Big Mo nodded his head slowly, his eyes rolling. “That’s right, Shooter, me old mucka,” he said. “You’ve finally got it... have a gold star.” He gave a mirthless chuckle, pausing before delivering the punch line with perfect comic timing. “Strange, though, because the way you’ve been acting I can only assume you believe my head buttons up the back.”
Everything was still, silent for a moment, the only sound that of laboured snorts coming from the prisoner, who was trying to clear the blood from his airwaves.
“Wh... what sh’you mean?” Shooter stuttered eventually.
“Ripping me off,” said Mo. “I know what you took away from that Holland Park raid. You owe me a lot more – a couple of grand, I reckon – and it’s a bloody cheek you’ve held out on me after I tipped you off to the opportunity. Don’t you know there’s a recession on? I got a wife and kid to feed, with another on the way. I’m sorry Shooter, truly. You always seemed a loyal soldier and a good mate, but now I’ve got to make an example of you. I can’t afford people thinking I’m a soft touch. Seems no one can be trusted these days. Handsome? Keep hold of him. Cozza, get Reg, would you?”
“Oh shit. No!” pleaded Shooter. “Not Reg. Look, I’ll make it up to you. Pay you extra, if that’s what you want. Do another job especially for you. It wasn’t on purpose, honest, I’d never do that to you, Mo, you know that. I must have miscalculated is all I can think. I’ve always been useless at maths...”
Chuck let out a whimper. He didn’t know what it was all about but he didn’t like seeing his daddy so cross. Big Mo looked at him and winked as if to say, “It’s all right son, none of this is real”. Chuck told himself what he was seeing was a magic trick, the red stuff on Shooter’s face not blood but tomato sauce, like he had at home on his chips.
HOURS later Chuck was in bed, crying himself to sleep. Big Mo told his wife the youngster was overtired. They had popped into the pub after their ‘bit of business’, just to take the edge off things, and Chuck had fallen asleep. Beryl Dolan looked at her husband.
“You’ve made him a part of it, haven’t you?” she said. “I asked you, even begged you, but you couldn’t help it. You had to ‘toughen him up’. I can only guess what you’ve been up to. You took that... thing... with you. I can see the blood. There’s a stain on my carpet and a trail on the tiles in the hall.”
Big Mo looked out from beneath his thick, black, caterpillar eyebrows, pushing his hand wearily through the bristles on his head. He didn’t feel like justifying his actions. It had been a long day. He had done what he had done, and in his mind he had made the right call. A row with the missus was the last thing he needed.
Lifting himself from his favourite armchair, Mo reached over and switched on the television, turning up the volume to dissuade his wife from carrying on with the conversation. A well-dressed man was standing in front of a weather map pointing at various areas of the country, but Mo wasn’t interested.
Bending down slowly, he picked up the three-foot length of wood he had propped beside him on the sofa. Noting the dark stains for the first time, he vowed to rub it down with a hot, damp cloth in the morning to get rid of any ‘evidence’. Shame. To his way of thinking it just added to the character, like when you had a champion conker as a kid and the more messed up it looked, the more scars it had, the more you knew it had done its job. Walking out through the sliding glass-partition doors, he swung the sawn-off curtain pole at his side, the spherical ball on the end reflecting the light. Resting it gently against the wall in the corner of the small parlour room, he patted it affectionately.
“Night, Reg,” he said.
5-star reviews on Amazon.com
Spark Out skillfully guides readers through the down-and-out months of Maurice "Mo" Dolan, Mo's immediate and extended family, and the climate and culture unfolding under the new leadership of Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher in 1981. Fluidly moving the narrative between Mo's violent public outbursts, his abusive marriage and parenting decisions, his criminal peers and actions, and the reality of Mo's brother's military service in the Falklands, Nick Rippington creates characters so visual and compelling that readers do not know whether to grimace at Mo's direct and collateral damage, or to invest deeper into the story exploding around him.
Before readers even realize it, the toxic love story of Mo and Beryl emerges from the flames of Mo's temper and its initial sparks into London, blowing its destruction into a world that is both small and large in its reflection, spread of violence, unforgiving wrath, and the human need for partners in war, work, and love—no matter the cost.
