man he had trusted with too many secrets to count. A man he had been grooming to take over from him when the time came. His former protégé had walked away when the heavily armed police kicked down the doors in the middle of the night and bundled the tattooed man into the back of a van.
It was not sufficient that the betrayer should die. His death must be preceded by an agony beyond his comprehension. The prospect pleased him and he smiled.
The orderly had been visiting this room for over a year and had never seen a smile on the face of its occupant. Some reflex prompted him to smile in return and the change in expression on the face of the tattooed man turned the other man’s bowels to water. The tattooed man leapt forward and clamped his teeth onto the neck of the terrified orderly, shaking him like a terrier with a rat. The metallic salty taste of blood and the sound of cartilage crunching between his jaws were old friends.
He reached out for the pen attached to the clipboard and waved it in front of his victim. Without releasing the grip of his clenched jaws he pushed the point of the pen inside the ear of the other man and slowly applied pressure. A bubbling roar of agony erupted from the throat of the orderly and was immediately stilled as a fountain of blood sprayed into the mouth of the man whose teeth continued to ravage his throat.
A scrabble of heavy boots in the corridor announced the arrival of the security staff. They charged the tattooed man, beating him savagely with their heavy batons but his teeth remained clamped on the neck of their colleague and the muscles of his arm bulged as he forced the pen deep inside the ear of the orderly. Even as their stricken colleague slid to the floor, the security staff continued to thrash away at the head and shoulders of the tattooed man, but his strength and resilience were immense.
The orderly had been well paid for favours granted to the man in his charge, but it had been intolerable that he should have presumed there was any trace of a friendship between them. The tattooed man did not encourage smiling.
Even as he finally lost consciousness from the relentless blows to his head he felt the life slip away from the man beneath him and was content. The consequences of his actions did not concern him in any way. He was already banged up for life and early release would never be an option.
What more could they do to him?
Chapter 3
My Favourite Book
The easiest question of all.
I’ve often been asked to recommend a book. Your favourite book, what’s that then? A difficult choice for a prolific reader you may have thought.
Not so.
The book that draws me back, time and time again, isn’t a ‘classic’ by any means. The author didn’t even live to see its success, committing suicide long before his work was eventually published. What would we have gained if he’d gone on to produce a body of work to rival his early masterpiece? Oh, the book? Why, that cult masterpiece, A Confederacy of Dunces by the late and very much lamented genius, John Kennedy Toole.
The story behind the book is as fascinating as the novel itself. Toole’s suicide in 1969 should have marked the end of any hopes of publication – instead it proved the spur for a remarkable turnaround. Not that this was an overnight transformation. Toole’s mother discovered a dog-eared copy of the manuscript among her son’s effects and made the publication of her son’s novel a quest to which she devoted all her efforts over succeeding years. It wasn’t an easy task and any unpublished author can relate to the eleven years of struggle that led up to the eventual publication of a magnificent novel in 1980. A year later it won a posthumous Pulitzer Prize.
The characters are central to most successful books and the swaggering, truculent, magnificently appalling Ignatius Reilly dominates the narrative. Inimitable and unique in his warped outlook on life, Ignatius is a tour de force and one can readily imagine the problems that beset any film producer contemplating a leading man. Intriguingly, despite many efforts this most filmic of all stories has not yet hit the big screen. Successive attempts to cast John Belushi, John Candy and Divine as Ignatius were foiled by the sudden deaths of the actors in question giving rise to suspicions that the project was cursed. It will happen, it’s a story that is crying out to be filmed.
As for the book itself, well you need to read it yourselves. It’s a novel set in New Orleans, peopled by a cast of grotesques, that defies rational explanation of what makes it work. If you don’t read this book and howl with laughter, you should consider seeking medical attention. It’s a rampant comedy of errors; a wide-ranging exploration of the hidden underbelly of society and it brings the most unforgettable character in modern literature to the reader’s attention. Once you’ve met Ignatius Reilly, your life will never be the same again.
Read this book.
Chapter 4
Funny Sort of Christmas
It’s been a funny sort of Christmas. Being snow-bound, unable to get the car out for a week, had its limitations, but there were compensations.
Not being able to visit relatives was one. That’s a biggie. Poorly-wrapped presents unravelling in the boot, bottles rolling around no matter how well they’re packed, traffic jams, stressed-out drivers, and that’s only the journey. On arrival, there’s the usual routine: traipsing around other peoples’ houses, dispensing gifts, swapping kisses, pretending to admire every new acquisition no matter how hideous or inappropriate - oh, such torture.
