A Novel Story

The long goodbye ...

2011-04-26T20:17:00.002+01:00

Anybody passing this way over the last few months will have noticed a long, deeply uninteresting silence. After a lot of thought I have decided to place Lewis J Peters in suspended animation. This does not mean, however, that the itch has been scratched. I still intend to write. However, I will be taking a different approach to achieving my ambitions. I will not be maintaining a full blown blog (at least, not for the time being) but I will occasionally tweet about my efforts and other matters of interest to me - see http://twitter.com/Peter_L_Jones for more.

NaNoWriMo

2010-11-07T08:31:00.001Z

I'm out.

See my comment in response to David Barber's in the last post for the reasons.

NaNoWrimo decision day

2010-11-06T16:31:00.000Z

I've decided tomorrow is NaNoWriMo decision day. It's given me a really good idea for a project (though I say so myself!) but I am way behind on the daily word count and I don't want the output to be inferior simply because of time pressure.

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NaNoWriMo

2010-11-01T23:27:00.002Z

I had honestly never heard of NaNoWriMo - see here - until she who must be obeyed mentioned it last night. The idea is that you write a novel in 30 days. Starting on 01 November and finishing on 30 November you succeed if you write 50,000 words. That's 1,667 words per day, assuming you write every day. The focus, the web site declares, is on quantity, not quality.

Mulling it over while driving to work this morning I decided there was no way I could manage the challenge. At least, I thought I had made that decision until I switched on the radio only to find I had tuned into a feature on the subject. Freddie Forsyth (against) and Ian Rankin (for) were debating the practicalities and whether the writer taking part is doomed to produce crap. This was a spooky bit of serendipity bearing in mind it was Halloween last night.

So, I've had a go at making a start. Back home by 7.30pm it took me a couple of hours to work through the demands of wife, kids, animals and miscellaneous other distractions. Finally settling to the task I'm now nearly 700 words into it. This is way behind schedule for the day.

On the positive side I've written 700 words I probably wouldn't have committed to (virtual) paper and started a project from scratch that is very quickly springing into a life of its own. However, on the negative side it's undoubtedly crap.

The horror of Halloween

2010-10-31T11:28:00.002Z

Just a quick 'flash' of entertainment for Halloween.

Trick or Treat

A thirteen hour shift on Sunday was tough. Still, the end of year performance bonus would make it all worthwhile. That was two months away. For now, Sam was tired and just wanted a beer and some TV.

He swung the Audi into the cul-de-sac and slowed. Excited kids and their parents in Halloween costumes demanded caution in the dark as Sam manouevred through the parked cars.

A shower, a microwave tagliatelle and, at last, that beer with his feet up on the couch. The TV droned and the house was warming up. Sam could feel himself surrendering to sleep.

The doorbell punched him back to wakefulness. Sam's first thought was that it must be a trick or treat. Oh well, better be neighbourly.

Sam opened the door. Just one kid, kind of tall. Dracula mask, long black cloak almost completely covering him. The costume, Sam thought, was quite well done.

"I want it all," said Dracula. The voice was deeper than Sam expected.

"Pardon?"

"I want it all - cash, credit cards, mobiles, watches."

Sam stared. The black cape moved then parted at the front to reveal the muzzle of a hand gun. Immediately, Sam was aware of a spreading wet patch at his groin.

He woke. Sam was still on the couch in front of the TV. It took him a moment to register that the can of lager he had been holding was now on its side in his lap, the contents discharged.

"Shit!" snorted Sam as he jumped to his feet and ran for the bathroom.

- - -

Cleaned up and clothes changed Sam settled in front of the TV once more. The door bell rang and he gave himself a little pinch, just to be sure.

Sam picked up the box of sweets he had bought in for Halloween. He headed for the hallway and opened the front door.

A single kid, tall and dressed like Dracula.

Sam stared, mouth open but unable to speak.

"I want it all ..."

Martina Cole

2010-10-29T07:41:00.000+01:00

A little inspiration and encouragement is to be found here.

Too early

2010-10-27T06:15:00.000+01:00

It's just after 6am and I could get up to do an hour on the book before having to get ready for work. Dark outside, pit cozy, ah well I think I'll turn over and have another 10 ...

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Whitechapel

2010-10-12T11:54:00.002+01:00

Enjoyed the first episode of Whitechapel last night. Hokum of course but well acted nonetheless.

Then, phoenix like ...

2010-09-27T20:06:00.002+01:00

... it rose from the ashes. FFF seems to have found new life here and, confusingly, here.

RIP FFF

2010-09-27T19:40:00.002+01:00

After a phenomenally busy month or so I just felt like a stab at one of Cormac's challenges. Surprised but not surprised, if you follow, at the news here. It must have been tremendously hard to keep it going week after week.

Friday Flash Fiction 37

2010-08-03T23:38:00.005+01:00

Cormac's Friday Flash Fiction challenge this time is 250-1,100 words starting with "As with juggling, the key to life is to keep the procession moving steady and don't look down." Here we go.

Mission Impossible

“As with juggling, the key to life is to keep the procession moving steady and don't look down. You people are just ordinary GI's going into an extraordinary situation. Focus will be required. Now buckle up!”

Sergeant Hanover T Fergus looked like the kind of career soldier not prone to taking prisoners. Packed beneath immaculate combat fatigues was 220lbs of honed fighting man's gristle. The three troopers maintained respectful silence as they jumped into the hummer with him.

Fergus gunned the vehicle out of the base. “You ass-wipes have been hand picked to volunteer for this mission. You will represent your unit with distinction. There will be zero tolerance of fuck-ups.”

“Permission to speak Sergeant?”

“Granted, Harrison. What's your problem?” Fergus managed to load the question with menace.

“Why us, sir? What have I … we … done to deserve this?”

“The army does not justify its decisions, son. It gives orders and you obey. Now does anyone else want to waste the oxygen in my vicinity with further en-quir-ies?”

Harrison, face flushed, lowered his eyes. Janson smirked but quickly restrained himself when he saw the look on Fergus's face in the rear view.

The journey continued, a tense atmosphere dominating the cab of the hummer. Long asphalt miles were chewed as the small troop advanced into the heat of the day.