- Catherine Cottle
A Really impressive read
Given that this style and story line is not my usual go-to, I was especially impressed with the quality, detail descriptions, and intriguing plot throughout the entire book. And it's a good long book too, a lot of return for the money, so you'll be engrossed for many hours and/or days depending on your reading style. Fast paced, lots of twists and turns, and well set scenes to keep you guessing! I'll be looking out for volume 3 in the future.
- Laurie Bonser
Other books in this genre:
Not long before my mother died, she told me a story I’d never heard before. It was 1965, the year before she married my father. Spring had come to the Northeast nearly a season ahead of itself. By May, the fields rippled with thigh deep, green-gold grasses: sweet timothy, birdsfoot trefoil, clovers, reed canarygrass, ryegrass, and tall fescue. All the kids along Sweet Milk Road knew the species names; they were weaned on the sweat of haying, and my mother and her brother Morgan were no different.
It was a clear, bright Sunday morning—a perfect day for the first cut of the season. The fields around the farm were filled with the buzz and clang of sicklebar mowers and balers while my mother and Morgan stood toe-to-toe in a field of egg-yolk colored mustard blooms. They scrapped with one another on the strip of land between their farm and the Deitman property where no one could hear them. At first my mother laughed at her brother’s suggestion, like a late-comer for Sunday dinner who asks for the platter of fried chicken to be passed, only the plate is empty and the laughter trickles into awkward silence. She pleaded with Morgan, but he was of no mind to hear her. His decision, he claimed, was best for the family: She would marry Michael Deitman on her eighteenth birthday, and their families and land would be united, an isthmus to wealth and stability.
All of that changed when a bullet ripped through the leaves, shearing the air. Before either of them heard the sound of the report, it shattered Morgan’s breastbone and sprayed bright red blood onto my mother Lydia’s face and hair. Morgan looked at her, his eyes filled with terror, as he fell dead into the yellow mustard blossoms.
“Who did this?” I asked.
“Well.” She stammered, of course it was an accident. You have to know that, Joss. Someone was in the high birch grove shooting at the birds . . .”
I didn’t challenge her, but I wondered how she came to believe this. And who could have fired from nearly a quarter of a mile and struck down Morgan with such precision?
During those first three days before anyone else knew what had happened, my adrenaline-driven mother dragged Morgan’s body to the cottage in back of the farmhouse, and hid him in a macabre game of hide and seek—first in the closet, then under the stairwell to the cottage, and finally behind the old woodstove—all their favorite childhood hiding places. While the crows sat in the trees above and watched. On the third day she carried him to the river and washed him in the cool running water, then laid him in the tall grass.
Even when the coroner came to take him later that afternoon, she still refused to believe he was dead. She sat on the back porch all that summer rocking, worrying the floorboards for days that lingered into weeks. She did not cry or speak for months and only bathed in the river.
I think about this story as an April wind blows my red Mini Cooper along I-84 West, then tracks north along the Taconic Parkway. I try to distract myself, turning up the radio, flipping through the FM stations, but still I hear her voice.
“I had no one,” my mother told me. “My brother was the only one left, and then he was gone, too. I convinced myself that he was sitting on Heaven’s back porch. That if I waited on our rear balcony, he’d be back. I don’t know why, but I washed and ironed all of his pajamas and packed them in a suitcase. You do crazy things when you lose someone. I think that suitcase is still in one of the upstairs’ closets.”
She said she’d look for it but never did. I wonder if it’s still there. I try to push away these thoughts by doing what I always do: measure the day by road signs, or how many times I pass the same truck. An attachment from girlhood and those hopscotch counting rhymes from my school days—one-ery, two-ery, zigger-zoll, zan. . . . But on this morning I gauge my time, tapping out the minutes by heartbeat, dropped lanes, or the whirl of the car’s cozy heater and classic rock tunes buzzing in my heart like a lullaby.