‘Ooh, what a lovely conservatory.’
Sniffy reply. ‘It’s an orangery, actually.’
‘Oh, right, of course it is. Don’t you miss having a garden though?’ (The new ‘orangery’ having replaced the back garden, was actually touching the hedge of the house next door).
Even more sniffily. ‘We have the best of both worlds. An outdoor room that can be used all year.’
‘Ah, yes, I can see that.’ Moving swiftly back into the main house as frostbite nipped at my extremities.
Next port of call. ‘A puppy! How lovely. What a funny little chap with his floppy ears. Was he a rescue?’
‘He cost £1400.’
‘Oh.’
‘The breeder says the long ears are fine because his mother was a show champion and she had long ears as well.’
‘Hmm!’
Friends done, relatives next.
‘We’d given you up.’
‘The traffic was…’
Oh, never mind excuses, at least you made it at last. Better than that year when you never got here at all.’
‘We were in Australia.’
‘Always something. Your sister seems to manage very well.’
‘She lives next door but one. You see her every day.’
‘Don’t start. If you’re going to pick an argument you’d better just collect your presents and go. Not too much to ask to spend a civil hour or so once a year, I’d have thought.’
A difficult day with much smiling and nodding in agreement at a series of contentious and occasionally appalling pronouncements, three line whip in effect – ‘Not a word, just sit still and say nothing.’
Boxing Day. More relatives. The odd ones. Throwbacks. The ones we see at weddings and funerals. But, we’re in the area. They know we’re here. So we pop in. Keep the peace.
It’s worse every year. Nothing in common with these people apart from accident of birth. I sit on an upright chair, trying to divorce myself from the reality of a mangy dog humping my leg, a babble of noise as a dozen people talk, well shout, at once, eat yet another mince pie where the pastry outweighs the filling by a ratio of ten to one. I smile. Respond to direct questions, knowing my reply is neither required nor heard.
After three days, we head back home. Duty done for another year. Knackered, nerves frayed, a car packed with things we don’t need, don’t want, in some cases don’t even know what it is.
‘Not too bad,’ my wife says as we approach sanctuary, ‘Not as bad as last time, anyway.’
‘Hmm. About the same, I’d say.’
We lapse into shell-shocked silence once more. Oh, we get over it, usually by mid-February.
This year, ah yes, this year was different. We were snowed in. Couldn’t get out. No cars left our road all week. So, we had to ring up and explain. Stay put. Just the two of us. ‘What a shame,’ they all said. ‘Poor you, at Christmas too.’
‘Yes,’ we agreed, ‘it’s awful. No fun at all this year.’ Hugging each other and ourselves. Best Christmas ever. We’re praying for snow next year, starting about 22nd December. Thick, dense, relentless; bringing the country to a halt.
That’ll do nicely.
Chapter 5
A Writer’s Year
End of the year looming. Taking stock. A year packed with interest on many fronts, but what about my writing?
On balance, a good year. My stint on Authonomy ended with a Gold Star in March. Not much recompense for the untold hours, days, weeks, months that were lost, never to be regained, but many good memories of my Authonomy period. Finding fellow writers, generous, helpful, supportive people, in the main, improving the book I posted on the site and certainly improving myself as a writer.
Post Authonomy, submitting my meagre effort to a regiment of agents and publishers chipped away at my fragile confidence and made me question on a daily basis why I put myself through this torture. Praise aplenty, but the end result was the same; still no Whitbread Prize nomination in sight, not even a request to switch on Christmas lights or open a supermarket.
I’m writing again, three projects under way, my manuscript is with a top agent, I’ve started a blog, it’s all positive. I even ‘tweet’ occasionally, even though Twitter must be the most banal means of communication ever invented. I don’t, won’t, write ‘text-speak’ – if a sentence requires a semi-colon, it gets one, thereby condemning myself to mobile phone misery. So be it.
The latest venture, well advanced, is making my ‘old’ book, Burn, Baby, Burn, an e-book to be read on Kindle and the like.
Quite a leap for a Luddite Grand Master.
At this time, it’s also time to come clean. Okay, the last year has seen significant progress, but I’ve had a lot of help. Authonomy, the last couple of months in particular, were harrowing. My own stubborn nature didn’t help, determined to do everything the hard way, and there were more than a few ‘meltdowns’ where I was on the verge of giving up. Two people in particular kept me going, for the sake of it let’s call them Jane and Kim.
Bossy? Oh yes.
Nagging? Constantly.
Supportive and helpful? On an hourly basis.
