Sample Sunday: Paying The Piper

An extract from WIP Paying The Piper:

The rear tyre blew at eighty-five miles per hour in the outside lane of the M25, just past junction eleven. Amanda didn’t hear it go, but she felt the steering wheel wrench from her grip just as Mika launched into Grace Kelly on the car’s CD player. The screech of tyres didn’t improve the quality of the music as the car swerved towards the central reservation, and the scrape of metal against metal seemed perfectly timed to the song.

She pulled hard to the left, narrowly missing the Renault in the middle lane. The driver flashed his headlights several times in succession, overtook on the inside and accelerated away out of danger, making a crude gesture with his fingers as he passed her. Just like a man. Anything to avoid trouble. Never wants to get involved. The car skidded on the wet road and she hit the brake instinctively, only deepening the skid as all four tyres lost contact with the tarmac.

Suddenly, the world reduced to four wheels and an engine. Frantically, she tried to remember what they’d said on the advanced driving talk which the office had laid on for them all. Two winters ago, when five company cars had been written off in as many weeks, the firm had decided that a driving seminar was called for. At the time, all the staff had been concerned about was the fact that they were expected to come in for an evening without pay; right now, Amanda reckoned that survival would be payment enough. She eased her foot off the brake and steered into the skid, thanking whatever Gods were listening that there were no other cars on the inside. The motorway was quiet and most sensible people would be at work, not speeding round the M25 with their life in ruins. 

Surprisingly enough, the car responded. She could feel the difference through the steering wheel as the remaining tyres began to grip the road. She touched the brake once, twice – cadence braking, just like she’d been taught – and the car slowed and straightened as she eased it across to the inside lane and onto the hard shoulder. Coming to a standstill, she switched off the engine, cutting Mika off in his prime. The sudden silence was overwhelming, the smell of burning rubber filled the car and she wondered what she was going to do now. 

For the third time that day, Amanda burst into tears. It hadn’t exactly been a spectacular success so far. She’d been on the move three hours now, ever since arriving at the nursery at lunchtime and discovering that Paul had already picked up Melanie. At home, she found he’d taken a suitcase; some of his clothes were missing, and a stack of nappies had gone with some sleepsuits from Mel’s room. And three hours later, where had she got to? Halfway across the country, with what seemed like days stuck in a motorway tailback on the M4, and no nearer finding her daughter than she had been when she’d set out with just her handbag, and only that because she knew it contained her credit cards and phone and the one thing she was going to need was money. Money for petrol and food, probably somewhere to stay the night and no doubt cash to bribe his family. Because that’s where he’d be, running home to mummy and that awful interfering sister of his. Running home with Melanie.

Mel. The thought made her cry even harder. How could he have taken their daughter with him? Aside from the fact that he knew next to nothing about caring for a nine-month old baby, Paul had never given any indication about the way he felt before. True, he’d never been a man of many emotions; that’s what she’d loved about him – his calm competence, easy acceptance of redundancy and the optimism with which he’d set about finding himself a new job, even when it had involved a move across the country. She’d gone willingly, six months pregnant and excited at the thought of a new life together. And then it had all started to fall apart.

Damn Bristol. She thumped the car horn loudly with her fist, wishing it was somebody’s head. Damn Carroll’s Limited; there was nothing limited about the liberties the directors were apparently prepared to take with their employees. And damn to Hell and back Mark Cartland for taking her to the office post-Christmas party and then to his bed. She hadn’t meant it to happen, hadn’t set out with the idea of adultery in her mind, but Paul had been working late again, keen to impress his new boss and she’d been lonely in the new house. Mark had been so understanding when she’d had to take time off at short notice when Melanie was ill. She couldn’t refuse his invitation. She hadn’t wanted to. He was a nice guy in his own way, though not really her type. Besides, nobody else had asked her to accompany them to the dinner at a local hotel and as usual Paul had been too busy.

Stop making excuses, Amanda. You slept with your boss and your husband found out. End of story. Who could blame Paul for the way he’d reacted? But how could he run off like that, without giving her the chance to explain, to apologise and try to make up for what she’d done. It was as if he didn’t want to know any more. Perhaps he would never be able to forgive her. Perhaps he’d never let her see Melanie again.