It’s what my dad always did back when we all lived in the city—crank up the radio while he drove. He’d holler, “Hey, Paulie-girl! Get in the van.” With my mother scolding, “Paul! Her name is Joss Ellen—not ‘Paulie-girl!’ Not ‘Boy-o’ either!” But that name, ‘Paulie-girl,’ was lassoed around everything I knew myself to be. As a six year old, I was always ready for an adventure with my father, Big Paul.
We’d fly in that rattletrap van with the tunes blaring. He’d bring me to his tailor shop on East Forty Second between Lexington and Third. I’d jump out before the vehicle stopped, and ran through the jangling back door, hollering, “Liam, where are you?”
Liam Michaels was my father’s apprentice and an occasional guest at the farm. He’d drive upstate to play with my father’s jazz group that met there on Friday nights. I’d steal into the millhouse where they played to hear Liam’s melancholy Irish tunes flow across his fiddle strings. I used to beg him to bring his violin to the tailor shop, but he never would. He always said it wouldn’t be proper in a gent’s shop. I’d nod though I didn’t understand why, or what a ‘gents’ shop’ was.
“Liam!” I’d holler again.
“Is that you, Jossy?” he’d ask.
I could never answer fast enough. He’d scoop me up and lift me onto his shoulders, and then stand in front of the tall mirrors. I’d laugh and screech, terrified of being up so high, and hang onto his hair or squeeze my arms around his neck.
He’d cough and choke. “Tell the truth, girl! Are ya trying to kill me, or do you just like me that much?” He’d pull my hands away and grab me around my waist. “Oh my God!” he’d say. “Look at that two-headed thing in the mirror.
“It’s me, Liam,” I giggled, all the while reeling in woozy panic. My dark red curls, just like my mothers, bounced in the mirror images, and stared back at me with my father’s same grey eyes.
“There you are!” he’d point, with a goofy smile plastered across his face and a shock of black hair falling into his eyes. “How’s my girl? What are ya—on a ladder? Come down from there. I got a little bit of ribbon in my pocket I saved for ya.”
My father would barrel through the back door, yelling, “What’s going on in here? Paulie-girl, don’t bother the help!” He’d wink at me and disappear into his office.
He’d check his stock and special order sheets, and then we’d pile back into the van and charge off to the garment district. There my looming father, nearly six feet tall and wide in the shoulders, would haggle with some witless slob over the best gabardine. Daddy would reiterate his secret every time: Look them in the eye and smile, but walk away before you back down. Just be soft with every step. Once he’d get his price, he’d buy remnants of cerise or saffron taffeta to make my sister and me something for school. For Naomi, it would be a blouse with pearl buttons or a crinoline skirt, but for me he’d always fashion something man-tailored: a vest or jacket spit in my father’s image. “Stand still,” he’d say while he’d mark the fabric with chalk and pins that scratched my skin. Back then I never winced.
I’d turn slowly while my father stood, scrutinizing his work, commanding me to stop, or turn, or walk across the room as he’d watch the garment move in the swing of my arms. What emerged would be flawless: pale gray herringbone with pockets piped in apricot, a vivid lining at the pleat. In the mirror, I only saw my father’s eyes, his smile.
Back then, I thought I was special.
On Friday nights, we’d go to the Floridian on Flatbush Avenue for sweet fried smelts with lemony rémoulade sauce. The same diner he used to go to with his own Pops. “Here he comes,” some waitress named Dolores or Ronnie would shout above the din: “The dapper tailor dressed to the nines with his little one.” We’d sashay down the aisle between the tables, he in his striped shirt and red braces, a vest or jacket, shoe-shined and natty. Me in a replica—never a skirt or a bit of lace. Big Paul, square-jawed, with smoke-grey eyes that could darken instantly. would smile at the other diners as if they were his guests, always with the witty comments, tipping his fedora or porkpie, or whatever was perched on his head that evening.
We’d slip into a booth and order drinks: cherry soda for me and Cutty Sark straight up for Big Paul. Before the first sip, we’d clink our glasses while I stared in awe at the myth that was my father. And when our hot plates came out, we’d slather on that tart sauce and slide those sugary fish down our throats, barking like penguins for more. We were hungry. We were the boys out for all we could get.
