Fantasy Frolics

The Wizards Gambit by Kylie Betzner is a whimsical light foray into the world of dwarves, elves and men — with a few other odds and ends thrown in for good measure.

After generations of conflict, Wizard White Beard has had enough, so he decides to end the wars by instigating a scavenger hunt. All the spoils go to the winner.

Enter Mongrel, a human with an interesting past, who decides that he wants to play too.

The story follows the hunt as the various factions are let loose on the countryside, they’re fighting to win, and dastardly and underhand deeds are the norm as things begin to heat up; but there is also another element to the story: does everyone have to hate each other?

The author’s light bouncy style imbues the book with a cosy warmth. There is humour running throughout, with tongue in cheek modern-day references aplenty.

Take a trip and embark on a light-hearted journey into a well-defined fantasy land; I’m sure you’ll enjoy it just as much as I did.

Wizards Gambit

A little taster to whet your appetite.

             Here for you is the first chapter of my next book, Scooters Yard. It should be making an appearance in the next few weeks, but for all those interested here's a little taster of what's to come.

Enjoy!

CHAPTER 1

He eased himself back into the chair with his feet crossed and stretched out beneath the desk, ankles twitching in anticipation. He then laid his arms across his stomach and interlocked the fingers, sighing with contentment. He grinned to himself at a sound; it was the creak of a floorboard as a hesitant step received the full weight of its owner. There was a tentative knock on the door; the thought now went through his mind, did he answer promptly or should he let the knockee wait. To answer too soon might indicate that he was too keen to find out what had prompted the knockee to knock, and if he waited too long then that could indicate an indifference to the knockee’s presence. It was a puzzle, and over time he would have to figure it out. He erred on the side of caution and snapped himself upright in the chair, hurriedly scrabbling together some loose sheets of paper.

‘Come,’ he barked.

The door creaked open and a young nervous face appeared in the void. ‘Ready for you now, sir.’

‘Right you are, lad,’ he replied, laying the loose sheets back down onto the desk. ‘I will be down presently.’

‘Sir,’ acknowledged the lad crisply. The door then closed gently.

The grin widened, and then MacGillicudy pushed back the chair and stood up. His jacket was draped from a coat-hanger on the hook, so he stepped forward and brushed it down, taking care to not to catch the epaulettes with his fingers; his new epaulettes, bright sparkly ones with a single silver star over two crossed batons, surrounded by a silver circle of interlocking bells. The jacket was newly tailored and fitted like a glove. He eased himself into it and adjusted how it lay across his shoulders with a shrug. He then carefully lowered the coal-black stove-pipe hat onto his head and he considered himself ready. He then walked the three paces to the door and turned the handle; there was no-one in the corridor, so he took out a clean hankie and gave the new brass nameplate a quick polish. "Commander Jethro MacGillicudy." was what was inscribed. A new rank to go with the new job; Chief of Police in the City of Gornstock.

The grey hair was neatly trimmed but his side-whiskers were full and flecked with a slightly red tinge, as was the moustache. The ruddy face was an honest one, but there was a toughness to it which was a product of his origins, his family had come from the cold mountainous region in the north. He was a Scleepman, and tough as old boots.

MacGillicudy marched along the corridor and then went down the stairs; he was thinking that this was what his predecessor would have given his eye teeth for. Harold Bough was the Captain who had just retired. He had been answerable to the Justice Ministry and they had dictated to him just what was required; but he wasn't considered to be the Chief of Police. After the ramifications of a case some months earlier, which involved a minister and a banker, it was decided that the police should be let loose of its shackles with minimal interference from government to do its job. MacGillicudy was the recipient of the new powers, and he got the new rank to go with it. Commander.

The canteen of Scooters Yard was the only place big enough to hold all the police officers available. The feelers, who got their nickname from Lord Carstairs Fielding, their founder, waited patiently for their new boss to come and talk to them. They sat around the tables drinking tea and playing cards while the dart board received some heavy action. Uniforms were unbuttoned and there was an element of relaxation amidst the fug of cigarette smoke. The aroma of bacon sandwiches and the residue of last night’s kebab farts enfolded them all in a hug of familiarity and contentment as they talked and joked with one another. They didn't know it, but their world was about to be turned upside down.