Finally, Fergus broke the soldiers' reveries. “ETA in two you charmers. It may get ugly but, no matter what happens, I want the best from you girls!”

The hummer swung into a side street. Trees lined the final few hundred yards enabling progress through the shadows.

There was a gateway off to the left. In bottom gear now, the hummer swung slowly through. There was a large open space beyond. The enemy were lined up in ranks. Above their expectant faces was suspended a broad white banner made of cloth. The words on it were painted in green.

'JACKSON ELEMENTARY SCHOOL WELCOMES ARMY HEROES TO OUR OPEN DAY!'

"Uncovered" Short Fiction Contest

2010-07-28T08:05:00.003+01:00

Jason Evans at 'Clarity of Night' is running the "Uncovered" Short Fiction Contest. 250 words to be inspired by this picture.

Here's my entry.

Death Row

Yesterday they came and told me it would be today. Finally.

Endlessly, I had imagined what it would be like to wake the last time. Now it was here.

The scene played out in my mind once more.

“Magnificent, truly magnificent.”

“Thank you. Yes, I believe the collection is unmatched.”

“I am flattered that you should let me see the stones. You are so generous.”

“I will confess to a certain pleasure ...”

Then the violence. It was swift. A single blow.

Vivid in my head but I had not been there.

The DNA, the description. I still didn't get it, even now. I wasn't there.

Twenty years in a cell, pondering. Still it had brought Mom and I close. After all that not speaking. She'll see me one last time today.

-

I had wanted to control myself. For her. The tears flowed freely.

“I can't believe it's finally here, son.”

“I know.”

“There's something I need to tell you. A terrible thing I did. I can't let you go without knowing.”

“What Mom?”

“Oh God, it was hard then and it's hard now. I knew in the hospital I couldn't cope with you both, not on my own.”

“What do you mean?”

“I had to give him up.”

“Who, Mom, who did you give up?”

“Your twin.”

Friday Flash Fiction 33

2010-06-13T23:34:00.007+01:00

The starter sentence for Friday Flash Fiction 33 came from the pen of David Barber - it was a short cut that I would regret for the rest of my life.

Short Cut

It was a short cut that I would regret for the rest of my life.

After a hard day in surgery I had been to the gym, then to the wine bar for drinks with the girls. By the end of the evening I knew I couldn't drive.

I phoned James. “Look,” I had said, “I'll be fine walking.”

“Not at this time of night and in this fog – I'll come and get you,” he had suggested.

But I had insisted I would be OK to walk. It wasn't far and I had agreed a promise to take the shortest route home. When he had said he would come and meet me on foot I had become insistent and told him to wait for me at the flat, I wouldn't be long.

The chill of the fog struck me as soon as I stepped outside. It was late and the streets were quiet.

I crossed the market place and took the jitty down to the canal towpath. Away from the street lights the dark closed in. Through the mizzle I could see the glow of meagre lighting ahead where the path went under a road bridge. The only sounds were my footfalls and drips plopping into the canal from the span when it was over me.

In the open again the other side of the bridge I became uncertain. There were steps up to street level on my left. Was this the way to the flat? No, I was sure I had to carry on further then turn left.

As I continued I heard footsteps behind me. There was a moment of panic. The adrenalin rush had a sobering effect but I couldn't stop an overwhelming anxiety. Alone, I suddenly felt threatened and disorientated.

Without thinking my hand reached in the handbag and took hold of a small folding pocket knife. I opened the blade and stopped for a moment. Listening intently, I realised the footsteps were drawing closer. I carried on walking, struggling with my breathing as panic continued to rise. My senses told me the other person was speeding up. I knew I couldn't run in heels.

Then there was the sense of presence. He was right behind me. I swung round, arm stretched out in front. I felt the blade make contact. With a scream the man reeled backwards and crashed on to the path, hands clutching his throat. He writhed briefly, a terrible rattle coming from his mouth. Then he was still.

I stared, gasping. It was hard to make out much in the gloom. I moved closer to the man's head. It was the throat I saw first; the small incision over the external carotid and the swiftly expanding pool of blood. Then I noticed his face.

James. No doubt about it, the sight of the little wound I had inflicted - just a short cut really - was going to haunt me for the remainder of my days.

They're gone

2010-06-09T07:44:00.003+01:00

Hugely enjoyed books by Henry Porter and Stuart Neville last year. Hence I had links to their respective blogs. Have taken them down. Henry Porter's because he has decided for perfectly understandable reasons to terminate his contributions to the Guardian. Stuart Neville's because the relentless self promotion had started to grate.

I'm sure I will buy Stuart's sequel to The Twelve when it comes out. It's just I struggle to read his blog. Where's the balance between maintaining the interest of the blog peruser and commercial exigencies?

Friday Flash Fiction 32

2010-06-08T07:19:00.003+01:00

The starter sentence for Friday Flash Fiction number 32 was suggested by Nicole - SO MUCH FOR PLAN B.

OK, here's my paltry effort.

Plan B

“So much for Plan B? Christ, I thought Plan A was expensive!”

“Come on, you're getting the best outcome with Plan B. You've got to speculate to accumulate.”

“Yeah but how can I be sure it will be effective?”

“You can't until you try but if you don't you'll never know.”

“Guess it's not like I can take it on approval.”

“Nope – all or nothing.”

“Go on then, plan B it is.”

“I want the money wired to me by 9.00am tomorrow. Execution on delivery.”

“Right. Just make sure the entire board of directors goes down. No exceptions.”

2012

2010-05-26T09:24:00.000+01:00

I've only got myself to blame of course. I could have been writing last night. Instead I chose to waste two-and-a-half hours of my life by watching 2012. Dire.

I knew the critics didn't like it. But come on, I thought, this is a Roland Emmerich film. At least the special effects will be good. No. It was all just disappointing.

I feel a bit sorry for the actors who must have thought with Roland's track record they couldn't fall off. They did.