Step into the fictional town of Bucksdale Mississippi, where you'll meet the riveting character of ELLANECE MOSLEY, a woman who fronts as a home and property flipping realtor, but in reality, is a psychotic serial killer, who stalks men and lures them to their death, with her beguiling methods. Throughout this TALE OF THE MURDEROUS SOUTHERN BELLE, along with Ellanece's victims, you'll also meet the town's detectives, JASPER LEWIS and TRACI HARMON. After seemingly getting away with her first murder, of one DENNIS HENDERSON, she knows that time is running out for her, in the small town. So she employs the help of various other contractors, to help her complete her real estate investment. One of the helpers being a young man by the name of, JUSTIN HOWARD, winds up falling head over heels for his deadly but charming employer, ELLANECE, who decides to set him up, to take the blame for another murder that she plans on committing. Will ELLANECE get away with it all? Or will the combined forces of JUSTIN HOWARD, and the detectives of Bucksdale, be able to stop her, and deliver the justice that is long over due for this Murderous Southern Belle.
Terry woke feeling tired, his head pounding and stomach growled. He'd been shackled from ankle to wrist. The bounds were not extremely tight yet, due to the lengthy period of time he'd been imprisoned the restrains made skin tender around the areas. Sitting on the cold floor within what looked to be a basement he observed his bounds for what seemed like the thousandth time in hopes of escaping. Being cuffed at the front allowed the captures to run a chain from leg shackle to hand cuffs, restricting mobility.
Confined within complete darkness for long stretches within darkness and no sense of sound could strip a man of his sanity. He turned to his left and found a touch of light coming from a slight gap left by paint being scratched from a window. Eyes burning from the light he return his focus to the darkness.
Straining,he attempted to see around the basement. Nothing, he could see nothing besides his mat and empty bag of chips he'd been fed. Nothing useful for what he had planned. He knew any day may be his last. Living with the knowledge of death on a daily bases molded him to the acceptance of it's possiblity. When you live with something long enough it simply becomes a part of who you are. A violent man eventually meets a violent end. His only regret was what his death would do to his friends, especially Nicky. He suddenly heard numerous foot steps coming from the other side of the door. Terry pressed his back to the wall and bent his knees, pushing himself upward he felt today may be that day...
It happened so fast. One minute she was swimming, the next the current was dragging her to the bottom. Seawater flooded her mouth. She fought, thrashed to the surface and tried to shout; a hoarse whisper was all that came. Her head went under and stayed under. Her lungs were on fire. With no warning it released her and she saw blue sky. Jennifer gulped shallow ragged breaths, shocked and scared, and started towards her family. She would never leave them again. But the decision was no longer hers. The force drew her back into a world without light or oxygen and this time it didn’t let go. Her arm broke free in a desperate attempt to escape. Tongues of spray pulled it down and Jennifer knew she was goingto drown. She’d dreamed of watching her daughter grow into a woman. That would never be. And Mark, poor Mark. How unfair to leave him. Her body rolled beneath the waves. She stopped struggling, closed her eyes and disappeared from sight. Seconds passed before Mark realised something wasn’t right. ‘Where’s mummy? Where’s your mummy?’ The baby sucked her thumb. ‘Where is she, Lily?’ At first he couldn’t move. Cold fear consumed him. A hundred yards away a group of boys played football; apart from them the beach was deserted. He yelled. They didn’t hear him. He threw the push-chair to the sand, yanked it open and sat Lily in it. His hands were shaking. The damned straps wouldn’t fasten. He spoke to himself. ‘Please god, no. Please god, no’ and raced into the sea. The water was freezing. What the hell had Jen been thinking? This was Scotland, for Christ sake. He swam to where he’d last seen her and went under. Mark was a good swimmer but it was dark. His frantic fingers searched until the pressure in his chest forced him to the surface. He took in as much air as he could and went back. Something bumped against him; he grabbed hold and dragged it up. Two boys ran into the water to help: the footballers. They hauled her body the last few yards and Mark fell to his knees. Jennifer wasn’t breathing. People appeared on the beach, silent witnesses to the nightmare the day had become. Where had they been when he needed them? He shouted, half in anger half in desperation. ‘Somebody call an ambulance!’ The crowd kept a respectful distance, believing what he believed, that he’d lost her. Jennifer’s face was white. Mark covered her mouth with his and breathed into her. His hands pressed against her chest demanding she come back to him. One of the boys took over with no better luck. Mark tried again, refusing to let her go. He pumped her heart, whimpering like a child, sobbing for himself as well as his wife. Jennifer’s eyes fluttered; she retched and vomited water. Mark turned her on her side and rubbed her back, whispering reassurance, blinded by tears, aware his prayers had been answered. A siren sounded in the distance. It was going to be all right. She was safe. They would be together again. The three of them. He raised his head and saw ambulance-men racing towards him across the sand. Mark jumped to his feet. They must have drifted... except the boat was there. His voice rose from a cry to a scream. ‘Lily. Lily!’ He spoke to the group who had offered nothing. ‘I left a baby here, somebody must’ve seen her.’ They stared, no idea what he was talking about. A new terror seized him. He ran a few steps up and down the beach, lost and afraid. The bag lay where Jennifer dropped it. But no push-chair. No sign his daughter had ever been there. Lily was gone.