MacGillicudy had taken a great deal of time over his thinking about how he would like the Police Force to progress, he agonised over his decision and thought about how he would have reacted should it have happened to him. Progress to him was about how to improve the lot of the average feeler, how to make the city more secure, how to make its inhabitants feel more comfortable with the role of the police, how to grab more felons and make the streets safer. This, he decided, was one way to start the ball rolling, and he wouldn’t shirk from the responsibility.

The young feeler waited at the bottom of the stairs until McGillicudy started his descent, and then he ran along the corridor to the canteen. He burst in waving his arms and yelling that the commander was coming. After a few moments a quiet began to ripple through the gathering and they all turned their heads towards the door, waiting, pondering, eager to hear what their new boss was going to say. Maybe they shouldn’t have bothered.

Commander MacGillicudy adjusted his hat yet again and puffed out his chest before decisively grabbing the handle and pushing open the door. The sea of faces were already waiting, some augmented by a rollie dangling nonchalantly from the corner of their mouths, a mug of tea fixed halfway between table and lips, a laugh cut off as though snipped by a pair of scissors. Up at the back an old feeler must have made a comment as the younger feelers only half-managed to stifle the adolescent giggles. MacGillicudy’s eyes narrowed as he looked towards the group; he'd heard the last couple of words, ". . . Commander MacWanker". A few feelers shuffled away from his gaze and the commander locked eyes with the perpetrator.  Some things never change, he thought wryly. He grinned to himself and then walked towards the raised platform that had been erected from a couple of crates of beer and a bit of four-by-two. Revenge would come in a most appropriate way.

The chairs shuffled and a couple of coughs rent the smoke-infused room as they watched MacGillicudy step up onto the little platform and regard them all.

‘Gentlemen,’ he intoned. ‘Police Officers of Gornstock, fellow feelers.’ His eyes scanned the canteen, and then he felt a nudge on his arm and was handed a mug of tea with the words “The Twearth’s Greatest Boss" written on it in big black letters. He took a slurp and smacked his lips in satisfaction, hot and so strong you could stand a spoon up in it. This was probably Wiggins’ idea. ‘As you are no doubt aware,’ he continued. ‘I have now been appointed Commander of Police. The last couple of weeks have involved me in discussion with the ministry, and the result of those discussions I can now tell you. We are to have several new departments; the first to tell you about is the new Department for Investigating Crime. D.I.C, it is to be called and will be mainly concerned with major investigations to do with murders, serious theft and suchlike...’

‘Who’s to head it, sir?’ cried someone from the back. ‘Is he gonna be called the DIC-head?’

Laughter greeted the question and MacGillicudy inwardly cringed, his eyes closed momentarily as he let out the breath he was holding; after a long time deliberating nobody had thought of that one. It was not a good start. He should have known; whatever some people might say, some feelers were sharper than a knife on a strop and he dreaded to think what they were going to make of the rest of it.

‘Very droll I’m sure,’ he replied to the wag. ‘However, initially, I will be in charge of the department; so Magot, would you still like to call me a dic-head?’ He finished the question with a hard stony look that dared the questioner to respond. Magot knew when to keep his mouth shut, but MacGillicudy knew that the comments were really going to start flying as soon as he left the canteen. He finished staring then scanned the room quickly, indicating that further comment was not advised. He bared his teeth in a sort of a smile and then continued. ‘Furthermore I intend to develop a department with the sole responsibility for dealing with the streets and roads in the city, keeping them clear and sorting out problems with the traffic.' He thought quickly and couldn’t come up with a rude acronym for that one so he continued with a little bit more assurance. ‘Also there will be a department dealing with non-human citizens.’ Nope, that one was safe too, he decided. ‘Of course there are the little vices that everyone who’s anyone gets up to; drugs, blackmail, sex, etc. So we will have a specialist department for that too. There was an excited murmuring at this as their imaginations began to run riot; he decided there wouldn’t be any trouble filling that one with volunteers. ‘And finally, for the moment at least,’ and this was where it was all going to explode. In a way he was looking forward to seeing their reaction. ‘Gentlemen, you are not going to be just gentlemen any more. I have decided to open up our ranks to members of the fair sex. We are going to take on female recruits.’

The silence seemed to go on forever as this little grenade of knowledge ingratiated itself into their brains. He looked around the sea of faces and watched as the expressions contorted into grimaces of puzzlement and incomprehension, horror and bewilderment and horrified bewilderment — women, in the feelers!

