I guess you could call me a lazy blogger and if I’m honest I
couldn’t argue with that. I don’t write this blog anywhere near often enough,
despite knowing I should. I apologize for that, time just seems to get away from me and I do have excuses for my
laziness, although you may think they’re pretty lame.
At the moment I’m busy writing “Cheating”, the fifth in the
Dean and Steph detective series. It’s going well so far but as usual the
characters have taken on a life of their own and have gone off in unexpected
directions. The perpetrator has changed and that caused quite a long pause in
the writing but I’m back on course now. The thing is I did promise to have it
out in the fall and am a little behind schedule so I’m playing catch up.
On top of that I have my weekly column in the Putnam Herald
to write and, with a two week vacation in England coming over the horizon; I
am trying to get ahead with that. Between times I’ve been editing “The Prince’s
Puzzle”, an English Civil War detective novel and looking for an appropriate
picture for the cover, a task that is not as easy as you may think. Finally, I do
a full time day job to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table for a
growing family.
It’s a busy life but I still feel a little guilty that I don’t
write this blog more often, I will try to improve my performance but don’t hold
your breath; the story telling has to come first.
And speaking of story telling I think it’s about time I
introduced you to some more of mine. Below are the first few pages of “The
Lichfield Conspiracy” a political thriller about terrorists, politicians, a soldier
and a girl. See what you think and, if it sparks your interest, you’ll find it
on Kindle for 99cents at:
CHAPTER ONE - LONDONDERRY, NORTHERN
IRELAND
The gusting wind rattled pellets of
rain against the car and Ben Shaughnessy used the back of his gloved hand to
wipe the condensation from the inside of the passenger window.
He looked across the Catholic cemetery to where the mourners stood, huddled
with a rain-coated priest around the open grave. ‘It’s a fine day for a
funeral,’ he thought to himself. Politeness dictated he should be out there
with them, but he’d not known old Richard Sullivan well. In fact, he’d not seen
the man for many years and, since coming out of the Maze prison, he found it
difficult to keep warm outside, so he stayed in the car.
It didn’t matter though. He’d made the gesture; they saw him in the church.
They now knew he was back. That, and the fact he remained in the car, would
make the superstitious peasants remember how things once were and then they
would begin to fear again. He wanted them to fear, they should fear. They
should fear because they were going to pay for his lost youth.
Fourteen years was a long time to have been away, a fifth of a lifetime. Times
had changed, people had come and gone and there was a new order of things. They
didn’t need him and his kind now but that didn’t matter; after losing fourteen
years he no longer cared about the Cause, now it was personal.
The car shook and Shaughnessy shivered as Mickey Collins opened the driver's
door and got in, bringing an icy blast of air with him.
'I took the flowers Ben,' he said. 'Sean remembers you and said to say hello.
He'd come over himself but with it being his da's funeral and all it wouldn't
look right.'
Shaughnessy looked over at the mourners again. Sean Sullivan was easy to pick
out; he was always a big lad and now he was running to fat. How old was he?
Thirty-four, thirty-five? He looked as if he were in his fifties standing there
with his brother Patrick beside the grieving widow.
The flowers were a nice touch, a gesture no one could challenge. His name on
the attached tag would have the desired effect however. ‘I bet he said to
say hello,’ Shaughnessy thought with a cynical smile. Sean had always been
scared of him and the bastard was probably shitting himself at the thought that
he was out again.
Patrick was different. He’d not been wild but he’d run with the lads
occasionally. There were tales about him Ben could tell that would make his old
dad spin in the grave they were now putting him into.
Without taking his eyes from the shivering crowd at the graveside, he spoke,
'Don't bullshit me, Mickey.' His voice was quiet and pleasant but Mickey
Collins lost his eager grin instantly and his face paled a little. He’d known
Ben in the old days. He walked in his shadow and knew enough to be scared.
'Don't bullshit me,' Ben repeated. 'Sean Sullivan never said that at all.