OLD FRIENDS AND NEW ENEMIES
Those who know don’t speak. Those who speak don’t know.
Jimmy Rafferty was in his twenties when he heard that scrap of ancient wisdom. It appealed to him. He quoted it often without understanding. Or perhaps he did. The mafia had Omerta, in the east end of Glasgow, Rafferty had the Tao. It was enough. The boy from Bridgeton climbed the mountain and for over forty years his empire was held in place by the unsaid. No one discussed him or his business.
All his life Rafferty had been strong, physically and mentally, depending only on himself. Few were brave enough to go up against him. Those who had regretted it. The stroke and the stick that came with it represented what he despised most. Weakness. He had lost weight, a lot of weight; clothes hung on him like hand-me-downs, and his eyes were watery hollows that could no longer intimidate. Illness had aged him. Before, he’d stood ramrod straight, now he stooped and when he walked he shuffled. More and more he found himself thinking of the past. And it wasn’t just his body that had suffered; something at the very centre of his being was missing: the iron will of old was gone. His concentration wandered. At times he wasn’t really there.
That left a question: who would take over?
The trouble the family faced cried out for a leader but his sons didn’t have the stuff. Kevin was thick and Sean was a non-event. In a year what he had achieved would be gone. Between them they would lose it all.
It should’ve been easy. Steal from the thief and bury him where he’d never be found. Jimmy had let Kevin handle it. A mistake.
Rage built in the old man like an approaching train; a murmur on the air, a quiver in the rail, until the monster roared and thundered, unstoppable. His hands trembled, the stick danced. He screamed. ‘You moron! Fucked us right up, haven’t you, boy?’
At the end of a lawn shaded by trees and set back from the road the house held its secrets. Nobody would hear. Kevin fingered the scar running from his ear to his chin and braced himself against the expected tirade. It didn’t come. Instead the tone was gentle; it terrified his eldest son.
‘‘Come on. C’mon, Kevin. Convince me. Tell me it wasn’t your fault.’
Sean watched his brother’s humiliation. Kevin was still scared of his father – maybe understandable in the past – not now. For all his noise Jimmy was spent and knew it. He’d been decisive. A force of nature. Once. With his hold slipping, anger replaced action. The old man’s power was gone; he was impotent.
Jimmy said, ‘How does a guy end up dead before he gives us what we want? I mean, how can that be? We needed him breathin’ in and out. Didn’t even capture his mobile. A bastard monkey could figure it. But not you.’
Kevin’s excuse was worse than feeble. ‘He laughed at me.’
‘So you knifed him. That would take the smile off his face. Taken the smile off mine. Pity you didn’t remember why we lifted him in the first place.’
Kevin blurted out his defence. ‘That guy was a nutter. I pumped him full of shit. It didn’t matter, he was never going to tell. He just kept laughing. I lost it.’
Rafferty’s face was inches from his son’s. Kevin could smell his breath, sour with cigarettes. ‘You never had it to lose,’ his father said. ‘Your brother got the brains.’
