The Whole Of Her Law - an occult detective mystery - Chapter 1

Buy from Amazon.com

Buy from Amazon.co.uk

1985

My little cassette player played Move over Darling by Doris Day. I sang along as I scraped jellied stinking meaty chunks of dog food into a bowl. I held my breath, and added a handful of biscuits filled with marrowbone goodness. Betsy lay on the floor nearby, her eyes tilted upwards at me with her usual mealtime expression, which meant, “You expect me to eat that?”

I had bought Betsy, a King Charles Cavalier puppy, when Jim left. She was good company (better than Jim) and did not mind Coronation Street too much. She also gave me a reason to get out of the house and walk without seeming weird.

I plonked the bowl on the floor, and made myself a tuna sandwich. As I ate it, Betsy sat by the chair. She used her hypnotic brown-eyed stare to make me hand over her share.

I handed over her share.

I flicked through the Guardian. There was coverage of the riots in Handsworth and Broadwater Farm. Social breakdown had spread across Britain. There was an article about a pop singer called George Michael and his latest girlfriend. It seems he is quite the ladies’ man.

I threw the plates into the washing bowl, walked into the living room and grabbed Betsy’s lead.

“Come on girl!” I shouted, making my voice as light and encouraging as possible. There was silence from the kitchen. “Come on! Walkies!”

I had watched Barbara Woodhouse, but Betsy had not. Or perhaps Betsy objected to Barbara’s dog coaching technique. I returned to the kitchen where Betsy lay next to the radiator, attached her lead and dragged her sliding to the front door.

She resisted to the end of our red-bricked terrace. Her head slumped, and claws clutched the pavement. Then she spotted a cat lurking under a nearby car, and after a moment of rabid barking, she forgot her reluctance to walk.

We cut along a path leading to the river’s edge. Despite my thick winter coat and woollen hat, I was still frozen. Betsy had chewed my gloves the day before, leaving them ruined beside her basket. The chill air bit at my hand as I clutched the lead. I buried the other hand deep in a pocket.

When we were away from the road, I unhooked the lead and Betsy raced through the woods. We reached the river, swollen by the recent heavy rains. Hardly anything remained, of the beach, which was her favourite spot for digging. The waters raged and the wind moaned through the treetops. Darkness was already drawing in.

A man stood on the opposite bank. He wore an immaculate business suit but no overcoat despite the cold. He stared from across the river, eyes fixed on me. I smiled, but his face remained blank. I called Betsy and attached her lead. When I looked up again, he was gone.

We returned to the path and followed our usual route through the woods. We passed the shell of an abandoned mill. This once thriving Lancashire town was now home to these crumbling remnants. There was a growing population of the unemployed, unskilled and unwanted. There was a sense that real life, life that mattered, was elsewhere.

*

My grandad was a copper for thirty-five years. He called me his “little Bobby”, never Roberta, despite my mother always correcting him. For as long as I can remember, he told me stories about the criminals he claimed to have tracked. I doubted he had foiled a group of German spies plotting to overthrow the British Government. Much of his work must have involved clouting kids for being cheeky to the Vicar.

By age ten, I often placed classmates under citizen’s arrest for minor violations such as homework plagiarism and a black market in conkers. My greatest case was in 1956, when I unearthed a gang engaged in coordinated extortion of lunch money. As a member of a police family, I felt a duty to protect the weak. It made me unpopular with certain pupils in the school, but the shell I constructed has helped me in the adult world.

After my A-levels, I intended to leave education and apply to the force. My dad insisted I give University a chance, and decide later what I wanted to do with my life. I would be the first of my family to study for a degree, and it was important to them, so I agreed.

After three years of Medieval History, I walked away with second-class honours and an unhealthy tolerance for alcohol. I never read another book on the subject.

Most of my fellow graduates left with no plan for their lives or any practical vocational skills. I applied only to the Police Force, and walked the interview and entrance tests.