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Footie

2010-05-22T19:21:00.001+01:00

Try as I might I have just never got the English obsession with soccer. So here is an experiment. For one season only I will endeavour to be a proper football fan. My team of choice is Blackpool who have just earned (apparently deserved) promotion to the Premiership. I shall follow them as if they were “my team”. It will be interesting to see whether I can self-induce fandom or if I am just genetically pre-disposed to disinterest.

A bit like the dark ages

2010-05-16T06:24:00.002+01:00

For this blog, February to May 2010 has been a bit like the period between the end of the Roman Empire and 1066, only shorter. The dark ages. No history.

A time of very little writing. Lots of work work. Family upheavals. Yet always the nag at the back of my head.

Time will run out. The creative juices will dry up. Got to write that book. Get going again.

Fantastic Horror

2010-02-13T22:34:00.002Z

Inspired by David Barber I've also had a go at the Fantastic Horror writing competition - see here. The challenge was to come up with thirteen lines of dialogue based on a passenger being picked up.

Crossley Sports Two Litre

“Jump in.”

“Thanks awfully for stopping, old fruit. Really thought I had no hope. I say, what a simply spiffing car!”

“That’s very kind of you. Hope you don’t mind if we keep the top down, old chum.”

“No, no – by all means do. Isn’t this is a Crossley Sports?”

“Yes the two litre.”

“There aren’t so many about now we’re supposed to be in austere times.”

“No, true, but I have found it very difficult to give up this particular indulgence.”

“Well, it certainly has an impressive turn of speed. This reminds me …”

“Yes?”

“Wasn’t there a fatal accident involving one of these on this stretch about a year ago?”

“Now you mention it, I believe there was.”

“It was a tragedy. Both occupants killed.”

“Yes, it was awful. Particularly, for me.”

Not in my lifetime

2010-02-02T00:29:00.001Z

Disappointed that it is now highly unlikely man will return to the moon in my lifetime. As an 8 year old I followed Apollo 11 avidly. Oh Obama, what have you done to my boyhood dreams?

Grocer's apostrophe's

2010-01-31T08:05:00.003Z

You know the type of thing I mean - "Cauliflower's £0.99 each". If you've got a few minute's [sic]to spare what are the best examples of the little fella popping up you've seen lately?

Do you iPad?

2010-01-28T19:05:00.005Z

In the interests of starting a geeky debate are any of you writerly types out there likely to contemplate incorporating an iPad as a tool of your trade?

FFF 18 - supplementary

2010-01-28T10:38:00.002Z

Although I put this in the comments I think it is worth saying the following in a separate post as well. To all who commented on the FFF entry this week a big thanks. I'm a little stunned. Never honestly thought for one minute that my meagre contribution would have any impact.

Friday Flash Fiction Number 18

2010-01-26T07:23:00.003Z

Friday Flash Fiction - because of work commitments I have had to keep it REALLY short this week.

Burns

As the sixth shot of whisky burnt its way down, I suddenly remembered why I left the house. Aye, the 25th of January. I lifted my glass with its golden dregs in a silent toast to a long dead poet from a homeland half a world away. As I asked for another wee dram dusty words filled my head.

"Thee Ferintosh! O sadly lost!"

James Ellroy

2010-01-22T10:10:00.002Z

James Ellroy was on Desert Island Disks (BBC Radio 4) this morning. Overwhelmed by his intensity and single mindedness. By comparison I am a dabbler with too many distractions to really achieve anything serious. At first, I listened intently hoping for inspiration. Ended up utterly discouraged that I will ever be able to do anything about my paltry level of application.

Feedback

2010-01-21T10:46:00.002Z

I am grateful to all those who commented on my entry for FFF number 17.

While writing it I felt as though I was trespassing on the Bourne Identity/Supremacy/Ultimatum. Robocop and The Manchurian Candidate did not occur to me but I absolutely see the connections now. Dollshouse has not aired on UK TV (as far as I'm aware) but it looks like one to look out for. Also, when I commented on the contribution from WellesFan I realised that there may also be shades of Total Recall.

All in all, it seems deliberately altered states of mind are a rich seam in fiction.

Friday Flash Fiction Number 17

2010-01-18T20:48:00.004Z

Friday Flash Fiction time again.

A three way tie for the starter sentence led me to rashly suggest we attempt to incorporate all. I tried to make this work within as short a story as possible. With apologies to Robert Ludlum ...

The Mechanic

I am not supposed to remember any of this. Memory erasure is flawless.

I know that, as a mechanic, I will complete a mission, go through debrief and have the details permanently removed. To my huge surprise the job is still intact.

Zelda speaks to me, “But Vladimir Putin will always permit break dancing.”

I feel calm now. There was something on my mind only a moment ago.

Waiting.

I know what I am. The Mechanic.

I have missions. I cannot remember them. It is better this way. Interrogation immunity they call it.

Waiting for new instructions.

---

As soon as he heard the cell phone notify receipt of the text message he knew there was no going back. The Mechanic had received his programming. The assassination was inevitable.

The Chief smiled as he relaxed. Ruthlessly efficient. Totally deniable. The Mechanic was the agency's supreme weapon.

Friday Flash Fiction Number 16

2010-01-12T07:48:00.006Z

The starter sentence this week was provided by Cormac Brown here.

The Convention

"It was an honest mistake ... or it was honestly stupid. Either way, I didn't mean anything by it."

The terror in his voice was unmistakable. Desperation overrode the searing pain. He had to reason with her.

"Please, I was wrong - he really is the greatest."

Her face was dispassionate, devoid of emotion as she advanced. The blade dripped evidence of blood already taken. It was thirsty for more.

He thrashed on the bed, fighting the restraints binding hands and feet. It was pointless, the handcuffs and chains too strong and well secured. The struggling was, this time, mercifully short.

---

Inspector Landesman purposefully but carefully steered his Volvo through the city centre. The crime scene was at the International Hotel. A mobile phone slung on the passenger seat demanded his attention. He was still talking to the member of staff at his father's care home when he reached room 4119.

Landesman had listened politely as he was told how the old man had become increasingly upset during the day then had gone missing. Fortunately, an alert uniformed police officer had noticed him in the bus shelter dressed in pyjamas and slippers. He had been returned cold but otherwise unharmed. Landesman thanked the nurse and promised to visit the following morning.