Sample Sunday: Breaking Free

A very brief extract from Hamelin's Child:

Eddie pursed his lips, still smirking. “I’m going to count to three,” he said. “You either put the knife down or I’ll take it off you. Your choice.”

Michael said nothing.

“One.” Eddie tossed the keys onto the bed.

Michael risked a quick glance at them. Too far away.

“Two. Don’t be stupid, Mikey. You’re far too pretty to damage.”

Pretty? Michael curled his lip contemptuously, fired up by adrenaline.

“Three. OK, if that’s the way you want it.” Eddie tightened the belt on his robe and stepped up to him. Right up – not just out of reach of the knife, but well into Michael’s range.

Michael slashed, but Eddie reached beyond the knife and knocked his wrist away. With his other hand, he punched Michael in the stomach and the knife fell to the carpet. Eddie picked it up instantly and before Michael had time to catch his breath, there was an arm across his throat, a face inches away from his own.

Sample Sunday: Beyond Rescue

Headlights were speeding towards them, looming out of the fog like the eyes of a huge monster. Yellow and unblinking, mesmerising, fixing their prey with a paralysing stare as the beast roared in anger, coming from nowhere out of the night. 

The car swerved, wheels locked on February ice as Mark leaned across from the passenger seat and instinctively tried to grab the steering wheel from Jenny’s rigid grip. But it was too late. Much too late. The hedges were towering giants on either side of the country lane and there was nowhere else to go.

        And in the fraction of a second before impact, Mark looked up and saw the lorry driver’s face with crystal clarity, frozen in a mask of absolute terror as the night exploded in a chaos of glass and fire.

               

Awake or asleep? Alive or dead?

        Which?

        Images changing, blurring, reforming. Flick to the next one. No – too far. Back. Back!

        Wake up!

        Can’t. Gone too far. Can’t wake up! Help me!

       

The pain was gone in seconds, sliding away from him like a blanket discarded in sleep. Only he wasn’t in bed – was he? Was this all just an elaborate dream? A nightmare of fire and twisted metal? 

        No, it was too real. He could feel nothing, yet there was an overwhelming  stench of petrol and the angry crackle of flames.

No direction. Only a sense of urgency. Something important he has to do.

        What is it? Where am I?

        No time to think. Got to go. Find Jenny.

        Jenny?

Mark sat up slowly. There was wet grass underneath him – he’d obviously been thrown some distance from the crash. Across the field the car was entwined with the lorry in an obscene embrace; a lover’s kiss of death.

        He got to his feet as the lorry’s engine exploded a rocket of glass and metal up into the night sky. The noise was deafening.

        The whole of the nearside of the car was mangled beyond recognition, embedded in the wheel arch of the lorry. Mark went round to the driver’s side and wrenched the door open, not feeling the flames licking at his hands. Jenny was slumped over the steering wheel, blood on her face and her blonde hair already singed. Mark unclasped the seatbelt.

        Hands underneath her shoulders, he dragged the girl out, barely pausing to glance at the body next to her in the passenger seat. Or rather what was left of the body. Then he lifted his wife gently in his arms – not stopping to wonder that he couldn’t feel the weight of her – and carried her away from the wreckage. She was still breathing.

        Mark put her down on the grass by the gate.

It’s done. Time to go. No place here any more.

        I love you, Jenny.

In the distance, there was the wail of a siren.

Sample Sunday: The Secret

Music from the taverna below floats through the open window. It’s Greek, I think. Or Turkish. There are voices too, celebrating; the clink of glasses and laughter. 

Does anybody remember laughter?

That’s from a song. I can’t remember what it is. I can’t remember much anymore, though I can recall—

—the secret—

—bringing the glass upstairs from the taverna the other night and finishing the entire bottle of cheap ouzo.

The glass is broken now; shards litter the table in front of me. I cut my foot earlier, and stained the bright poppy-patterned duvet on the bed. There are flowers everywhere in this village. Wisteria strangles the tiny villas, bougainvillea guard the entrance to every garden like aggressive soldiers, baskets and tubs adorn every balcony. The smell of the mimosa is overwhelming.