*

I was good at the job. Three years on the beat, and I became a detective. The next stage was more of a struggle. I made slow progress, pushing against the glass ceiling and misogynistic colleagues. I worked twice as hard as most. There were a few decent souls, but the culture was a macho one in the sixties. It still can be, even in our enlightened times.

John Bell was the main source of the trouble. He had been a detective a couple of years longer than I had. His idea of a joke was “make us all a cup of tea love, while we solve this case”. One year, at the Christmas party, he tried to stick his hand under my skirt. I smacked him. He did not like women who fought back and became more vicious, undermining my work.  At times, his attitude risked jeopardising investigations. I raised it with DCI Wilmott, but Bell was a mate of the Assistant Chief Constable. It came to nothing.

*

It was tough, but I was good at what I did, and after cracking some high profile cases, I applied for promotion. Bell applied at the same time, but I got the job. You can imagine how well he took it. Over the next few years, he ground me down, recruiting other colleagues into his witch-hunt.

Then, two year ago, my husband Jim pissed off with a twenty-year-old nail artist. A profession with a wide definition of art. She was no Frida Kahlo. I did not miss him, but returning home each night to an empty house does not help your self-esteem. Not when all your friends have married. Not when they all have delightful (though annoying) and intelligent (though obnoxious) children.

I spent most of my evenings mulling over arguments from work. I would replay difficult conversations, or worry about where my life was going. It was going nowhere.

Earlier this year, there was an opportunity to take redundancy. Margaret Thatcher had claimed to believe in law and order. She did not want to pay for more coppers though, unless they were rounding up striking miners. At first, I did not consider taking redundancy. Then, after a day on which everything went wrong, I changed my mind. There would be a large payment, enough to tide me over while I decided what to do with my life.

I wish I could say I felt sadness the day I left the Force, or that there was a wonderful send-off. In reality one day I was a copper and the next I was not.

Ken Wilmott bought me some flowers and a box of Black Magic, his running joke for DI Roberta Black. He was one of the few colleagues who made my life as a detective bearable. I miss him. John Bell smirked in the corner and whispered jokes to his pals. I went for a drink with Alice, my best friend and colleague, and that was that. Twenty year of my young life had gone. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.

*

I walked to the Spar on the main road and tied Betsy to a lamppost outside. As I entered, I spotted my neighbour Stan by the freezer section. Before I could disappear, he spotted me.

“Roberta! Hang on love.” He waved and limped towards me, clutching a packet of Smash. “Have they emptied your bins? It’s been three weeks. There’ll be rats all over the place if they don’t come soon.”

I shrugged. “I’m not sure; it’s only me in our house now, so it’s never full.”

“I’ve phoned the Council, but they don’t listen to me. I am just an old codger to them, and the councillors don’t give a toss unless there is an election on. They’ll be glad when I’m dead and they don’t have to bother with me anymore. I reckon if you gave them a ring it would help.”

“I’m not sure Stan; I’ve got a lot on.” Long empty days walking the dog and waiting for work. “You can use my bin though if you’re struggling.”

“That’s kind of you love, but it’s the principle. It’s a health hazard, with the rats. What about the little ’uns playing down the back? I’m the only one bothered about those little ’uns. Their parents are in the pub all the time. Have you heard the language that Louise uses shouting at them? It was different around here years ago.”

“Ok, Stan, I’ll give the council a ring if it will put your mind at rest. I’d better get on though.”

I bought salad and fruit. Recently I had indulged in too much cake. I must have put on a few pounds, but refused to have scales in the house since the Weightwatchers incident. The less said about that the better.

*

I unlocked the door and walked into the living room. I had filled the house over the years with a variety of mismatched second hand furniture. Piles of books sat on every available surface. I glanced at the answering machine and its pale unblinking light. I pressed the button.

“You have no new messages.”

It was three months, since I had first placed the ad in the Reporter, offering my services as a Private Detective. The only calls had been a few cranks and a man who asked me to follow his wife. He wanted me to check if she was having an affair. She was having an affair, and who could blame her, married to a whining slob like him. He had cried when I told him, and then asked me if I fancied a drink. I told him to get lost. Another case solved for Roberta Black PI.

