“The Assassins’ Village” ~ Prologue

Cyprus. A Sunday in late August. Present day.
Fair is foul, and foul is fair.
Macbeth. Act 1 Scene 1
~~~If.  Such a small word and yet… If only he had bothered to take a look at his actions. If he had cared one iota, maybe his life would not have been full of ego, lust, self-gratification and profligacy. Self-denial was unknown to him.
~~~
He awoke confused and disorientated, barely able to breathe, his throat obstructed. He heard a voice; soft and persistent, close to his ear. Struggling against the cotton wool seemingly stuffed in his brain, he forced open his eyes. The man squinted at the blinding light. He knew he was lying down. The agonising pain in his left leg intensified when he attempted to move it from its impossible angle. A pain as sharp as a new razor blade cut through him. He shrieked in alarm, realising his leg was broken.
 The whispered voice spoke again. The man looked around him in sudden panic. Who and what was all this? And why couldn’t he function properly? He tried to speak, to answer the phantom voice, but his tongue couldn’t form the words. A sudden movement and a shadow fell across his face… Raising his head, his eyes widened as he remembered being pushed over the limestone cliff into the vineyard below. But that explained nothing. Struggling, the injured man raised himself into a sitting position to confront the shadow.
A firm hand, calloused and strong, pushed him back down.  ‘Keep still. You can’t get up.’

The man recognised an accent. A trickle of blood rolled down between his dry, tortured lips and a thread of fear crept through him.
The shadow spoke in a rasping voice. ‘Soon you will see. You must pay for all you’ve done.’ The shadow hissed in his face. A breath that was hot and sour.

As the shadow bent closer the man gave a start and recoiled; he recognised his assailant. A deep chill spread through his gut despite the heat of the day. In terror, he fought at the cords binding his wrists. With desperation he cried out, spluttering through the soiled coarse cloth in his cheeks. The core of dread in his stomach spread like a foul growth of malignancy. His eyes pleaded mercy.

The shadow gave a laugh, shrill and mirthless. ‘Shall I forgive you? No. I think not. Never once have I seen you give kindness. You treat all like dogs at your feet. Well, you are dirt beneath mine.’

 Abruptly the shadow withdrew and walked over to a low stonewall. It returned, carrying a pair of gloves and an old leather bag. The assailant drew on the gloves, before untying a thong at the neck of the receptacle. The man watched, beads of sweat sliding down his face, then he writhed in horror, as he realised what was being thrust before him. He twisted his head aside, gagging at the revolting sight; yelling deep in his throat. ‘No! No! Please! Oh God help me!’ His words were garbled and lost.

‘This is all your doing. Yours! Did you never think how you hurt me?’

As the victim stared with revulsion his throat gagged and he retched. Stomach churning, he felt a warmth spread beneath his loins. Screaming in panic he tried to pull away from the calm face of his attacker, only to realise that it was futile. The end, when it came, was swift, a thrust and a sharp twist.  At first, there was no wound; then the blood flowed and grew like a blossom of deep red peonies spilling their petals to hiss upon the hot honey-coloured rock. Satisfied, the assassin bent down, removed the pretty blue scarab ring from the victim’s finger, placed it in the bag and walked away without another look.

But of course, this is a later scene – let the play begin…

After discovering the truth surrounding the bloody murders in, “The Assassins’ Village”, our sexy, feisty sleuth and heroine, Diana Rivers and her partner Steve, decide they deserve a holiday. Trying to relax at their luxurious palm fringed plantation hotel in lush, tropical Malaysia; things don’t quite work out as they imagined.
Diana is approached by the hotel owner, the enigmatic Miss Chalcot, well-bred, imperious and secretive, to take a look through some old family documents. Miss Chalcot possesses a burning ambition to put right a dreadful wrong that occurred over forty years ago – and Diana
is given free rein to pursue the mysterious past of the family and discover what lies behind the dark stories.
Diana enters into a world of the 1950’s and 1960’s, where lies, deceit, illicit love, jealousies and perhaps murder all feature.
What really happened all those years ago? Who were Paul, Hermione and the beautiful but selfish Eleanor? Who was responsible for events that shocked the whole family and plunged it into despair? And what is the real story behind the façade?
Will Diana triumph against all odds yet again?
I challenge you to guess before the final curtain. Here is a short excerpt:

Children Of The Plantation ~ Prologue

Opening the kitchen door, she spotted a vixen standing near the refuse bin. Hermione clapped her hands, and it shot through the hedge at the bottom of the garden.