I hate flowers. They remind me of—

—the secret—

—saying goodbye to Sarah. But I couldn’t say goodbye, could only say au revoir, see you again, wait for me and I’ll be there soon. And I will. I promise.

The sun is almost on the horizon. It’s a wedding downstairs. Alexio the waiter asked me earlier if I’d like to stay. He looked kind and I nearly told him about—

—the secret—

—Sarah, and how I was going to meet her at sunset. In the place she was conceived. Five years ago tonight.

I pick up the glass shard in my right hand.

And I know the secret.

Sample Sunday: Blood Ties

And now something different - a fantasy novel extract:

Andry wondered how long it would take to die. It was difficult to think straight, difficult to concentrate on any thought for more than a few seconds, but his eyes kept being drawn back to the rope on the dais at the far end of City Square and the crowd that was even now beginning to gather around it.

It was raining, a fine drizzle that soaked through the thin cotton shirt and made him shiver. He was finding it increasingly hard to stay awake – never mind keep warm – and since the last dose of whatever drugs he’d been given, he’d finally realised that there was no way out. This time he wouldn’t leave Ariathen alive and he wasn’t sure he cared anyway.

Why did you do it, Elene? When you had so much to live for? The only one of this violent and bloodthirsty race who had cared about him and she was dead, had been dead these seven years past and he hadn’t known. Not until now. She’d ended their affair, determined to make her marriage work and then she’d killed herself. He’d have cried if he’d had the strength, but all he could do was stumble across the cobbles and hope to meet her in whatever world she’d gone to.

A diversion up ahead and one of his guards stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He turned his head to one side and saw a familiar face pushing his way to the front of the crowd. Jereth? But the cocktail of drugs was too potent and he couldn’t reach his friend’s mind. Words would have to be enough.

“Andry.” Not much more than a whisper, but the guards were looking towards the source of the disturbance across the square.

“Jereth.” What could he say? There was nothing his friend could do without jeopardising his own safety. “She’s dead.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

He knew? Was that why they’d kept him away from the city for so long? “There was a child. A girl.” The words kept getting stuck in his throat, but he was alert enough to see Jereth’s wide-eyed expression – he obviously hadn’t known this much.

“Yours?”

       

He nodded, but even the slight movement made him lose his balance and he fell against the guard. By the time he’d got his feet underneath him, he was pushed forwards again and Jereth had melted back into the sea of people, all jostling for the best vantage point to see him die. Someone spat at him, but his hands were tied and he couldn’t even wipe his face.

Up on the dais stood a familiar figure. Dressed in the uniform of the City Militia, the man’s complete lack of any badges of rank marked him out from the other soldiers positioned around the square – both Watch Guard and Militia had turned out for the event. Andry wondered if they knew what he’d done. Why he was really here. Not just because he’d broken the treaty.

“Andry. Are you prepared?” The man’s voice was low but the tone deadly.

“To meet Elene again? Oh, yes.” If he’d been capable of it, he’d have laughed at the effect her name had on Ariathen’s Guard Captain. He wished he could shout it out loud.

His last thought as he felt the rope was that he’d never even known his daughter’s name.

Sample Sunday: Blue Flamingo

For my first #SS posting, here's an extract from my new work-in-progress thriller Blue Flamingo:

 

“So what do you think?”

Matt reversed into the parking space, pulled the hand brake on and turned off the engine. Ignition key in one hand, he folded his arms, not looking at his passenger. “I think you’re out of your league.”

“We’ll make a fortune.”

“So? Can’t spend it inside, can we?” He wasn’t convinced. Ever since Christian had suggested a change in business direction, Matt had been having second thoughts about the whole thing – not that he got any say in the matter; his status generally hovered somewhere between chauffeur and technical advisor, depending on Christian’s mood and financial state of affairs. And although the other man frequently asked for his opinion on other matters, he rarely took any notice of the replies.

Scrambling out of the car, Matt hit the button on the key fob. The indicators flashed once in response and he followed Christian across the wet tarmac to the motorway service-station. At nine-thirty on a Wednesday evening it was quiet, the commuter traffic long gone, the overnight truckers yet to arrive and there was a air of desolation about the whole place, from the bank of telephone kiosks outside the double doors to the empty foyer. Even the small arcade was deserted, the games machines flashing green and orange lights across dirty glass doors.