Poirot never had these problems. All he had to do was herd aristocrats into dining rooms and deliver lengthy expositions from beside the mantelpiece.

*

I flopped on the sofa and turned on Corrie. Betsy joined me, her chin rested on my knee, looking with scepticism at the TV screen. Mavis had no regrets about jilting Derek, and to be honest she could do better. I always believed Mavis would be more suited to Victor, the poet always hanging around the Cabin. I said this to Betsy, but she appeared doubtful. Betsy could be right, Derek had a certain doggy reliability lacking in flighty Victor. The Duckworths and Ivy won £500 at Bingo. They all got drunk and Jack was about to drive them home, but a policeman was watching. Cue the theme tune. Now we had to wait two days to find out what happened to Jack. Poor Vera, if he loses his license they will be struggling again. Brookside was on the other side next, but I did not watch that rubbish. I turned off the TV.

*

The house was silent and the rain hammered against the window. I pictured the river rising further. There would soon be floods again.

I read for an hour, Hotel du Lac by Anita Brookner. I read a wide range of genres. It is an escape, to try other lives. It is important to me to be able to see the world from different viewpoints. Not to be too rigid, not to imagine I had stumbled upon the correct answer to every question. Understanding other perspectives is a useful ability for a detective.

One of the promises I made to myself when I took redundancy, was to spend more time with books. There had been plenty of time during the past few months and I had made my way through most of Brookner’s work.

At 9PM, I felt my eyes closing and decided it was time for bed. I went upstairs and put on my thickest thermal nightie. This is the life of your modern independent (and beautiful) private eye. Betsy was already asleep by my feet when I climbed into bed. It cannot have been ten minutes before I too was snoring.

*

An hour later, the phone rang. For a second, I thought it was someone from the station, and turned over to go back to sleep. As I dozed, my half-awake mind pieced together the facts. Number one, you are no longer a member of Her Majesty’s Constabulary. Number two, you have no job and a dwindling redundancy pay-out. Number three, nobody ever calls you so late. It could be a client.

I leapt from bed, rushed down the stairs two at a time into the living room and answered the phone.

“Black Investigations.” I panted like a pensioner completing a marathon. “How may I help you?”

“I’m calling about your ad in the Reporter.” The voice on the other end belonged to a nervous woman trying to sound posh. “Sorry to call so late. I’ve been going out of my mind.”

Her voice broke. She sobbed.

“It’s ok,” I replied, sitting on the sofa. “Take your time. When you are ready, tell me.”

“Thank you.” There was silence, as she collected herself. “It’s my daughter Helen; she’s been missing for weeks now. I am worried. Nobody seems to care. The police aren’t interested.”

“How old is Helen?”

“She is seventeen. She’ll be eighteen in a few weeks. I had a big celebration planned. We have never been out of touch for so long before. She always rings daily when she stays with friends. It’s not like her.”

“And you want me to find her?”

“If that is something you do. I can pay you well. My husband is a wealthy man.”

“Let me check my diary,” I said. Holding the phone between my shoulder and ear, I flicked through Hotel du Lac. “We are pretty busy this week, but there was a cancellation earlier. I have a slot first thing in the morning, if that is ok for you?”

“Wonderful! Thank you so much Mrs Black. If you give me the address of your office, I can come to see you whenever is convenient.”

“Our offices are being renovated at the moment,” I lied. I did not bother correcting the Mrs either. “It’s best if I come to see you anyway. With missing youngsters, it is always useful to get a sense of where they live. Is ten o’clock tomorrow morning ok for you?”

I took the woman’s details. Her name was Mary Campbell, and she lived in one of the most expensive parts of town. This could be a lucrative piece of work if all went well. It could help build my reputation.

I returned to the bedroom.

“Betsy!” I woke her, ruffling her big floppy ears. “The game is afoot!”