---

The body had lain on the bed unmoved since its discovery. It was surrounded by organised chaos as forensics officers and detectives milled. Landesman stood just inside the hotel room door quietly taking in the tableau.

Even though he was several feet away the cause of death seemed obvious. The man was naked. All four limbs, his torso and genitalia were criss-crossed with knife scars. None, however, had the appearance of being fatal. Making the head look as if it had been partially severed, it was the gaping throat wound that probably caused the denouement.

The Force Medical Examiner had been close to the body when Landesman entered. Noticing the Inspector he went over.

"Landesman."

"Dr Anders."

Inspector Landesman tilted his head slightly in acknowledgement.

"What have we got doctor?"

"The evidence suggests he was tortured before he died and that he was conscious until just before the fatal cut. I speculate that he was lured here and allowed himself to be manacled to the bed. Once the cutting started it seems he fought against the restraints. The blood loss, initially, was minimal. However, when the jugular was slashed the bleeding would have been profuse, leading swiftly to unconsciousness and death. The perpetrator, I suspect, exercised some control over the level of pain to keep the victim aware of what was happening. When the decision to dispatch was taken it was executed with surgical precision."

---

Sargeant Croughton accompanied Landesman as they descended to the hotel reception.

"Did you notice they are hosting a convention?" asked Croughton.

"No."

"Yes, its the Henning Mankell Fan Club. Looks like their big annual shindig."

"Henning who?" enquired Landesman.

"Inspector, please don't tell me you've never heard of Mankell. The author. You know - the detective, Kurt Wallander. I'm a great fan myself. Mind you I could never be as obsessive as some of the people staying here."

Landesman shook his head slightly. The conversation was interrupted by the chirping of the Inspector's mobile again.

This time it was his daughter.

"Dad, I've just heard about Grandad."

"Yes."

"You know why he's run off again don't you?"

"Go on."

"It's you. If you would just make time to see him he would be more settled. You leave it for so long, he gets agitated and goes walkabout. God, you just haven't coped with anything since Mum left."

"Charlotte, cut me some slack. I haven't been well. Look, I've told the care home I'll visit tomorrow. I really will. Now, I've got to go. I'm on a case."

"That's right, Dad. Put the dead before the living once more." The call was terminated.

---

At the reception desk Landesman and Croughton quickly established that 4119 had been allocated to Dr Rosanne Gainsbourg. The booking had been made through the Henning Mankell Fan Club.

Staff and guests were interviewed methodically over the next few hours. Eventually, Landesman was invited into the manager's office where Croughton had been questioning a bartender.

"You might want to hear this," said Croughton.

The bartender recounted how a woman matching the doctor's description had been in the hotel lounge. Initially, she had been alone then she was joined by a man. They had been sitting at the bar when the bartender heard the man say words to the effect that he thought Mankell was overrated. This had been registered because the reaction had been for her temper to flare immediately. The bartender had thought the scene was going to turn ugly. However, she had given the appearance of calming down. A little later he had noticed them leaving the bar hand-in-hand.

---

On exiting the hotel Landesman was dazzled by the lights of the television crews. He blanked the reporters and ignored the shouted questions.

Landesman finally got back to his flat at 3.30am. He sat alone. Two amitryptiline tablets were helped down by a large glass of red wine.

Dr Rosanne Gainsbourg. The name was familiar. Landesman couldn't think why.

---

4.25am. Landesman was slumped in the chair where he had fallen asleep. The mobile phone woke him up. A woman's voice.

"Mr Landesman? I am sorry it is so early. I want to talk to you about your father urgently."

"Uh ... ?"

"Its the Director ... of your father's care home. Dr Gainsbourg, Inspector Landesman. I want to talk to you about your father and arrangements for my safe passage out of the country."

Landesman was wide awake.

Wallander

2010-01-11T17:42:00.004Z

Two episodes into the second series of the BBC's Wallander and I am in no doubt that -

(a) Henning Mankell is a genius.

(b) The acting is brilliant. Although Kenneth Branagh is the big name the support is superb.

(c) The production values - locations, music, even the ringtone on Wallander's mobile - bring it all together.

Friday Flash Fiction - "Wintergreen"

2010-01-05T10:25:00.003Z

Wintergreen

He saw the orange Necco wafer on the counter top and started to cry. As a kid orange had always been his favourite flavour. Now he couldn’t contemplate it without thinking about the taste of wintergreen.

Twenty-five years ago he had been an ambitious athletics coach with a talented teenage daughter. How he had pushed and pushed.

She had set off for her early morning 10k at six on the nose, same as every other non-competition day. He would not know until the body was found that night how long she had lain in the roadside culvert slowly succumbing to the poison in her body.

Wintergreen or methyl salicylate is, in its pure form, toxic. A single teaspoon contains 7g of salicylate which is equivalent to more than twenty-three 300mg aspirins. It is used as a rubefacient in deep heating liniments.

She had constantly complained of pain in her overworked muscles and joints. He had insisted the training could not be interrupted by a little discomfort. The coroner’s report said she had died, “… after her body absorbed high levels of methyl salicylate through excessive use of topical muscle-pain relief products.” It was probable that she had rubbed cream over an extensive area. As she warmed up through exercise her pores opened and accelerated the rate of absorption. He had bought the over-the-counter ointment for her.

Strange how thought association works. A single word on packs of Necco wafers – wintergreen. He could no longer eat them, no matter what the flavour.

Christmas day

2009-12-25T22:59:00.001Z

Back from Canada, Christmas all over bar the shouting and ready to get back into writing.

One shot wonder

2009-12-08T18:13:00.001Z

My grovelling apology for not contributing to FFF this week can be found here for those inclined towards the nauseating end of sycophancy.

Starter for Friday Flash Fiction

2009-12-03T07:13:00.003Z

My starter for Friday Flash Fiction this week is posted here. The suggestion is -

"Boss, you're not going to believe this." The sargeant paused as Detective Chief Inspector Lomax looked up from the pile of reports in front of him. "There's been a shooting. One dead. Its not a joke when I tell ya its Santa."