MacGillicudy turned and quickly left the canteen, leaving them dumbstruck with incredulity. He smiled inwardly as he marched through the building, and then paused while he waited for the eruption. And then it came, rolling along the corridor like a tidal wave. Round one to him, he thought, as he climbed the stairs back to his office.

Sergeant Wiggins followed hot on his tail, and MacGillicudy was shuffling some papers as the expected knock came. There was a lot of angst on Wiggins’ face as he came in and MacGillicudy reckoned he’d only escaped with a promise to come straight upstairs and try to talk sense to the commander.

‘Senior Sergeant Wiggins,’ began MacGillicudy with a smile, as the door closed.

‘Acting Senior Sergeant,’ corrected Wiggins, as he crossed over to the desk.

‘Er . . . no, actually. As of today, you have been substantiated in post,’ returned the commander.

Wiggins stopped dead in his tracks with his foot half-raised; his face drained of colour. ‘Wha . . . what?’ he stammered.

MacGillicudy offered the chair. ‘I’m making it permanent, Horace. I’m sorry to disappoint you as I know I said that it would only be temporary, however, things change, and this is a thing that has changed.’

‘But . . . but I don’t want to be the Senior Sergeant, Jethro,’ he replied, a pleading look on his face.

‘And I didn’t want to be sitting at this desk, Horace, but I am.  So while I am sitting here I intend to do the best job I can, and that means I need a Senior Sergeant I can trust — and like it or not, you’re that Senior Sergeant.’

The incredulous stare that Wiggins aimed at his commander was returned with a knowing grin. Wiggins tried to formulate an argument in his mind but had trouble in transferring the thought to his mouth as he regarded MacGillicudy.

‘Er . . . Sir, pleeeeeeeease,' he pleaded again as the thought in his mind began to fly away. ‘Look,’ he said, as he tried to grab hold of the bit of string dangling in his mind. ‘I’ve been a feeler for twenty-six years, I’ve been happy doing that, I don’t want the responsibility. Our old Captain Bough persuaded me to take on the Sergeants stripes, but I only did it as a favour for a while, and then the same with you when you asked me to act up as Senior Sergeant. It was only until you sorted everything out and then I could return to walking the streets again, doing what I know I can do well. Not this organising lark.’

‘You finished, Horace?’ replied MacGillicudy, unmoved.

‘No. I want my life back. I want to have a crafty smoke in some little cubbyhole, I want to step into an alley when I see something happening when it don’t really matter, I want to slurp me tea when I sit 'round a watchman’s brazier on a cold winters night. I want to do all those things an old feeler does.'

‘You’ve definitely finished now, Senior Sergeant Wiggins, because Senior Sergeant it is, and Senior Sergeant it will remain.’

Wiggins took a deep breath. ‘You’re a hard bastard, Jethro.’

MacGillicudy smiled his agreement and sat back in his chair.

Wiggins was just a year or two younger than MacGillicudy, but he’d certainly aged better. He still had a mop of dark wavy hair and was lean of body; he was clean shaven but his face didn’t have that lived in look — yet. He was a conscientious feeler, though wholly unambitious. The last few months had turned his life upside-down as unwanted promotion followed unwanted promotion.

‘Good, that’s all settled then.’ MacGillicudy leant forward and pushed a wad of notes bound with string over to him. ‘All this is for you, and you alone at the moment. It’s the plans that the Ministry and me have hammered out. There’s a little more there than I told that lot,’ and he indicated the door with a jab of his finger, ‘but I think it will be better to let them know the rest, as and when, little by little. But, as you need to know the direction the force is going to take, you can enjoy a little light reading.’

Wiggins sighed heavily and pulled the wad over towards him. He untied the string and then flicked over the first page with a degree of trepidation and began to scan down. He then stopped reading, and after a pause, looked up at his commander. ‘Women? You really don’t mean to go through with it, do you, Jethro?’

MacGillicudy grinned and then winked. ‘What do you think, Horace?’

‘You can’t, you really can’t. Didn’t you hear that lot down there? Half of them wouldn’t recognise a female if they had one thrown at them, the other half only think they’re good for one thing.’

‘Then they’ll have to get used to it, because like it or not, women we will have.’