She rolled her eyes and went back to sleep.

Read more:

Buy from Amazon.com

Buy from Amazon.co.uk

Time After Time - an occult mystery - Chapter 1

Buy from Amazon.com

Buy from Amazon.co.uk

1984

"If you have lived one day, you have seen everything. One day equals all days. There is no other light, no other night. The Sun, Moon and Stars, disposed just as they are now, were enjoyed by your grandsires and will entertain your great-grandchildren."

Montaigne.

In the beginning, there was silence. A rustle of dry autumn leaves, blown by bitter October winds. Tom could smell rain was coming. His scrawny frame perched on the edge of a steep valley, through which ran a rust orange stream. He tossed the long striped scarf over his shoulder and pulled an arrow from the quiver concealed under his trench coat. The chill air bit at his fingers as he aimed, steadied, and fired.

“Yes!” Tom whispered, punching the air and running to a tree stump. Next to it, a model Cyberman lay on the floor beside his arrow. He lifted the figurine, replaced it on the stump and froze. Someone was watching him. It was rare to come across anyone this far from the path so late in the evening. There was a flash of red. A figure stood on a fallen trunk staring across the clearing, but when Tom turned, it disappeared. He walked to the trunk and searched the area, but there was no sign of anyone. As he was about to return to his archery, Tom spotted something odd about the trunk. Kneeling to examine it, he saw a strange symbol etched deep into the bark. A staff mounted at the top with a pair of wings and entwined by two serpents.

He had seen it before.

*

The stranger slipped his Morris Marina into third gear as he passed a sign reading “Welcome to Wigan.” Rain bounced off the windscreen, rendering the wipers useless. He glanced at his watch. His hand wrinkled with age, and scarred with the remains of an old burn. It was almost eight PM. It might already be too late. He glanced at the mysterious package on the back seat. The label read “For the URGENT attention of Professor A. Collins. Department of Fortean Anthropology, University of Wales, Aberystwyth."

The stranger stopped at some traffic lights and leant across to open his glove box. He reached in and checked his antique Walter PPK. The driver of the car behind honked his horn. The light was now green. The stranger released the handbrake and drove on.

*

As Kate passed through the hall of the flat, an envelope slipped through the letterbox and dropped to the floor. She leant over, picked up the letter and continued into the living room. She went to place it with the rest of her parents’ mail, but noticed it was for her. The address was simple handwritten capital letters. There was no stamp. KATE MELLING. It must be another party invitation from Susan.

Kate returned to the hall and opened the front door. She hurried along the corridor in her Cure T-shirt and black leggings. The sound of her bare feet echoed against the walls. At the lifts, the doors opened and an old man stepped out. It was Mr. Blackledge, a retired chain-smoking former miner. He spent most of his afternoons in the pub on the ground floor. When he saw Kate, he clutched at his heart, and recovered.

"Bloody hooligan," he shouted, before hurrying away.

Kate returned to the flat and closed the door. She walked to her bedroom, threw the letter on the bedside cabinet and picked up her book, Nadja by André Breton. She lay on the bed reading for about two minutes, and sighed. She slipped the book to the bottom of the teetering pile next to her bed, and looked at the letter.

It was not from Susan. Her envelopes were always pink, and her handwriting was full of ridiculous loops. She tore it open and tipped it upside down. A folded newspaper article fell out onto the bed.

*

The icy downpour lashed Tom as he walked home through his estate, a maze-like warren of red brick council houses. It was almost 10 o'clock. A group of older lads stood on a corner drinking bottles of cheap strong cider. He knew them; they had left his school the previous year. Tom slipped into an alley. Mud squelched under his feet in the dark. His socks were wet, and heavy as water seeped through the holes in his shoes. He was squeezing through a clutter of bins when someone shouted.

"Where's your stupid costume?”