Then there’s the wretched book. Harper Collins read it, liked some of it, didn’t really understand it, left me scratching my head, baffled and disenchanted. Cue another heroine – I’ll call her Poppet, daft name, but there you go! Poppet read the whole book, unlike Harper Collins, understood it, ditto, and gave me the best advice I’ve ever had. Lying through her teeth, she said she loved the book, told me to leave well alone, stop beating myself up – in short, ‘to thine own self be true.’
She’s still around, still a tower of strength along with Jane, Kim and many others I’ve met during the course of the year. Helping, cajoling, instilling belief, advising or just putting up with the nonsense I spout on a daily basis, they’re a fantastic support system.
Writers are a strange breed.
Introspective at times, especially when the creative juices are flowing. We all need help and who better to give it than a fellow writer? I adore my fellow writers and have had the opportunity to meet many of them in 2010. Jane is as lovely in real life as I’d imagined her to be, delightful Raven, the mad-haired giggle factory that is Jackie, all enriched my life. In York I met Fred the brain surgeon, clever, witty Sandie and the amazing force of nature that is Bradley Wind. Recently, a red-letter day, meeting Gerry from Canada, one of the most talented writers I’ve ever come across. Daisy, fabulous Daisy, Dan the cleverest man in the world, it’s been a great year. Thank you all for enriching my life, helping me far more than I deserve, keeping me writing when my congenital laziness comes to the fore. You made 2010 a great year for me.
Chapter 6
Possible new novel. More thoughts on an opening chapter.
Ragged strips of cloud fish-tailed across the sky as the breeze freshened. A scruffy unkempt dog with an irrational hint of exotic parentage about the way he held his head high as people passed by, tugged gently on the length of frayed rope that linked him and his master. The dog’s owner slumbered against the wall of the video shop that was his chosen pitch, the small pile of coins at his feet evidently not yet sufficient for another can of Special Brew.
Further along, a young man unfurled a dirty sleeping bag and shook out the detritus of a night spent in the partial shelter of a shop doorway. His etiolated complexion resembled sun-bleached putty while the clothes he was wearing had clearly been originally purchased for a much larger person.
The homeless man stirred and favoured the youth with a volley of curses before sinking back against the wall, dislodging a plastic cider bottle which rolled across the pavement and lodged against a child’s bootee in the rain-filled gutter. The scent of diesel fumes mingling with the aroma of decaying food spilling over from the neck of a black bin liner was heavy in the damp air, but neither the dog nor his owner appeared concerned by such trifles.
The young man had gathered together his meagre possessions and moved away leaving the street momentarily empty when the dog growled deep in his throat. Hackles raised, he scented the air, head perfectly still and eyes fixed on the narrow alley running between the twin rows of shops.
A figure moved slowly from the shadows and the dog settled down on the pavement, ears flat against his skull, growling softly. A young girl, slim and with a distinct lightness about her step, slipped from the shadows. Her legs were thinner than the excuses of a serial adulterer and a bruise stood out like the damaged skin of a windfall apple on the pale surface of her left cheek. The dog whimpered softly as the girl glanced in his direction, but she gave the animal and its owner no more than a cursory glance. The girl wiped her hands on a square of white material, a man’s handkerchief perhaps, and dropped the cloth at her feet.
After she had moved out of sight, the dog slipped away from his dozing companion and moved cautiously towards the mouth of the alley. Tail held low and belly snaking close to the ground; he paused at the discarded strip of cloth, whimpering as the smell of fresh blood overpowered the last vestiges of his courage and fled back to the safety of the video shop doorway.
A faint glimmer of light entered the room with all the stealth of a trespasser as the first hint of dawn touched the window and the man lying on the single mattress sighed. It had been a long night and he’d not slept at all. Some nights he slept like a baby, but others were just like last night. He’d thought the fear and insecurity would fade with time, but it hadn’t happened. The only part of his life he didn’t control, couldn’t control, was when he lay awake in the darkness. Re-living the past and fearful of the future.
He suspected, no he knew, that somewhere out there, in the darkness of the night, dangerous men were looking for him. He’d made their task as difficult as possible, but the men who looked for him were very persistent. The light was stronger now and the shadows began to recede. In daylight, he felt secure. In control. A wealthy man. A successful businessman. In any other line of work he’d have been a local celebrity. Giving generously to worthy causes and lunching in private clubs where wealthy successful men met to discuss mutually profitable schemes for the expansion of their businesses.
That was never going to happen. His personal wealth and the profitability of his business were far beyond the imagination of any conventional businessman, but he remained an outcast from the rest of society. That didn’t bother him.