Patrick might have said it but not Sean.'
Mickey blanched further and swallowed the lump that seemed to have appeared in
his throat. It was as if the past fourteen years had never happened, as if
Shaughnessy had never been away. He’d heard that amused tone before, had seen
the tiny smile which never reached as far as the hazel eyes too many times in
the past. Fear flooded his mind; he remembered that smile only too well. The
screaming of a Protestant soul in torment always followed it.
Not that religion mattered to Shaughnessy; he’d inflicted pain on Catholics as
well. He enjoyed it too much to care and that was why the Cause abandoned him.
They’d had enough of him before he went to prison and had not accepted him
again since his release. Ben Shaughnessy was too dangerous. He enjoyed the killing
too much, he wanted too much of it and that was not the name of the game any
more. Mickey swallowed again.
'I'm sorry Ben,' he whimpered in terror. 'I thought Sean would want to say
hello for old times sa.. .'
'Sean Sullivan and I have no old times,' Shaughnessy interrupted as he rubbed
away the condensation again and stared with interest across at the group of
mourners.
He’d not noticed the girl before. She was standing half-concealed behind Sean
and only moved to the front as the fat bastard started to lead his mother away.
She stopped by the graveside, staring down as the wind gusted and whipped her
rain darkened, auburn hair across her face. She lifted a hand to pull the
tresses back over her shoulder and his breath stuck in his throat as he caught
a first look at her features in profile.
After fourteen years inside the first thing he told Mickey to get him was a
woman. She was a tart from the rough end of Derry
but it didn’t matter. He used her and felt nothing, just the easing of an ache.
This girl was different; she was young, tall and slim. A stranger would have
called her attractive, but he was not a stranger. He knew her face. Even after
fourteen years, he knew it, despite the fact she’d only been a small child when
he went away. It was the face of a dead man and he felt a burning throb of
excitement start in his loins as he looked at her.
'Her. There, the one with the long red hair.' His voice was a hoarse whisper
but Mickey was glad of the diversion from his own misguided attempt to please
Shaughnessy. Quickly he followed the direction of the other man's gaze.
There were several women at the graveside, two or three of them with red hair
but he knew the one Shaughnessy meant. She was turning away now, but she still
stood out from the crowd and he already knew who she was, even though she’d
only arrived yesterday. He misunderstood Shaughnessy's interest however.
'Fancy that one, do you?' he smiled. 'Well you'll have to be bloody quick,
she's only here for the funeral and then she's off home again tomorrow.' He
paused as memory flooded back. Christ. Surely Ben knew her? She was a feminine
image of her brother at the same age and if anyone had known Vince Gregson,
Shaughnessy had. He must have seen her a thousand times before Vinny was killed
but prison does strange things to a man. She’d only been a child when Ben went
away and maybe he’d forgotten.
‘You already know her, or you did. She's Rose Gregson's little girl, Margaret.
You know, Vinny's little sister.' He could not resist the temptation to look at
Shaughnessy's face as he told him. He was hoping to see surprise, shock or some
similar emotion there but apart from a slight narrowing of those cold hazel
eyes there was nothing.
Shaughnessy didn’t even reply as he continued to stare without blinking at the
girl. He’d known who she was. She looked like Vinny, softer, more feminine but
there was a definite likeness. The last time he’d seen her, she was about eight
years old. She’d stood in the corner of her mother's kitchen, screaming herself
into hysterics as he’d dumped Vinny's body on the table to lie wide-eyed and sightless,
dripping blood and brains onto the floor.
The memory stirred him and he felt a sexual urge that was almost too strong to
deny.
'What's she doing here?' he grated.
'Her ma's the widow's sister. It's her uncle Richard they're burying.'
Shaughnessy nodded slowly, memory returning and his eyes narrowing in thought
as a pulse beat visibly in his pale temple.
'Okay, Mickey,' he said as the girl walked away from the grave and followed the
rest of the family. 'Start her up. We're going to help console the grieving
widow.'