“Who is this guy, then?” He watched Christian’s arse climb the stairs to the footbridge over the motorway. Either he purposefully bought his jeans a size too small or he’d put on a few stone since he’d bought this pair – probably the latter since in the five years they’d been working together, Matt had never known the man buy any new clothes. Not even a pair of shoes. Christian was a slob. Correction – a pretentious slob, if such a thing existed. And why he thought Christian Valeccine was going to impress people more than plain old Christopher Williams was beyond Matt’s comprehension. He’d seen the name once, on a tax demand, and had almost asked him about it, before he’d changed his mind. Some things were better left alone.

The man turned on the steps, allowing his protégé to catch up. “He wants to buy me out.” He paused for effect, then carried on walking.

“He wants to what?” This was new. On the way up from London, Christian had been talking about using this man’s contacts and expertise to branch out, expand the business with some new sidelines – singers maybe, or theme evenings. He’d had concerns about Christian’s suggestions even then, but he’d heard only the briefest details so far. It was difficult to speculate at ninety-five miles per hour in the rain on the M1. However, a take-over bid wasn’t what he’d had in mind. Where does that leave me? he wanted to ask, but now was not the time. Not with an imminent meeting with Mr Mysterious. And anybody who insisted on conducting business at ten at night on the M1 was not the kind of man you irritated with trivialities. Christian was out of his league all right.

They were on the footbridge now, a covered walkway connecting both sides of the service station. Dull yellow squares of linoleum led a haphazard path to the Southbound carriageway and Matt wondered who was waiting on the other side. He tried not to imagine the drop beneath his feet, tried not to visualise the traffic hurtling through underneath him. He didn’t like heights; he never had – not since Jeff had made him climb out of the tree-house onto a particularly thin-looking branch and then left him there, clinging precariously until he’d fallen off some ten minutes later. Jeff had thought it hilariously funny, but all it had proved to Matt was that he couldn’t compete with a brother two years his senior.

“So what will you do, then? If you sell up.” He had to ask.

“Oh, I don’t know. Get out of the country for a while. Maybe America or Australia.”

“You’d give it all up?”

“All what? In case you hadn’t noticed, Matt, the club’s been half-empty for months. If we don’t pull in some extra trade somehow, we’re sunk. And I don’t see what you’re concerned about, anyway. You’re part of the deal.”

“Oh, no. Not me. You sell, that’s your business. I’m a free agent.”

“You think so?” Christian smiled. “You walk out and you’re on a one-way ticket to Her Majesty’s holiday camp, my son.”

Matt stopped walking. This wasn’t the way the conversation was supposed to go. Christian’s voice had lost its friendly bantering tone and taken on a harder edge Matt hadn’t heard before. He looked out at the night, but could only see his own water-streaked reflection staring back at him, eyes half-hidden under brown hair. His contacts were irritating his eyes again and he rubbed them, wishing he’d worn his glasses instead.

There was no point in arguing with the man. Not at the moment. In any case, he had the car keys and he could be gone in minutes if the situation got out of hand. And Christian wasn’t really threatening him; they’d gone through variations of this a thousand times before and it was the man’s way of showing Matt who was boss, because on an intellectual basis, both of them knew Matt would win hands down. It was all a game, an elaborate ritual to be played out whenever Christian’s ego needed a boost. Like the time Kit left, Matt thought. For a while, Matt had taken up the reins of the business, but Christian had survived the affair, then thrown himself back into work with a renewed vigour. He’d criticised just about every decision Matt had made, but it was wounded pride talking and things had quickly returned to normal. But this was different. Something had changed and Matt wasn’t sure what it was.

He heard footsteps behind them and could see the reflection, distorted colours bouncing across both sides of the glass corridor. A man stood at the top of the steps outlined in the neon glare of the strip lights. Black boots under black jeans, he stood there, hands in the pockets of his denim jacket like something out of a bad cowboy movie. He was watching them quite openly and Matt shivered. Who was this guy they’d come to meet? There was more than the Blue Flamingo at stake here.