Horace Wiggins spent the rest of the day in a sort of daze. He’d gone back down to the canteen to tell everyone that Commander MacGillicudy was determined to see the idea through, come what may, and that he was powerless to stop it. The result was that the uproar had continued unabated until the feelers left to go on their beats. Only then did a sort of peace descended on the Yard, and he was certain that the main topic of conversation, as the feelers plodded around, would be the imminent arrival of female feelers.

He’d wondered where the commander had got the idea from, because it certainly hadn’t come from him. He’d spent all of his life avoiding them. Oh, he wasn’t particularly against them, it was just that he didn’t know too much about them. Yes, he’d come across them during his working shift, and he'd managed to deal with them, in an arm’s length sort of way; but to have one close to him, possibly walking beside him on a beat, well, that was another matter entirely. They had breasts and things, or lack of things, so how could he spend all day looking at them? He would see their bits out of the corner of his eye as they bounced and wobbled as they walked, and then another thought occurred to him, what if he wanted to have a widdle? Whatever would he do? He would normally dip down an alley, but how could he do that with a female standing next to him? And how would they have a widdle? Oh, he knew what was what where it was concerned, but he was brought up to respect women, he’d only ever dreamt of doing it, but had never actually done it. It should only happen when you married one of them and he was married to the force. He always joined in the conversations with the lads about them, all the suggestive suggestions and all the unsubtle expectations of what a particular one of them would do; but the reality was, the real reality was, was that he was a little bit scared of them. And anyway, whatever could you find to talk about to one of them? Washing dishes? Ironing? Bringing up children? He shook his head forlornly at the thought. Battleball, cards, drinking, women, now that was what real men talked about. A horrible thought then entered his mind, the Truncheon, the feelers pub, would that mean that women feelers would be allowed to go in there? He shuddered, and then quickly tried to dismiss the thought, but however hard he tried it kept sneaking back. The Truncheon, the holiest of holies, the feelers oasis, the island in a sea of confusion, the one place to go to get away from it all — his sanctuary; it was going to be desecrated.

‘Done it,’ announced MacGillicudy as he walked through Cornwallis’ door. ‘Told them straight I did, and you should have seen the look on their faces. Women, I said, we are going to have women feelers.'

‘Well done, Jethro,’ replied Jocelyn Cornwallis, standing up and offering a congratulatory hand. ‘I did wonder if you would lose your nerve.’ Cornwallis was thirty years old with dark brown shoulder-length hair and sharp equine features. He was dressed in a smart black suit, and at six feet tall, was an annoyingly good looking man; even worse was the fact that he was the only son of an earl, and richer than a rich person could ever be, and  a member of the Gornstock Assembly to boot.

MacGillicudy smiled at Cornwallis. They’d become good friends over the last few months, despite Cornwallis’ job as a private investigator. ‘Lose my nerve? Come on, Jack, when did I last lose my nerve?’

Cornwallis raised an eyebrow and grinned back. ‘Three weeks ago, when you had toothache; Rose even went with you, but as soon as you got to the tooth doctor’s door you turned and ran.’

MacGillicudy had the decency to look a little sheepish. ‘That was different; it weren’t work so it don’t count. And anyway, Frankie tagged along as well, and he went on for twenty minutes about how that particular tooth doctor spent nearly half an hour with his tweezers in some poor sod’s mouth, and how he broke three teeth before managing to find the right one. I’m giving you the shortened version as Frankie went into even greater detail, even using sound effects. You would have cut and run under that provocation.’

Cornwallis had to concede the point; Frankie was well known to have a sadistic edge when it came to someone else’s misfortune. ‘Come and sit down, I’ll get you a coffee; the children should be back soon, and if you’re good I’ll let you play with them.’

The children were Frankie and Rose, the other two investigators at Cornwallis Investigations. Frankie was born in the slums and was as hard as nails, but could really be quite gooey underneath; he was as tall as Cornwallis but built like a brick outhouse with puffy ears and a broken nose, topped off with light cropped hair. Rose though, was something else. To describe her as drop dead gorgeous would be an understatement of epic proportions; she had long honey-coloured silken hair and two enormous blue eyes, five foot nine tall and slim, but not where it mattered. Everything about her was perfect. Men went weak at the knees as soon as they caught sight of her; luckily for Cornwallis she was his girlfriend as well as his work partner.