Spider stirred at the sound of car engines in the distance. Thoughts which had dominated his mind throughout the long night began to fade. The imaginary conversations died away. He’d done something a few years back that had upset a lot of people.
The wrong sort of people.
He’d crossed the line and his name would still be cropping up in any number of conversations. In the darkness he could hear those voices very clearly. He knew what they were saying and he knew exactly what their plans for him would be. Before he’d crossed the line, he’d been part of many similar conversations and the decision had always been the same. Why should he be any different? The name those dangerous men were saying was not his name.
Not any more.
He’d removed any connection to his former self. Everything about him was different. Surgery had made him into a different man. His face was leaner; his features changed beyond any possibility of recognition, even his body shape had altered radically. He’d lost forty pounds and gained a body as far removed from the one he used to inhabit as it was possible to achieve.
When he was alone in the darkness all these efforts amounted to very little. His mind raced and his senses remained on full alert. Listening for the creak on the stairs, the faint rustle of clothing, the tinkle of breaking glass. Any of these could mean that the time of his death had been decided. The method would still be unknown to him, but he already knew that whatever the means chosen, the results would be very far from pleasant. He didn’t fear death. Death came to everyone. There was no good way to die, but there were any number of very bad ways.
Chapter 7
So many stories careering through my head today
Another night of waking at three am. Wide awake, mind racing, all these stories clamouring for attention. Like buses, none for ages then a fleet of the things arrive at once, my errant muse has a long history of inconvenience.
I can sit at my laptop in daylight hours without a sniff of an idea, but I’m prolific in the hours normally reserved for sleep. So, I do what I usually do, scribble away like a man possessed, not really concerning myself with quality at this stage, just getting it all down.
The rest of the day I fiddle about with it. Tinkering. Is any of it going to be useful? Could it form part of a project already under way or is it a completely fresh idea? Last night’s musings gave me two new directions for a partly written book, but I’m leaning towards developing a new story line, probably in a different book. So many different strands now – here’s the two that surfaced in the early hours. They may survive and become part of a new book; they may not. Who knows what three am will bring tomorrow?
The man with no name sat back in a padded chair, relaxed and at ease, reading a lengthy newspaper article. The bare hotel room was bland, carefully chosen to match his personality while he was on a job. He’d travelled a long way and knew that the man who’d hired him would be in touch at the appointed time.
Precisely.
He glanced incuriously at the digital clock at the side of the carefully made bed. Fifteen seconds to the hour. He moved slightly closer to the telephone and as he reached out a hand the ‘phone rang. He was smiling as he answered with a single word. ‘Yes.’ Punctuality was a good sign, but he’d expected nothing less from this client. He listened in silence for two minutes, making no notes.
‘My name?’ he said as the monologue came to an end. He glanced at the discarded newspaper on the bed and in particular at the article he’d just finished reading.
‘Call me Indra,’ he said. He listened to the voice at the other end of the line and smiled. The client was a man whom he would never meet, but it pleased him to know he was dealing with a man of intelligence. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘The Hindu god of war. It’s as good a name as any.’ It was possible that the client had merely read the same article as himself, but even if that were the case it demonstrated an ability to retain information. That talent was a prerequisite of knowledge and the surest guide to any viable measurement of intelligence.
It was always a bonus to work for intelligent clients. They were far less likely to cheat the hired help. The difference between a common thug and an intelligent man was the intelligent client would know that cheating a man such as himself was tantamount to a death sentence.
He replaced the receiver and began to collect his belongings. He didn’t own much and even among the few items he did own there were none that he couldn’t walk away from without a moment’s regret.
He had money, rather a lot of money, but was not even remotely concerned with wealth. He had enough for his needs. He lived well, ate well and dressed well, sparing no expense, but he could manage perfectly without any of the trappings of wealth. It was important to him that he owned nothing that he would miss if it were no longer available.
The same maxim also extended to personal relationships. He had no family, no friends, and no lovers. He had never allowed another person into his life. Other people were a tie and an attachment and he had no need of either. Everything in his life was disposable, to be discarded when necessary.
The only object that really mattered today had been waiting for him at reception when he’d checked in. He took it out of the padded envelope and examined it carefully. The .22 calibre Colt Woodsman had been derided by some as a ladies’ gun with no stopping power, but in his opinion it was the perfect weapon. Easy to carry, and conceal where necessary it had never let him down. He routinely specified a matching silencer and always self-loaded his ammunition. The gun lacked stopping power, that was true, but in his hands this was a virtue. He wasn’t looking to knock down a charging buffalo after all.