Sean knew he wasn’t talking about him.
‘We’re out because a junkie you were working on laughed at you. He thought you were a clown and so do I. Our friend in the sun is expecting results.’
‘He was waiting to make contact. We know he was waiting.’
‘Hear that Sean? Your brother said something that wasn’t stupid. That’s what we have to do. Wait. Sounds like the kind of thing you’d be good at, Kevin. Maybe I should put you in charge. Head of Fucking Waiting.’
The son had endured taunts and jibes and worse from his father all his life. This time it was deserved so he took it but, then, he always did. Getting people to talk was Kevin’s speciality and he enjoyed his job; it shouldn’t have been a problem. Except the thief wasn’t right in the head. He didn’t care. Even with his injuries the bastard was mocking him. With the last “fuck you!” Kevin snapped. The knife felt heavy against his palm. He heard the thud and sensed the blade twist into the heart.
Jimmy Rafferty turned to his sons. The effort had drained him; his chest rose and fell. ‘We’ve still got a chance. Sean, keep an eye on your idiot brother. Make sure he doesn’t screw up.’ He sighed and leaned on the stick. ‘I wish Paul was here. He was young but he was a doer. And he was smart.’
Sean flinched. Paul. Always Paul. Should he tell the deluded old bastard the apple of his eye was a reckless fool who died an unnecessary death proving it? Wouldn’t the great Jimmy be surprised to discover that sainted Paul had mocked him behind his back? Talked about replacing him. Not yet, this wasn’t the moment.
Those who know don’t speak
Half-way through the matinee at the Theatre Royal, North London, the audience gasp in horror when Hamlet drags the corpse of Polonius on to the stage from behind a curtain. For the head of the famous 76-year-old actor playing Polonius, Sir Roger Nutley, is lolling at a bizarre angle that can only mean he has REALLY been killed. The touring production had been a sensational comeback for Sir Roger, two years after a high-profile court case in which the jury failed to convict him of sex crimes in the 1960s. Is his murder connected to the trial? Detective Inspector Keith Warren and Detective Sergeant Philippa Myers soon learn that the superstar's life had other secret, dark sides. Meanwhile, an outbreak of kidnappings of valuable dogs gives rookie Detective Constable Marion Everitt a chance to prove her mettle against a gang of heartless thugs. Resources at Norton Hill Police Station are also stretched by a series of armed robberies of designer handbags worth hundreds of thousands of pounds from exclusive boutiques.
Frank Armstrong had lain down on the dining room table before, but in the past he'd always been either sound asleep or dead drunk. Now he was just dead.
I stared at his half-open mouth and washed-out face, and marvelled at the way his body seemed to barely inhabit the crappy suit he always wore. If I were the sort to feel guilty, I might wonder if it had been my fault, him being dead, I mean. But I wasn't.
Behind me, the blonde coughed like she needed attention.
'Why'd you call me?' I said.
'I just...' She shrugged. 'Wanted someone here, y'know? And you were his friend. I thought ye'd want to know.' She pouted at me, then seemed to remember she was supposed to be the grieving widow and turned it into a whimper.
'You call an ambulance?'
I expect they'll send one, but what's the point? He's stone cold.' She sniffed. 'Doctor's on his way.'
Her face was conspicuously free of tears, and even though it was only eight in the morning and she'd probably only been home an hour, I could see she'd taken time to tart herself up before receiving visitors. Only the wonky hairdo and excess luggage under her eyes, showed she'd been shagging all night.
'You think it was..?' I hesitated. 'I mean..?'
'I know what ye mean, bonny lad. Ye mean was it natural causes or did I smack him over the head once too often for being a boring shit?' She sniffed again and dabbed her nose with a hanky. 'No. I expect his heart packed in. Bound to, sooner or later.'
I nodded and wondered if she realised there'd be an autopsy.
Lizzy glanced out the window and made a face. 'Tch, look at that nosy cow. I should've left the nets up.'