A skinny youth  approached Tom, shoulders hunched and head bobbing. His nose was bleeding. It was Barry McLaughlin, who until he had left under a cloud last spring, had been the meanest kids in the school. This reputation was due to his lack of empathy for others and a talent for turning all situations into violent confrontations. If a fellow pupil's line of vision passed over him for a second, he would be upon them. He was a prominent member of the Wigan Football Casuals. Local football hooligans with a penchant for golfing wear.

Tom pushed over a bin and sprinted towards the light at the other end of the passage. He was almost there, when another figure stepped out grinning. It was Gaz Reid, McLaughlin's faithful sidekick and part-time punch-bag.

Tom pushed at a tall garden gate, which swung open. He shut it behind him and felt for a bolt; finding one near the top, he slid it into place. Tom was in a small back yard, lit at the centre by the light from a kitchen window. The kitchen was empty but someone might return at any moment. The wall into the next yard was small, so he jumped over it and hid in a dark corner.

Tom could hear McLaughlin kicking each of the gates in the alley.

"Nobody makes a fool out of me," shouted McLaughlin. "It's payback time Swift."

Tom had no idea what had so angered the older youth. McLaughlin never needed a reason to inflict pain, but it was as if he had a real grievance against Tom. As far as Tom could remember, their paths had had never crossed. Tom believed he had a talent for blending into the background. He had a knack for avoiding the school psychos. How did Barry even know his name?

Tom crouched in the dark corner, What did Barry mean by "stupid costume?” McLaughlin must mean the cricket gear Tom had worn for six months. The style had never worked. People had called him a weirdo; even complete strangers, even his Aunty Pat. He had switched back to the overcoat and long scarf, only wearing the Deerstalker in winter. His gran had bought him some socks with tiny golfers on them last Christmas. He had thought they might help him fit in, but no one had noticed. Not even when he had gone to school with the bottom of his trousers rolled up.

A few feet away from where Tom hid the gate shook from a powerful kick. "You're going to wish you were never born," McLaughlin shouted from the alleyway. Tom jumped to his feet and ran for the tall fence separating this yard from the next. Half way across he heard a deep bark, followed by a snarling and a scramble of paws. The dark shape of a Rottweiler loomed as Tom leapt, grabbed the top of the fence and heaved himself up. The dog leapt after him, grabbing his foot, but Tom's momentum kept him moving forward. Tom tumbled over onto a bush in the garden next door minus a shoe. The frustrated canine ripped it apart as a substitute for its intended prey.

A security light flashed on. It illuminated a neat lawn surrounded by a tidy border filled with trimmed shrubs. A second floor window swung open, and an overweight man leaned out. The man's Iron Maiden t-shirt revealed thick arms covered in tattoos.

"If you've damaged my geraniums I'll..."

Tom ran around the side of the house, which was the end of the row, and out onto the street.

An arm flew around his neck and someone leapt onto his back.

"Get off!" Tom shouted.

Tom clutched at the arm. He could not breathe. Then he was on the floor and they were kicking him. He curled up and put his hands over his head to protect himself. Boots crashed into his ribs, his back and his head.

"Not so brave now are you? Where's your mummy?"

Tom jumped to his feet and ran straight at Barry. Screaming, his fists balled, ready to attack his tormentor whatever the consequences. A second later, Gary charged into him from the side, knocking Tom sprawling to the floor.

Barry and Gary stood over him laughing. They each took a final kick. Barry knelt on Tom's back, pain shot through his spine.

"Take this as a warning. If you ever annoy me again, I'll put you in the Infirmary. You'll be having your dinner through a straw, if you're lucky. Understand?"

Barry spat in Tom's face, and they left him.

*

The stranger paused for a moment to look at the gloomy red brick edifice of the town hall. The moon was bright, stretching his shadow clear across the road. He placed a Trilby on his head and fastened his dark jacket to conceal the weapon strapped to his shoulder. He lifted the imitation leather briefcase and strode into the building.