When he touched the barrel to a human head and pressed the trigger it was game over. More powerful handguns were far more accurate, but gunshot victims had been known to survive even a head shot from a magnum cartridge. A bullet could pass straight through a skull and leave the victim alive. Not in good shape, but alive. With the Colt that option wouldn’t be possible. When the bullet left the barrel it passed through the skull, but lacked the power to blow out an exit hole. With a surgeon’s skill, he’d calculated the exact charge needed for his ammunition. The bullet may not have had the power to break out of the skull again, but it rattled around inside, turning everything it touched into mush. Job done. Nobody could take a direct head shot from a .22 and live to tell the tale.
Indra put the weapon inside a shabby leather briefcase and collected his loose change from the bedside table. He was ready to go to work and now that he had the details of the job he was keen to get started. This eagerness had never deserted him and was a major factor in his long record of success.
He was very good at his job. In fact, he was a lot better than that; he was the best. Being the best took dedication and the elimination of distractions and unnecessary attachments. He had the details he’d asked for, he had the weapon he’d specified and he was ready for the next stage: finding the target and killing him in a violent means of his own choosing.
Chapter 8.
The Job Interview
Becoming a soldier was easy. It took hard work and the ability to follow orders.
Blind obedience.
Moving up, the requirements were more exacting. There had to be a spark, a suggestion of leadership potential, but the best and the brightest recruits could be fast-tracked through the ranks at a pace that mocked the career structure of a conventional business. Team Leaders got to meet the boss on a regular basis and the financial rewards were enormous. The big money on offer had to be earned and Spider demanded blood and sweat in equal measure, but it was not unusual for a Team Leader to have a BMW 6 series with tinted windows on order well before the time they were old enough to take a driving test.
The auditions had been Spider’s idea. The final barrier to Team Leader status was a procedure he handled personally. The youth sitting in the passenger seat was shivering with suppressed excitement as Spider swung the big car down the exit ramp. The long motorway journey had passed in silence, but the tension hung in the air as the appointed audition grew ever closer.
The traffic on the North Circular was as bad as ever and Spider made the decision to travel elsewhere in the country on the occasion of the next audition. He preferred the anonymity of London, but the traffic was a pain in the arse and he’d consider other options. Bristol perhaps? Or Glasgow? The only essential requirement would be that the chosen venue was a long way removed from his home base.
Spider turned left and within a few minutes the traffic eased. The suburbs attracted less attention than the inner city areas and he’d planned today’s destination with characteristic attention to detail. He accelerated past a dawdling motorist, enjoying the sensation of power as the big car surged forward.
Spider glanced in the rear mirror as the speed camera flashed and recorded his details. The car was a Volvo estate. Less than a year old, roomy and powerful with the best seats in the industry. The original owner had kitted it out with a host of extras, but wouldn’t have recognised it now if it sailed past him on the motorway. The colour was different for a start and the registration number was an exact duplicate of a similar car parked in an underground garage in Aberdeen. The Scotsman wouldn’t appreciate the arrival of a fixed-penalty notice on his doormat in a week or two. He may even be able to prove that he’d been three hundred miles away on the day of the offence, but the chances were that he’d have to pay up in the end.
Spider wasn’t concerned. He’d only keep the car for a couple of weeks and then move it on. Eastern Europe or the Gulf was the most likely destination. The big German motors, Mercs, Beemers and Audis, were always in demand, but Spider had a soft spot for the Volvo; he couldn’t fault them for comfort and they were so much less ostentatious than the more prestigious marques.
The occasional speed camera was no more than an irritant, but Britain is the most spied-upon country in the Western world and careful planning was needed from this point in particular. Automatic number plate recognition, ANPR, recorded the registration details of every vehicle on just about every main road in the country. The data, over thirty five million records every 24 hours, is retained by the police on a central database and could track the progress of a specific vehicle with awesome accuracy. Spider took every precaution to ensure that any vehicle he used would never be traced back to himself, but vehicle recognition was only part of the threat to his safety. Closed circuit television cameras covered all built-up areas and the technology was improving all the time. Face-recognition software was widely available and Spider had drilled into his troops that the omnipresent cameras could pick a face out of a crowd and cross-reference the digital image to data collected by a different camera which had revealed a crime in progress.
As the traffic died away and the houses on the tree-lined avenues appeared more affluent, Spider sat forward in his seat, concentrating fiercely. The end of their long journey was imminent and he could sense waves of excitement and expectation emanating from the youth next to him. Spider eased to a halt under the shade of a mature plain tree and looked carefully at his surroundings. The houses were set back from the road, each with a well-tended garden and broad expanse of drive. He scanned the streetlights for CCTV cameras, but saw nothing to arouse concern. A single pedestrian was walking towards the car on the other side of the road and as the figure drew closer Spider looked directly at the youth seated next to him.