MacGillicudy slurped his coffee while he sat at the vacant secretary’s desk; Maud was away for the day, doing something with one of her clubs, re-enacting the days of the Morris Council in times gone past for her local fair - which should, if they re-enact it properly, be a bloody and brutal affair. ‘Do you think Rose will have changed her mind?’ he asked, a slightly worried cadence creeping into his voice.

‘She hasn’t said anything to me,’ replied Cornwallis, putting his feet up on his desk and leaning back in his chair. ‘But you know Rose, if she said she’ll do something, then you can guarantee she’ll do it.’

MacGillicudy nodded. ‘Just checking. Where did they go by the way?’

‘Some scumbag from the Brews is trying to con an old widow woman out of her money down in the Kingsington area. Frankie and Rose are following him.’

‘I won’t rate his chances then.’

‘Slim to none, I reckon; especially when Gerald gets to hear.’

Gerald was the King of the Brews and ruled his slum with an iron fist. He had an incident some years previously where he fell in the Universal Collider and the result was that it was now virtually impossible for him to get hurt, the Universal Collider being a device that allows people to look at what’s happening in other Universes, exploiting a rent in the fabric of time and space. He makes sure that his thieves are honest, and diddling little old ladies out of their money is not, as he terms it, legitimate.

MacGillicudy finished his coffee and then leant forward, resting his elbows on the desk. ‘I’ve got the old watch-houses nearly ready. As you know, Stackhouse Lane is already up and running and Pendon is nearly there too, the rest won’t be far behind. How the Assembly agreed to repair them all I don’t know.’

‘The Assembly is still a bit nervous about crime at the moment, and I think they’ll agree to virtually everything you put in front of them. Mind you, I’ve always thought that having just the Yard as base for all police activity in the whole of the city a bit ludicrous, especially when there are all those old watch-houses sitting around doing nothing. The Yard will get to the point where it can’t cope any longer.’

‘We ain’t far off that now; but I must admit it will be good to clear the Yard of all those feelers, put them in the watch-houses and let them pound the beat from there. All the specialist departments I’m going to keep in the Yard, but the daily stuff will be the responsibility of the sergeants in charge at their watch-houses.’

‘Even Pendon?’

‘Oh, no, not there, can’t have run-of-the-mill feelers in there for a good while yet; though I’m going to have to put a sergeant and a couple of feelers in while it all happens. Just hope I pick the good ones.’

‘When’s the advert in the paper?’

‘Tonight, which means tomorrow is going to be a busy day.’

Cornwallis nodded. ‘I actually think Rose is looking forward to it. She said to me last night that she was working on a couple of plans.’

‘Hope so, just a shame we can’t get her into uniform, but then again, I doubt any work would get done by any of the feelers she’d work with.’

Cornwallis drummed his fingers on his desk while the two of them lapsed into silence; he pulled out his pocket watch to check the time, then got up and went to look out of the window. It was a dull day and the grey clouds were filling up the sky; he looked down into Grantby Street and watched as the carts and coaches rolled by. He winced as he saw the shoveller dodge the traffic to scoop up the horses leftovers to sell later on down at the market. Then he saw them, laughing, as they walked along the pavement. He turned from the window and went to the coffee pot and poured four mugs; MacGillicudy smiled as he watched him do it. A few minutes later there came footsteps on the stairs and then the door flew open and in walked Rose and Frankie.

Cornwallis did as he always did when Rose walked into the room, he smiled in a boyish sort of way, the way boys smile when they know that they have the biggest conker in the playground, the way they smile when they know that they, and they alone, have the biggest bag of sweets, the way they smile when they’ve got the biggest ever cream cake and are just about to eat it. MacGillicudy couldn’t blame him, he was the one who spent most of his nights upstairs in his flat with her — not to mention some of his days.

‘Job done,’ announced Frankie, as he walked over to pick up his mug. ‘But bloody ‘ell, did he yell; and I only tapped him a little. Afternoon, Jethro.’

Rose followed and then bent over and gave Cornwallis a little kiss on the lips. ‘Gerald got to hear that we were there and sent a couple of his men around too,' she said, turning and sitting on his lap while wrapping her arms around his neck. She then flashed a smile of greetings towards MacGillicudy, who felt a pleasant little shiver run down his spine.

‘Yeah,' added Frankie, 'there were a bit of a queue when we left. I reckon Gerald’s boys went in after us and had another little word. Well, we know they did, ‘cause we heard them as we walked off.’