His footsteps echoed on the Victorian tiles of the empty foyer. A sign pointed along a corridor indicating rooms 1 – 15. Another sign pointed upstairs to rooms 16 – 30. He climbed to the top of the stairs, pulled open a heavy wooden door, and proceeded along another corridor. He checked each door until he found number 23. A handwritten sign, taped to the door, read "The High Council: Do not disturb". The stranger knocked. Muffled sounds came from within but there was no answer. He waited for a minute before knocking again, but there was still no reply. The stranger pushed open the door.

Inside was a large meeting room. The tables arranged in a boardroom layout. Pens, notepads and glasses of water placed for each participant. At the opposite end of the room, a flip chart stand held an agenda, bullet pointed with vivid felt tip pens. Around the table sat 23 individuals, their faces concealed by brown hooded robes.

“Sorry, excuse me,” said the stranger, backing out of the door. He stood there for a moment, considering how to proceed.

The door opened again, and a hooded figure peered out. She pulled back the hood, releasing a cascade of auburn hair.

“Professor Collins?”

The stranger nodded.

“Sorry, we weren't expecting you so soon. I'm Elizabeth Norley. If you could follow me?”

They entered the meeting room. Everyone was now dressed in ordinary business suits, helping themselves to Bourbon Cream biscuits.

The stranger’s eyes flicked to the agenda on the flip chart:

•        Councillor Holland’s report on the Robin Park development.

•        Parking issues - Wallgate.

•        The emptiness at the heart of High Councillor Pilkington (Conservative).

•        The creature lurking in the waters at Seven Sisters.

•        Take-up of free school meals.

•        Any other business.

“Thank you for coming Professor Collins,” said an obese man, spraying spit as he spoke. He offered the stranger his hand. “I am Charles Bradshaw, leader of The High Council.”

“Has he arrived yet?” The stranger asked, ignoring the hand.

“Not as far as we know. Our people are on the lookout. Can we see the item?” Bradshaw asked.

The stranger placed his suitcase on the table, opened it, and lifted out a small wooden chest. It was half the size of a shoebox, and covered in mould. The box gave off a stale musty odour. Carved into the side was a symbol; a staff entwined by two serpents, and mounted at the top with a pair of wings. The stranger pulled out a pocketknife. He pried open the rusted clasp. The councillors crowded around as he released the catch and opened the lid.

*

It was the boy in the goat mask again, or was it a goat with a boy's body?

Pete chased him up the hillside, the goat boy stopping to let him catch up, before gamboling off ahead again. Mist drifted from above, or was it smoke?

"Hey, kid!" Pete shouted.

"I've not heard that one before. I suppose you think you're a comedian."

"Wait!" Pete shouted, stopping to catch his breath. "What do you want with me?"

"You're the one doing the chasing Piotrek."

This was true.

"Of course it's true," said the goat boy. "I don't bleat on for the sake of it."

"Ok, I'm going home," said Pete, turning, and walking back down the hill.

After a few seconds, he looked back to see the goat was now a faint outline in the mist.

"There's no smoke without fire Piotrek," it shouted. "Piotrek... Piotrek."

There was knocking at the door.

"Piotrek!" Bang bang bang. "Open this door. Piotrek!"

Pete got out of bed, his heart hammering against his chest, and unlocked his bedroom door. His father stood outside.

"Thank God you're ok. You might have choked on your own vomit, the state you were in."

How did his father know he had been drinking? He had to be more careful about the pubs he visited. There was not much choice of venue for a sixteen year old to get a drink.

"How do you feel?" His father asked.

"I'm fine. I fell asleep."

"Be careful ok? I'm not going to mention this to your mother, but I won't cover for you either."

"Ok dad, thanks," said Pete, groggy and confused, but wanting to go back to sleep.

*

Arriving home soaked to the skin, Tom let himself in, and pulled off his remaining shoe in the hallway. His sister Sophie lay on the sofa, watching Bergerac. She did not look up. Tom walked through to the kitchen. His dad was washing the dishes with the radio on, singing along to Stan Ridgeway's Camouflage.