‘Problem?’
The youth shook his head. The figure drew closer, no more than fifty yards away now. A woman leading a small brown dog on a leather lead. The woman was in her early thirties, well groomed and attractive. A resident, judging by the expensive clothes and her high-heeled shoes were not exactly ideal for lengthy walks.
Spider opened the glove box and removed a JVC camcorder. He checked the battery levels and focussed on a tree further along the road. He grunted in satisfaction and nodded to the youth who immediately climbed out of the car and walked towards the woman and her dog. She had been fiddling with the dog’s lead, unravelling a piece of string that had entwined itself in the jewelled collar and rose again as the youth approached. Spider zoomed in on her face and discerned no signs of concern, only a willingness to assist the young man who she presumed to be in need of directions. The youth walked right up to her, his calm attitude still attracting no semblance of fear in the woman, and as she spoke to him, he looked back at the watching Spider and smiled. Spider recorded the exact moment when the woman saw the knife for the first time and the expression on her face changed to naked terror. The first stroke was clumsy – the impetuosity of youth – but each succeeding slash with the broad blade found its mark.
When the woman sank to the ground, her ravaged face was unrecognisable. Spider nodded when the youth looked round once again and through the viewfinder watched as he reversed his grip on the knife and buried the blade to the hilt in the woman’s chest. He stabbed her twice more before rising to his feet and walking slowly back to the waiting car.
Spider flicked the dashboard button to open the boot and heard the weapon drop onto the plastic sheet lining the interior. He switched off the camcorder and replaced it in the glove box. The assassin opened the passenger door and climbed inside. Spider waited for him to fasten his seat belt before pulling smoothly away.
Failure to fasten a seatbelt was a criminal offence.
Chapter 9
Fluffy bunnies? I can write about them. Or can I?
Four or five years ago I decided to write a gentler book. A book my mother could describe to a friend without feeling shame and disgrace. I retained Donna, plucky little Donna from my first two books, reasoning that she too deserved a break from murder and mayhem.
I set the book in rural Andalucía, where I lived at the time, drawing inspiration from the surroundings. It’s a novel containing far less violence, virtually no ‘street language’ and thereby appealing to a far wider audience. As with most of my carefully laid plans, the novel was a failure. Virtually everyone who read it begged for a return to my ‘nasty’ writing style.
My good friend Kay, far away in Australia at present, was particularly scathing. ‘Write what you know,’ she said. ‘Anyone can write a mystery in the Spanish sunshine. Give me something to scare me stiff.’
So that was that. My fluffy bunny period. Short-lived and unlamented. Here’s a couple of sections, see what you’re missing.
The finca’s setting was as close to perfection as Donna could imagine. Perched high up on a ridge with mountains rising steeply at the back, the house faced south with the blue Mediterranean sparkling away towards a horizon that ended at the Rif Mountains. A view that stretched all the way to Africa; a different continent.
The land in front of the finca sloped down in steep terraces of grape vines; olive and almond trees forming a veritable paradise for butterflies and exotic birds. As Donna rounded the corner of the house, she stood transfixed at the sight of a matched pair of eagles riding the thermals, hovering motionless against a perfect blue sky, every detail of their plumage clearly visible, her vantage point more or less level with the magnificent birds as their keen eyes scanned everything that moved far down on the valley floor a thousand metres or so below their widely spread wings.
Donna moved on as the eagles wheeled away and picked her way carefully through the scrubland. A thick bank of prickly pear formed a formidable barrier to an approach from the rear and any attempt to approach from that direction past their fierce spines would require the utmost care. The mule-house, fifty metres distant from the main finca, was similarly constructed to the parent house, apart from the absence of windows in the whitewashed metre thick walls and had clearly been built with the single purpose of keeping the fierce heat at bay. The sagging roof with its lichen covered terracotta roof tiles was home to any number of lizards and other tiny creatures and a few hardy sprigs of some plant or other, pushing defiantly towards the sun from the depths of the numerous gaps between the tiles.
The wooden door was thick oak; studded and massive enough to withstand a battering ram, but gaping partly open to reveal a cool dark interior.
To the right, the land dropped steeply into the black depths of a narrow ravine, rough weather-beaten stones and straggly scrub obscuring any view to the bottom unless one was prepared to lie prone in the dust and peer over the edge. Donna decided she could live without knowing whether the gash in the earth was a bottomless pit, and retraced her steps away from the crumbling rim with great care.