The Exterminator on A Twist of Noir

2009-12-01T13:06:00.001Z

The Exterminator (short story) has been published on A Twist of Noir. Click here.

Story published on A Twist of Noir

2009-11-27T20:45:00.004Z

A revised version of "DNA", first posted here, has been published on A Twist of Noir.

This was an experiment in both setting a story in a, hopefully, realistic near future and writing with a clearly planned denouement in mind.

Friday Flash Fiction - first go

2009-11-22T09:25:00.015Z

For what its worth, my first go at Friday Flash Fiction ...

The Exterminator

Mazel tov. Yiddish slang - “Good fortune”; especially at weddings.

“What-ho, Pater!” chimed Archie as he burst through the front door.

Just moments before Archie's father had retreated swiftly to his study. This was on seeing the cavalcade of sports cars careering up the long gravel drive. Archie's words now echoed round the large empty hallway but received no response.

Archie. Archibald. Chayyim Levinson loathed his son's first name with a vengeance. His dearly departed wife had insisted on bestowing it on the infant. For the sake of a little peace he went along with her when she insisted it would make him more English, more likely to succeed. But he hated it.

Likewise, Chayyim had acquiesced when his wife wanted Archie to have an expensive private education. Supporting Archie at Oxford University, too, made him feel as though he was carrying out her, by then, last wishes.

“I say, father!” Archie's cut glass vowels reverberated around the mansion as he shouted once again.

Chayyim reluctantly emerged from his study and forced a smile. “Archie, my boy. I didn't hear you arrive.”

“Father, your hearing gets worse. You really are going to have to get one of those new fangled hearing aid thingies.” Archie did not wait for a reaction, “Listen old boy, you don't mind if some of the gang camp out here for the weekend do you? Party at Foxy's tomorrow night but he hasn't the room to put us all up.”

“Oh vay, Archie, is a little warning too much to ask?” Chayyim replied.

Archie was not listening. Quickly turning from his father he gave brisk directions to the tumult of young things that had followed him through the front door. A wind-up gramophone strapped to the rear of Archie's Crossley Sports two litre blared outside. As flustered staff emerged and started to busy themselves with the unexpected guests Chayyim retreated once more to the study.

- - -

Chayyim Levy was a rich man. His fortune had been made from identifying an opportunity and seizing it with relish.

Levinson Pest Control Ltd was not a glamorous company. However, the money it generated allowed Chayyim, as his wife had desired, to anglicise his surname and enter society. He had long been aware there was a glass ceiling he could never break through but the recent depression had been weathered and he played the role of an English country gentleman with aplomb. Not bad, he felt, for the grandson of a Russian peasant emigré.

Chayyim's inspiration to start the business had come to him at his wedding. In accordance with Jewish tradition, the formal part of the proceedings came to a close when he broke a glass and the guests shouted, “Mazel tov!” His new bride had instantly shrieked in horror as a large brown rat, panicked by the commotion, shot through the hall. Opinion was mixed about whether this was a bad omen for the marriage. For his part Chayyim saw, in a moment of intense clarity, how he could make his way in life.

Chayyim became dedicated to achieving success in his new business venture. He proved to be as ruthless at eradicating competition as he was in eliminating vermin.

To Archie the trappings of wealth acquired by Chayyim were ostentatious. His father had become infatuated with the orient. Chayyim's particular pride and joy was a small but expensive collection of Ming dynasty porcelain. Archie perceived it as being obviously nouveau riche. In his eyes his father was incapable of demonstrating the sophistication required to impress those who mattered.

Archie's mother died when he was 15. It was term time and he was at boarding school. His parents had gone on an extended trip to the Far East. The curt telegram from Chayyim told Archie there had been a storm in the South China Sea during which his mother had been swept overboard.

Mother and son had been very close but Archie knew the value of maintaining a stiff upper lip. His tears and muted sobs were confined to the small hours when he was sure the rest of the dormitory slumbered.

- - -

Peace descended with almost palpable relief on the house after Archie and his friends departed for the gathering at Foxy Aspley-Guise's place. For Chayyim the preceding twenty-four hours had been a purgatory populated by vacuous youth and noisy chaos.

Over lunch in the great dining room Archie had taken his father to task for continuing to live alone in such lurid, crumbling splendour. Chayyim battled with himself to maintain a polite veneer as the argument, conducted in front of Archie's friends, became heated. Archie had goaded, “Really, Papa, you have no taste. You think this architectural mish-mash is so wonderful but you will always be trade and you simply do not know your Bauhaus Modernist from your Gothic Perpendicular.” Chayyim had leapt up, the force pushing his chair over, and stormed out of the dining room.

The beleaguered staff struggled to meet the needs of the guests but they found themselves being baited unmercifully. Encouraged by Archie and alcohol, the ad hoc house party became raucous. Chayyim had been on the verge of calling the police as the revellers decided to decamp to Foxy's.

- - -

It had turned 3:00am when Chayyim was startled into wakefulness by the front door banging. He quickly realised from the ensuing commotion that it was Archie and his friends returning from the party. Chayyim dozed fitfully while half listening to the sounds of drunken revelry downstairs. It was clear there was no mood to bring the debauchery to a close and sleep it off.

Suddenly, there was a loud crash. In a single movement Chayyim was out of bed, cloaked in his dressing gown and running down the stairs. He could only think of the porcelain collection.

Bursting through the gallery door he immediately saw a dishevelled Archie and a small coterie of his friends. Archie was clutching a half empty bottle of whiskey in one hand and a broken cigar in the other. Unsteady on his feet, he struggled to focus on his father.

“Oops,” was all Archie could muster. On the floor in front of him was the wreckage of a smashed plate.

“No, no, no, not the Ming,” screamed Chayyim as he fell to his knees to examine the pieces.

Looking at the fragments of pattern he was, at first, puzzled. Chayyim then realised the broken artefact was, in fact, a commemorative Mazel tov plate from the wedding. Although of no financial value he had always kept it with the rest of his collection.

Furious now, Chayyim got up and screamed at Archie, “You clumsy, drunken, useless schlemiel! All of you get the hell out right now!”