"It's my favourite son, climbed out of the canal to see his poor dad. You'll catch your death walking around like that." He pulled a plate out of the water, placed it on the draining board, and looked at his son. "Jumping Jesus, have you been scrapping again? You're no Chuck Norris lad; I'd give it a rest if I were you."

He ruffled Tom's hair, and soapsuds flew everywhere.

"Pass me those dishes, and go and get yourself changed. You're dripping all over your mum's carpet."

Tom collected some plates, smeared with tomato sauce and the odd baked bean. He dropped them into the washing bowl. He folded the pale blue Formica table and pushed it against a wall of the tiny kitchen. He turned to go upstairs.

"You'll need to watch your sister tomorrow,” his dad shouted after him. “I've got some overtime."

"Ok dad. What time will you be back?"

"It's a 2 -2 shift, you'll be asleep by the time I'm home. I don't want you listening to your radio half the night."

Tom nodded.

"You're a good lad Tom. Your mum would have been proud."

Tom walked back through the living room.

"You look after me. That’s a joke," mumbled Sophie. She glanced at her brother for the first time since he had walked in. "Oh, bloody hell! Who was it this time?"

"McLaughlin."

"Why's he wasting his time on you? Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

They climbed the stairs to the bathroom. Tom got the First Aid kit while Sophie filled the sink with water. She dabbed at his face with a warm flannel, and treated the cuts with anti-septic cream.

"You'll live, but your modelling career is over. The good news is I'll be able to take a degree in medicine by the time I'm thirteen."

"Thanks Sofe."

Tom pushed open the door to his bedroom and flicked on the light. Tom had built and installed the shelves himself, without the aid of a spirit level. They held his Doctor Who models, and alphabetised video cassettes and books. In one corner was a pile of old toys, he was reluctant to throw away; a Stretch Armstrong, Big Track, He-Man and Trick-Stick. He pulled off his wet things and put on some pajamas.

Tom lay on his bed and switched on the radio to listen to his favourite phone-in show, Banter with Brian. He turned the volume low. A caller was ranting about the miners, that they were all communists. He said Arthur Scargill was going to bring the country to its knees. Brian argued they were only fighting to provide for their families and most of them did not have any other options left. The next caller agreed with Brian. He said all Thatcher wanted was to help the rich grab all the wealth. He did not know why people had voted for her rather than Michael Foot. Brian said the caller was a gormless cretin. How long would it be before people stopped relying on politicians? They were self-important middlemen. The next caller claimed he had almost driven his car into a medieval knight, riding a horse through Wigan. Brian said he should move to a town in the twentieth century, or lay off the special cigarettes. The next caller shouted, “Bob, you're a Fat Get!”

Tom switched off the radio and lay on his bed listening to the clock ticking. In his mind, he retraced his steps of the evening. Through the rain soaked streets and gardens. Along the alleyway where McLaughlin had chased him. Up the hill. Through the Plantation Gates and into the darkness of the woods. Leaves crunched under foot, branches brushed against his face. He came to the clearing where he practiced archery, to the tree stump where he had crouched to pick up the arrow.

A figure stood on the tree trunk staring at him, a hooded shape, and a face in shadows. A moment later, it was gone.

Read more:

Buy from Amazon.com

Buy from Amazon.co.uk

Time After Time: Time travel, urban fantasy, paranormal activity.

Are the woods haunted by the ghost of a woman forced to walk barefoot every night? Is there a network of underground tunnels beneath an ordinary town? Is time travel possible? 

A hooded figure, a mysterious letter, and a Knights Templar who returns from the Crusades with something extraordinary. 

Time After Time is a time travel mystery, drawn from actual accounts of paranormal activity, real historical events, and an occult conspiracy stretching back to the fourteenth century.

Weirder than Stranger Things, fewer Hobbits than Lord of the Rings, less unnecessary death than Game of Thrones and more sarcastic teen heroines than Divergent and the Hunger Games.

Read more... US: http://amzn.to/1JagDN2  UK http://amzn.to/1KZ53bu