The lintel above the mule-house door was split and sagging dangerously and there were deep fissures in the cracked stone pillars. As Donna approached, she heard a faint creak, then started in alarm as a small green lizard darted from its place of concealment and scuttled into the shadow of the overhanging tiles. No doubt, the lizard was more frightened of Donna than Donna was of the lizard, but the difference was only marginal.
Was there someone there? In the mule-house, perhaps? The back of her neck tingling Donna knew she must investigate, if only to resolve her own foolishness.
Wincing at her own timidity, Donna squeezed through the narrow entrance. Inside, the darkness was absolute. Donna slipped to one side of the door frame, reasoning that if there was anyone there they would see her silhouetted against the light and stood still, holding her breath. After thirty seconds, Donna’s night vision had improved sufficiently that she could see her hand clearly. If she held it an inch from her face! The only sound she could hear was the blood pounding in her ears.
Nothing else.
The room was empty.
She’d half turned to leave, feeling utterly foolish, when she heard it. Deep in the darkness and so faint as to be almost inaudible, the unmistakable sound of an intake of breath. Donna froze, adrenalin flooding her nervous system as if someone had turned on a tap. Then, she heard the same sound again, and this time saw the faintest hint of movement on the far wall.
It was enough. Without thinking, Donna lurched forward, determined to take the initiative, and on the second stride, smacked her head into a heavy wooden beam. She knew it was wooden by the sound of the dull thud as skull met beam. Her senses swam and she sat down hard on the stony floor, hands cradling her head. The pain was intense, but Donna also felt utterly foolish, accepting for the first time that discretion may have been a wiser course of action. Head swimming, she tried to rise, but her body weight had apparently quadrupled in the last few moments. She felt defenceless and vulnerable sitting on the floor, but the pain was too intense to consider doing anything else.
‘Who’s there?’ She called out, her voice like a railway station announcer on a bad day, metallic and unreal. No reply came, but Donna wasn’t really expecting an answer. She tried again to get up, but was overcome with nausea and vertigo, remaining stuck on one knee like a sprinter about to spring from starting blocks. Not very appropriate in the circumstances. The likelihood of her springing anywhere was nil.
Every cell in her body complained. Loudly. Donna feared she may have done herself some damage, concussion perhaps, or something even more serious. With a massive effort of will she rose slowly to her feet, avoiding any sudden movement. The darkness heightened the feelings of disorientation Donna was feeling, and she knew she was swaying from side to side, unable to gain control of her balance in the absence of any visible reference points.
As Donna’s head began to clear, the forgotten threat of the intruder provoked a fresh surge of alarm. Was there anyone there or had she imagined the whole thing? Even if there had been anyone hiding in the darkness, they would have had ample opportunity to escape while she’d been staggering around like a wasted clubber after an all-night party.
Opening her eyes as wide as possible, Donna strained to see into the gloom, wishing she’d had the sense to go and fetch a torch before venturing into these unfamiliar surroundings. She’d just about convinced herself that she was making a total fool of herself, standing in the dark with a lump the size of a duck egg swelling on her forehead, when all her former suspicions were vindicated. At the very edge of her vision Donna saw a shape move towards her, nothing more than the suggestion of a figure, then felt an intense pain on the side of her face that caused her to cry out. Not a punch, no more than a heavy slap, but in Donna’s weakened state, sufficient to fell her instantly, sending her crashing to the ground once again.
Donna lay prone, unable to move a muscle, and felt rather than saw a vague shape materialise from the shadows. A disembodied hand reached out and touched her on the neck, as gently as the tender caress of a lover. The hand moved downwards until it touched and then encompassed Donna’s right breast. Her head was still spinning, and her limbs were heavy, or the sense of outrage would have given her the strength to spring to her feet. Donna uttered a small groan of protest and the hand withdrew, gently scraping her nipple with fingertips softer than a summer breeze.
This next segment describes the following day.
As Donna set back towards the house, she heard a faint plaintive cry. The missing kitten! She followed the sound until she reached the lip of the narrow ravine. Lying full length on the dusty ground, Donna craned her head over the edge but could see only a forest of climbing weeds. She called out and heard an answering cry from the depths. Donna ran back to the finca and removed the nylon clothesline from the front of the terrace. Tugging on it to satisfy herself that it would bear her weight, she dashed back to the ravine.
‘I’m coming, little one,’ Donna called out and was rewarded by a faint mewing sound from deep below her feet. She tied one end of the rope to the doorframe of the mule-house and the other around her waist.