- - -

Chayyim looked out into the early daylight. The only car to remain parked on the gravel drive was Archie's Crossley Sports. His friends had cleared out.

- - -

Father and son sat across from each other at the dining table while breakfast was served. The physical symptoms of Archie's horrendous hang over were obvious to his father and the servants. A long silence was eventually broken by the older man.

“I am so disappointed in you, Archie,” intoned Chayyim, “I have provided you with everything a young man needs, and more. This is how you thank me. My home is invaded by a rabble and in a drunken state you destroy the things that are precious to me. Your mother wanted you to be an English gentleman. Look at the monster you have become.”

There was no apology.

“You have done nothing out of love for me. Your entire purpose has been to make me the person you can never be,” said Archie. “Well, let's have a little honesty. You hate me and I don't love you. Mother never loved you either. I feel nothing but contempt. I have taken your allowance for months but I have not been anywhere near college.”

“Then it is over,” interrupted his father, “You are not my son. Take your ridiculous sports car and go. That is the last thing you shall have from me.”

- - -

By the time Chayyim heard the front door close behind Archie he was comfortable in his favourite study easy chair. The Crossley Sports roared into life. Briefly, there was the sound of spinning wheels then the gravel crunched as the car moved off. The engine note rose and fell as the gears changed. Once again, the revs ascended as the car continued to accelerate.

As the distance between house and motor vehicle increased the roar started to fade. Chayyim pictured the car reaching the end of the drive before the sharp turn through the wrought iron gates and out on to the main road. Suddenly, the sound of a loud explosion overrode all else.

Chayyim did not rise from his seat. Elbows firmly planted on the chair's arms, his index fingers gently rubbed the bridge of his nose.

It had been simple enough to disable the brake mechanism of the Crossley. Indeed, it had been almost as easy to ensure that Archie's mother fell over the deck rail of the liner during the storm.

Friday Flash Fiction

2009-11-21T09:11:00.002Z

OK, finally I get the point of doing this in relation to promoting creative output. Alan Griffith's blog has got me interested in having a go at Friday Flash Fiction. If I post about it here it kind of commits me.

Now, how to incoporate PATER, PEST, PERPENDICULAR and SCHLEMIEL into a short story before next Tuesday ... ?

Three Camps

2009-11-19T08:28:00.004Z

As far as authors and the internet are concerned my researches since starting this blog seem to suggest that writers, published or not, appear to fall into one of three camps.

The first group unashamedly self-promote. Normally, it seems a personal web site together with an active blog (and that sub-blog tool, Twitter) are de rigeur. The objective is to provide as high a profile for recently published or soon to be published work as possible. In some cases the blog seems to be about creating the impression of huge success, even if the individual is not quite there yet. An essential element in this appears to be name dropping; generating the perception that this person must be an important writer because of the celebrity count.

The next tier I describe as the dogged bloggers. These are the writers who may or may not have achieved a modicum of success. They blog relentlessly. The impression is one of altruism. They seem to blog for the sake of blogging, often selflessly sharing profound thoughts (as they see them) on the process of authorship. The question is whether I have misread them. Is this, in fact, a more subtle and effective form of self-promotion? Does this approach have a more lasting impact on the movers and shakers within publishing?

Finally, we have the silent writers. These are the authors who steadfastly refuse to share. Their publishers may have insisted on a web site but if there is a personal contribution the impression is often that it has been extracted through the threat of lethal force. Frequently, these people appear to be über authors who are either quite obviously too busy to blog or such household names that promotion involving any kind of personal effort is barely necessary.

Blog in danger

2009-11-13T22:11:00.002Z

This blog is in danger of being taken over by legal matters. Cannot help commenting, though, that a civilian trial of the alleged 9/11 bombers could get really interesting.

DNA all or nothing

2009-11-12T16:11:00.004Z

Having been lambasted by the European Court of Human Rights in relation to the retention of DNA taken from unconvicted suspects the government has announced the result of its consultation in relation to reform. See here.

A compromise is suggested. DNA will be kept subject to limits on both time and category of case. However, this does not overcome the "labelling" problem. Although the circumstances will be more limited there will remain the potential for a person to be labelled as a former suspect through retention of DNA. Either you are persuaded there are substantial benefits to be derived from the police being able to refer to a DNA database, in which case everyone should be required to give up a sample that is kept permanently, or not. If there are no advantages, or the advantages do not outweigh the requirements of privacy, there should be no retention of DNA at all.

Beltway Sniper execution

2009-11-11T16:49:00.003Z

What interests me about the execution of the Beltway Sniper (see here) is the absence of clear evidence for a motive in relation to the spree of killings either carried out or orchestrated by John Allen Muhammad.

The prosecution suggested, at one point, that he intended to murder his wife and secure custody of his daughter. This was rejected by the judge. Cartoons drawn by his then 17 year old accomplice, Lee Boyd Malvo, indicated that they were engaged on a "jihad"

What appears to be certain is that no clear purpose has emerged from the lips of Muhammad himself. He kept his counsel right to the end, declining the opportunity to express any comments immediately before the execution.

Issues concerning Muhammad's state of mental health were raised as part of the appeal process. He may have known, of course, exactly what he was doing. However, can it ever be right to put someone to death unless there is certainty on this point?

Research tool

2009-11-10T14:03:00.002Z

Have engaged services of teenage daughter number 2 as a research assistant. I want to get a real feel for what people were wearing in 1912 but only have a limited attention span in relation to matters sartorial. Number 2 is doing a GCSE in textiles and has a strong interest in fashion. She seemed positively disposed when approached. Watch this space.

le Carré

2009-11-09T20:43:00.002Z

Enjoying the process of absorption into A Most Wanted Man. Somewhat against the grain of popular opinion, I have struggled to get on with le Carré in the past. Probably something to do with just not being erudite enough. However, I think this one will keep me entertained.

I do have to tell myself that learning from a master rather than actually getting on with some writing is an essential part of my education as an aspirant.

Not a prayer

2009-11-06T20:29:00.005Z

It is not my intention to supply legal updates here. However, as I am an 'insider' it might be of interest if I provide the occasional comment on cases or matters concerning UK criminal law that catch my attention.