I turned to look. A woman across the road was standing at her front door, watching. With two pairs of eyes on her, the offender backed inside and shut the door. As we stood watching, I noticed Frank's car wasn't outside. I didn't say anything to his wife. She had enough to deal with just now.
There was a pause while Lizzy brushed unseen fluff from her blouse. She fiddled with the curtains and wiped a finger through the dust on the windowsill. I got the feeling there was something else in the pipeline.
Eventually, in an oh-I've-just-remembered sort of way, she said, 'You wouldn't be goin past Ronnie's, by any chance?'
When I looked her full in the face, she dropped her gaze to the carpet.
'Wondered if ye wouldn't mind callin at the office? Tellin the lads, an that?' She bit her lower lip the way she always did when she was pushing her luck. 'I made a couple of phone calls, ye know, family an that, but I'm not up to talking to anyone else yet.'
Of course. That's why she'd called me. Not because she felt in need of a friend, bit of moral support, which'd be fair enough, you might think. No, she wanted someone to take the crap that Frank's boss would be dishing up with a hot spoon. Or more to the point, when the brown stuff hit the proverbial and Big Ronnie went ballistic, she didn't want to be in the firing line. The fact of Frank being dead wouldn't get in the way of Ronnie taking back what was his.
'Aye, of course.' I shuffled my feet. 'I should go.'
'I was at Dave's place last night.' She showed me her 'sorry' face. 'I could tell you were wonderin, like.'
She threw her hands up as if the frustration of it all was truly overwhelming. 'I mean how was I supposed to know? Never told me where he was going or nothin.'
'He was at work, wasn't he? So ye did know where he was, pretty much.'
'I knew he was drivin a bloody taxi. Course I did, but...' She ran out of steam and excuses at the same time.
Relenting a little, I allowed her a small slice of benefit-of-the-doubt pie. 'So you weren't here when he died. It wouldn't have made any difference.' I glanced at Frank. 'Not to him.' I started for the door.
'I'll let you know when the funeral is.' She touched my hand. 'Ye'll come?'
It was only then, in that few seconds of human contact, that I felt the tears start. Not for her, mind, not that selfish, money-grabbing bitch. I looked back at the body on the table. 'I'll be there, Lizzy,' I said. And I would be - for Frank.
Why read 7 short stories?
7 is a special number for people all over the world. There are 7 days in a week; 7 deadly sins, 7 virtues; 7 colours of the rainbow; 7 Wonders of the Ancient World – and, of course, the 7 year itch!
These 7 stories are special, like the number itself.
Why an extra ½?
We all like a little extra and this extra comes with a bonus.
You get to decide how the last story ends. ‘The Night Before Christmas’ leaves Emily with a choice – and it’s not an easy one! Read her story and go for what you want to happen. Wonder what you’ll decide.
Grimly he shuffled forward a decisive five centimetres. Nothing was ever going to change the world or his place in it. Just one second of courage,then it would be over. He would be over, on his way to the pavement and certain death.
A compelling true story about a young man who ventured on the wrong path despite a mother’s best efforts to keep him on the straight-and-narrow path. This honest collection of memoirs written by Charles Carpenter while in the confines of California’s notoriously violent state prison (New Folsom) depicts Mr. Carpenter’s early years and details what led to his membership with the faction of Crips known as “Tray-Five-Seven.”
The book explains how a young man became fixated on a life of crime and through a distorted perception, viewed the gang subculture as a normal way of life. The Charles Carpenter story is a brutally honest account of his experiences in various juvenile facilities during the 1980’s and the members of various gangs he met during his unfortunate stints of incarceration.
Alex and Oliver live in worlds, poles apart; new worlds shaped by a terrible world war and the emerging freedoms of the Sixties. A killer stalks, and five people are drawn into the intrigue surrounding a serial murderer; a series of events set in the Seventies, influenced by the past… a string of events—a daisy chain.
Daisy Chain; an erotic thriller from the masterly pen of Mark Montgomery.
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Life. I am an albino, legally blind because of it. I grew up believing I was nothing. So I wrote to make myself feel like...
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Historical fiction is one of the most popular forms of fiction being written today–along with young adult, zombies, romance novels, and sci-fi. I am interested
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