Donna paused for a moment on the edge of the ravine, aware that what she was doing was foolish and that the sensible thing to do would be to wait for Peg to return before she went off on a potholing expedition. Especially considering her recent bang on the head.
Her mind was made up by a further desperate cry from below, and she took the first step over the edge and into the darkness. On the rim, the hard-packed earth was bare and un-yielding, but lower down, where it was cooler, dense vegetation flourished. Slender runnels seeking light and warmth struggled up the sides of the ravine from the far dark depths. Dive bombed by insects, legs scratched and itching furiously, the very last place on earth Donna wanted to go was down into that dark pit. Then she heard a plaintive mewing from deep in the jungle and her mind was made up. Like it or not, she had to rescue that kitten.
In the increasing darkness, Donna felt a sudden chill not entirely explained by the withdrawal of the sun’s warmth. Goosebumps rose on her arms, but it was a sense of unease she was feeling rather than any change in temperature. Pulling on a metaphorical cloak of courage, she pressed on.
Thorns snagged her clothing and ravished exposed skin, but she was a girl on a mission. Something brushed her thigh and Donna gave out an involuntary shriek of alarm, prompting a blush of shame, and she stopped for a moment to get her breath back.
The light was surprisingly far above and the itching from her arms and legs was maddening. Donna tried to tell herself that if she’d have known the bloody ravine was this deep she’d have never attempted to climb down, but knew that wasn’t true and settled for cursing the wretched kitten for being so damned inconsiderate as to fall down this dark pit. Knowing full well that once she got hold of the poor little creature she’d kiss and hug it all the way back up to safety.
The creeping plants rising from the depths were suffocating and flies swarmed around, drinking her sweat and driving her to distraction. Ten feet down, it was almost dark. Donna could only feel for hand and footholds, calling out words of reassurance to the kitten with every step.
Donna reached the bottom at last, in complete darkness, but could feel warm fur against her calf. With great difficulty in the narrow confined space, she managed to reach down until her fingers touched the kitten’s upturned face. She rummaged around and freed its leg from the roots of some plant and pulled it up to where it could nestle on her shoulder, purring frantically and licking her neck with its sandpaper tongue.
The flies seemed worse than ever, settling around her head in a dense swarm, and Donna was swatting around frantically as she reached up to pull at the foliage that was blocking out the light prior to climbing out again. As Donna raised her arm, her foot slid off its precarious perch. With some of the leaves removed she could see slightly better and glanced down to look for a more reliable foothold.
What Donna saw made her scream out in terror. She squeezed her eyes tight shut and kept them closed for what seemed an age. When Donna opened them again, nothing had changed. It was not a dream. The nightmare was all too real. The naked woman on whose thigh Donna was standing was still there. Donna didn’t need to look at her staring eyes to be aware that she was very dead indeed.
Chapter 10
Spider, not everyone’s idea of a benevolent employer.
This character surfaced in the early hours of the morning - now he’s interesting me more and more. Not the sort you’d want your daughter to bring home. Here’s a couple more extracts from my working notes, the character of Dexter may not be retained, but I need a force of counterpoint to the dark side, represented by the unlovely Spider.
Spider looked at the face of the youth standing before him, scowling as only a fifteen year old can, and realised he’d made an error of judgement. A rare error, it was true, but a mistake had been made and would have to be corrected.
‘It’s your patch, Buzz. Your job to stop it happening, right?’ His voice was calm, but the air of lurking menace was always there.
‘I told ‘em, if they…’ Buzz blustered.
Spider held up a hand and the youth fell silent. ‘Not interested. You know the rules. Don’t shit on your own doorstep. Simple as that. Kids running riot every night on your patch. You’ve let things get out of hand. I can’t have that.’ He spoke in short clipped sentences, prodding the chest of the younger man to emphasise each point.
Buzz made no further attempt to justify his actions. One look at the face of the man in front of him was enough to ensure his silence. Buzz had seen at first hand what happened to anyone foolish enough to argue with this man. The results had not been pretty. Keep quiet, say nothing. That was the only way he could earn the right to another chance.
‘Listen to me.’ Spider raised his voice a notch for the benefit of the other figures crowding into the empty flat. The windows were boarded over and the only furniture was a mattress on the floor. Spider moved around a lot and required very few creature comforts. Setting an example. Showing his troops that having money didn’t mean he’d opted for an easy life. These streets, this housing estate was where he’d started and would remain his home and the centre of his power base.
Download this book for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-31 show above.)