This first post in this vein concerns the case report appearing here. George Maben will serve a minimum of 13 years imprisonment for murdering his girlfriend's mother. An unusual feature of the case was the fact that the police placed a listening device in his car and overheard him praying for forgiveness for what he had done. The court was invited by the prosecution to regard this as a confession but it was not enough, without other evidence, to convict him.

For those who have an interest in presenting an accurate portrayal of the procedural it may be interesting to contrast this type of covert recording with telephone taps. It would have been far harder, if not impossible, for the prosecution in the UK to have the 'admission' played to the jury if a telephone intercept had been the source of the recording. This is why there is frequently so much difficulty with terrorist cases. Evidence of culpability often derives from such intercepts. This may found a Control Order (much maligned for lack of a fair hearing) but the prospect for a successful criminal prosecution is going to be negligible in the absence of other evidence.

End in mind?

2009-11-06T14:29:00.004Z

Declan Burke made a very interesting comment.

"Lewis - For what it's worth, I always find it more fun to not know how the story will end. It's not a journey, it's an adventure ... And if you don't know how it's all going to turn out, your readers probably won't either."

The following is a short story with a planned ending. If my wife is anything to go by many will "get it" well before the end. Is this because It was all planned out in my head anyway?

DNA

Before opening it Eddie had not known who the letter was from. He laughed out loud to himself as he realised it was from his mother. It was signed off, "Your loving mother, Maureen." That was rich. No contact for twenty-five years but now she said she loved him.

Maureen said she knew he could not commit murder, wanted "to be there" and begged him to have a prison Visiting Order issued. Bollocks to her, Eddie decided, he had enough on his plate defending the charge without having to deal with a mother he had not seen in nearly three decades. He screwed up the letter and took satisfaction from throwing it into his bin at the first attempt.

The envelope from his mother was not the only one Eddie opened in his cell that morning. His solicitor had written "Rule 39" on the outside of the other. This meant it could not be read by the prison authorities. In Eddie's experience confidential legal communications generally contained bad news.

Eddie was not disappointed. The lawyer explained that the prosecution had served the forensic evidence it intended to rely on. Highlighted was the DNA "hit" from the victim's body. The scientific report stated that the chances of the recovered DNA not coming from the defendant were one in a billion. According to the solicitor, this was one of the highest statistical matches he had encountered during his career. He would, of course, he went on, have the results verified by an independent expert. However, he felt compelled to express "the gravest concern" about the implications of this evidence for the defence.

How could this be? Eddie knew he was not anywhere near the crime scene at the relevant time. The semen on the victim's clothes simply could not be his. OK, so he had been arrested before - that was how they had identified him from the national DNA database - but not for anything like this. Eddie saw straightaway why his solicitor was so forthright about his concerns.

The reintroduction of the death penalty into UK law had been achieved through the Homicide Reform Act. Supporters of the return to capital punishment had argued loud and strong that scientific advances had made miscarriages of justice far less likely than in the past. The public were persuaded and the politicians fell in line.

The intention was that the ultimate sanction would be reserved for the worst cases. Media speculation had been rife that, as Eddie's alleged offence involved murder for sexual gratification, his could be the first case to lead to the death penalty following the change in the law. He now knew that there was a strong case against him.

Eddie sat on his bed staring at a white painted cell wall. Far removed from the archetypal decrepit prison his surroundings were modern, clean and functional. There was plenty of natural light and the fragrance of an early morning application of air freshener lingered. Despite this Eddie struggled to fight down an overwhelming nausea as he contemplated the future. Hemmed in and desperate he started to hyperventilate. His distress was picked up by the in-cell CCTV surveillance. Prison officers got to him just as he passed out.

- - -

Instinctively, Eddie shielded his eyes as the camera flashes penetrated the darkened windows of the prison transport. The hostile chants of the crowd assembled outside the court house were followed by loud bangs on the side of the vehicle as the police cordon was breached by a small group of rabble rousers. Suddenly, the van driver swung the vehicle into a sharp right turn before bringing it to an abrupt stop. Eddie was pitched from the hard seat of the van cell into the walling. "Christ," he thought, "I've been judged before the trial has started."

In the Crown Court holding cell Eddie met with his two barristers - leader and junior - and solicitor. He was asked if he had thought about what had been discussed the week before when they had seen him in prison. The senior barrister reiterated that an acceptance of guilt could, quite literally, make the difference betwen life and death. On a guilty plea the judge was likely to pass a life sentence. Life would mean life with no possibility of parole. However, the death penalty, he advised, could be avoided.

"Should I plead guilty to something I haven't done?" asked Eddie.

"No," replied the barrister, "But it is not as straightforward as that. You have to take into account the strength of the evidence against you. Ask yourself this, 'If the evidence against me is overwhelming should I take the gamble when I know I can guarantee myself a lesser penalty?'"

The conversation continued in circles. Always it came back to the DNA match and the one in a billion statistic. The experts instructed by the defence had not been able to fault the methodology and the conclusions of the prosecution scientists.

"Eddie," the solicitor eventually said, "We need a decision. The case will be called on in a few minutes and we must have your final say."

"Then I say I am not guilty. I was not there. I did not attack that girl. The semen could not have been mine."

The lawyers passed a look between them. The senior barrister was the first to speak, "If that is your final word we must have your instructions in writing. I am going up to the court room now. Your solicitor will write out something for you to sign and I will tell the judge the trial will proceed."

- - -

Eddie awoke, as usual, just before the early morning buzzer went off in his cell. Three and a half years since the verdict and sentence. Six months ago the final, unsuccessful domestic appeal had been heard.

Lying on the seat of his chair were two envelopes. He recognised the writing on one to be that of his mother. The other was stamped with the logo of the European Court of Human Rights. They had arrived the previous day but he had not been able to bring himself to do anything with them.

Eddie opened the envelope from the court. So many disappointments. One more did not, this morning, seem to matter. The summary delivered orally by the tribunal he already knew from having spoken to his solicitor on the phone. There had been a fair trial in the judgement of the court and the possibility of intervening in the sentence had been specifically excluded by the Homicide Reform Act. Without reading the detail he threw the papers to one side.