Hermione's heart was thudding in her breast as she considered what next to do. Casting a look around, she gave thanks that the clouds scudding overhead made it a dark night. This had to be done in complete privacy.

Giving herself a mental shake, she crossed the damp grass to the shed and picked up a spade. A clod of earth still clung to the sharp blade from where she had been digging in her vegetable patch earlier that afternoon. It seemed such a long time ago now. She paused, still not completely certain she was doing the right thing. Making up her mind, she walked over to the newly turned earth.

The air smelt fresh after the rain shower, and a light breeze blew the mixed garden scents her way while she dug. The hole was to be small but deep, especially as she had just driven the fox off. Satisfied, she stood back and peered down into the soft loamy material, a sorry place for such a pathetic bundle.

Sick at heart, but knowing they had no choice, Hermione laid down her spade and walked back into the kitchen. She picked up the tightly wrapped package and carried it outside; it weighed no more than a couple of pounds as she gently laid it down into the hole.

Covering it with fresh earth, she scattered pebbles around and knelt on the grass. Had there been any other choice? Whatever were they going to tell him when the time came?

            

“The Crossing” ~ Prologue

Richard:  The Atlantic 2005

It was now or never. He pushed off with his legs and with determination dived for the net.  He hit the water, his lower torso disappearing into the black froth that fiercely clawed at him. Somehow, he managed to grab the harsh net with one arm and felt it tangle around him. The ship lurched and this time he was fully immersed in deep water. What seemed like minutes later he broke the surface, coughing and choking, the salt stinging his eyes. He clamped his other hand to the netting and clung to it like a limpet. The water roared and hissed around his ears, terrifyingly black. He knew he must climb the net fast as his energy was rapidly ebbing away and conditions were not going to get any better.

Moving one arm higher, he found a rung and hauled himself slowly up, grunting with exertion as he did so. His hands were bleeding from fresh cuts where he had smashed against the rough barnacles on the ship’s hull. Fatigue was fast overcoming him. The past few days of stress and lack of sleep were taking their toll. Gritting his teeth, he managed to move up another foot of net and then slowly by sheer willpower pulled himself up rung by rung. Dimly he heard the encouraging cries of the crew above him. He paused and looked up and saw a line of faces; his adrenalin surged and with renewed vigour he at last found himself collapsing thankfully on the ship’s deck.

Utterly exhausted by his ordeal Richard lay there not quite believing where he was. Water streamed from his body and he vaguely knew that soon he would feel the cold as it seeped through to his bones. Coughing and retching seawater, Richard sat up and became aware of the ring of sturdy looking sea boots clustered around him. He attempted to stand and felt strong arms supporting him. He braced his legs against the motion of the deck and looked round. A circle of anxious faces stared back; a stocky bearded fellow who he assumed to be the captain, four or five crewmembers and an ashen -faced Toby.

The captain cleared his throat, getting ready to address Richard. Again Richard looked around his surroundings and forestalled him by hoarsely saying, ‘Where’s Connie? Where’s my wife?’

Billy: Germany 1945

Billy collected his ‘treasures’ together and laid them at the end of his ramshackle bunk in hut 19. There wasn’t a lot to account for three years’ incarceration at the hands of the sometimes-brutal Germans, but to him they represented his life and more importantly his soul. He thought about the refugees that had filed past the gates of his camp. Old people, women with children, babes in arms, the injured, burned, terrified, deranged. All were fleeing from the horrors. The Christians among them struggling to believe and reconcile their religious beliefs with Nazi cold-blooded excesses and the mass murder.

He considered his pitiful little pile; his Christmas cards from Penny, her heavily censored letters and her simple but evocative poetry, the hand-made playing cards, two cigarettes, the German soldier’s belt buckle and Nathaniel’s penny whistle. Nathaniel.  Billy shook his head in regret and fought back the familiar choking feeling that arose in his throat whenever he thought about him. He thrust his dark thoughts aside and continued picking over his possessions. He would take as many clothes as he could carry. He had nothing heavy; he’d given his bible away, hopefully to someone who would put it to better use than he. He gathered the articles up, tied them into a bundle with his faded and much darned pullover, and slung it over his shoulder. He straightened his back, lifted his head and stood as erect as his gammy leg allowed. I’ll march out of here proudly he thought. Together with his comrades they formed into ranks and marched smartly up to the gates. The weak and sick were supported by their stronger colleagues, their spirits rising. They didn’t know where they were going, but it had to be a better place than this.