Eddie was becoming resigned. He still burned with fierce indignation but, to the outside world, his fight had become blunt. The stamina had started to ebb away and Eddie sensed the need to protect himself from further disappointment.

He looked at the envelope from his mother. She had written to him regularly during the trial and at least once per week since. Eddie had refused to open any of the envelopes and had disposed of them all. However, today something inside gave way and he slipped his thumb under the seal.

His mother's words were pleading, desperate. She needed to see him, had to show him the love that, she claimed, was undiminished by their estrangement. Eddie relented and made arrangements for the Visiting Order to be issued.

- - -

The prison visitors centre was busy. Maureen felt out of place. For many of those whose paperwork was being processed a visit to a prisoner was part of the normal routine of life. Colleauges in crime, surly older women and girlfriends with impressive cleavages specially on display for their sweethearts mixed with anxious Asian girls and bored looking probation officers.

Sitting opposite Eddie at the visits table his mother's tears flowed freely from the outset. She gushed regret. Eddie felt little. The lost twenty-five years weighed heavily on her now that her son faced the death penalty. Eddie could not bring himself to say anything that would bestow comfort. It had been her decision to make the rift permanent. She would have to live with that.

Eventually, Maureen had to ask the question, "I haven't seen you for so long but I believe I do still know my own son. You ran with the wrong crowd and I always knew when you lied to me about it. I will know again if you do not tell me the truth now. I don't want any details but, yes or no, did you kill that poor girl?"

There was a pause. The weight of the last five years bore down on Eddie. "No, Mum. I did not." Eddie let go at last and broke down.

- - -

It was getting close now, the date set for the execution. For Eddie the days had started to merge and time seemed to be speeding up.

His mother came to see him regularly. As the gap between them closed they talked little of the case. It was mostly reminiscence about his childhood. The son of a single parent, it only began to dawn on Eddie now how much of her own young life had been sacrificed to keep him comfortable and safe. His mother had struggled but succeeded in giving him opportunities and options, gifts he had squandered because of the false promise of a more exciting life offered by his dubious friends.

As the time grew nearer Eddie struggled to find any peace. He had started to draw comfort from the reconciliation with his mother but the knowledge that he was going to receive a lethal injection for something he had not done was unbearable. How could the DNA have matched his?

- - -

Maureen came to the prison for what she knew would be her final visit. She had almost turned back at the visitors centre. The prospect of saying a last goodbye was too much but she could not let him down and, in any event, there was something she needed him to know.

Normally, the visits were limited to two hours. Today they were allowed four. Eddie put on a brave face for his mother throughout. She was, at last, proud of him.

Towards the end of the visit Eddie's mother visibly steeled herself and said, "I have kept an awful secret from you all these years. It is not right that we should part for the last time time without you knowing everything. I was so young when I became pregnant. My family and your father did not want to know. I knew I had to fend for myself. I could not cope with two of you."

Eddie was startled, "What do you mean two of us?"

"Oh Eddie, I was desperate." Tears sprang into Maureen's eyes. "I pleaded with them in the hospital to take one of you. Eventually, the social workers took him away for adoption."

"Who mother? Who did the social workers take for adoption?" Eddie's eyes were wide with astonishment. Realisation was swift in coming.

"Your twin brother, of course."

© Lewis Peters 2009

Context (#1)

2009-11-06T14:05:00.002Z

My research has awakened an unexpected area of interest. The setting for my "historical" work is Manchester in 1912. Life within the city's Jewish community is an important element of the context. As a gentile I have had to start from a position of complete ignorance to come to understand a little of the culture, the anti-semitism that was then rife and how the grouping thrived despite the pressures on it.

A source of tension in the novel will be between Jewish and gentile characters who have to work together as a result of having an objective in common. They will have to come to terms with their respective prejudices in order, possibly, to achieve mutual respect.

Where do you begin?

2009-11-04T07:54:00.002Z

I am beginning to realise I have started the book with the historical setting from the wrong end. I have -

* A point in history.
* A location.
* A real person from that period who becomes embroiled in events.
* An opening that shows this person to be in real fear.

What I realise I don't have is any idea of the conclusion. Because I don't know where I want to be I am finding it difficult to start the journey.

Short stories

2009-11-03T09:52:00.004Z

I am trying to take seriously the idea that writing something, anything every day will get things moving.

I wrote a short story last night. It is the first in what is intended to be a series based on the criminal law as I believe it may be in the near future. As something I know a little about it is writing within my comfort zone.

Perhaps, when it becomes apparent that people are starting to read this blog, I will start publishing some of my output here. Am I thick skinned enough to expose myself to criticism though? I suppose it would be a good thing to get used to.

Garrow's Law

2009-11-02T10:34:00.001Z

Thoroughly enjoyed Garrow’s Law on the Beeb last night. Not a period of history I am too familiar with so cannot comment on its accuracy. Looked authentic though.

Recent inspiration

2009-11-01T10:11:00.002Z

Having toyed with buying the latest Dan Brown I was admirably brought to my senses by an article in the The First Post which suggested alternative reads. Hence I have just finished both The Dying Light by Henry Porter and The Twelve by Stuart Neville. Very different but both brilliant in their own way. Real inspiration.

More than one

2009-10-30T21:53:00.002Z

Actually, the truth is I have more than one idea for a novel. Two, to be precise.

Both are firmly placed within the crime genre. One has a historical setting and fictionalises the lives of some real people. The other is entirely fictional and is based in the gritty present.

Do I concentrate on one while the other sits on the back burner or do I tackle both and see which one comes out on top?

The fight within

2009-10-30T19:15:00.003Z

I have an idea for a novel that has been with me for over 12 months. The fight within concerns finding the commitment to get the thing written.

Starting this blog is a bit of desperation. I have a vague notion that if I commit to keeping a public journal of my efforts (writing and associated activities) it might assist me to actually see some meaningful product. Contributions from others in similar predicaments might help as well.

I have some research, a vague outline in my head and half of a first chapter. Now required is time out of the hurly burly of family and professional life together with a dose of self-belief.