‘Well done the pair of you.’ Cornwallis grinned as he squeezed Rose tighter. ‘Now,’ he said, looking up into her face. ‘Jethro is a bit worried that you might not help him; the advert is in the paper tonight and he’s getting a little concerned.’

‘Oh, Jethro,’ she replied, looking over to him. She pulled a disappointed face but her eyes were glinting. ‘Don’t you trust me?’ she asked coyly.

‘Always, Rose; but you haven’t told me what you’re planning.’

She relaxed her face and smiled. ‘I’m not planning on anything at the moment. I’m just going to do what you want and pick the dozen that seem the most likely.’

‘I’m quite willing to help,’ said Frankie, sitting down and slurping his coffee noisily.

‘Yes, and we know what sort of help that would be.’

Frankie grinned. ‘I would just give you my expert opinion,’ he said innocently.

‘Yes, that’s what I would be worried about,’ replied MacGillicudy with a frown. He turned his attention back to Rose and stood up. ‘So, first thing tomorrow morning then, Rose; and let's hope we’ll get some good candidates.’

Rose smiled and nodded. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

MacGillicudy said his goodbyes and left. Tomorrow would see a new chapter in the history of Gornstock’s Police; the introduction of female feelers into the force.

My review of Witch Light by Susan Fletcher

Seen through the eyes of Corrag, a young girl imprisoned for being a witch and awaiting execution by burning, Witch Light tells the story of the Glen Coe massacre of 1692. Corrag relates her story to Charles Leslie, a churchman, as she sits in her wintery cell, waiting for the snow to clear before being tied to the stake.

Based on real events, this book is beautifully written. The descriptions transport you to a different time and place where you can smell the heather and see the snow covered mountains (a cliché, I know, but apt). Corrag’s story tugs at the heartstrings; her life, and the injustices heaped upon her, are the driving force of the book, which culminates in the bloody massacre on a cold February night. She is both innocent and world weary, naïve and wise and all she wants to do is to live her life; but the tragic circumstances which drove her away from home are always in her mind. She thought she had found sanctuary in Glen Coe, and for a short time she had – but only for a short time.

Without doubt this is a little gem of a book, hauntingly beautiful and evocative, and one that I would highly recommend!

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Witch-Light-Susan-Fletcher/dp/0007321600

An update on Scooters Yard

Seeing as I’ve not been around so much recently, I thought I would give you an update on how Scooters Yard, the second Gornstock novel, is going.

 Well, it’s going through the appraisal stage. I’ve sent it out to a few people who are at this moment giving judgement on storyline, plot, general writing, to see whether it works as I meant it to. I’m certainly not going to press them to get on with it, I’m just sitting back and waiting for their opinions to come in.

I’ve also got my cover designer looking at it and he’s scratching his head to come up with some ideas for me to go through. If you’ve seen what he did with Banker’s Draft, you know that something special is in the pipeline!

What I don’t know is where all the time has gone. The problem with writing in your spare time, as I’m sure everyone knows, is trying to juggle loads of balls (i.e. projects, family, work etc) at the same time. This book is late in coming out, I regret to say, but I hope my readers will appreciate that I’ve taken my time in order to do it properly.

Watch this space because when I am finally ready to press the publish button I will be offering a few people the chance to read a pre-publication copy free of charge, gratis and for nothing - ain’t I the generous one!

I'm still here!

I’m still around for those who’ve er…missed my incisive posts – ahem!

Been busy and still am, doing various things; including editing etc.

I’m now wondering whether to try for an agent again regarding my new book, Scooters Yard. Although Gornstock again, it is/will be a standalone novel which can be read without reading Banker’s Draft. Many of the same characters are there, and getting into some serious and not so serious trouble, with a sideways looks at life and love in general. Lots of beer is being drunk and one or two rucks thrown in for good measure; oh, and it has a plot too. The police force is modernising!

My review of Michael Jecks Fields of Glory

Fields of Glory is a slight departure from the well known and popular Templar series, a little leap forward in time to 1346 and the battle of Crécy.

This book follows the fortunes of Berenger Fripper and his men, a small group of archers, a vintaine, within the army of Edward III as it rampages through the fields of France, determined to bring the vastly superior French army to battle. Edward increases the pressure by sacking towns and villages along the route as he marches across the country, and Berenger is thrown into the middle of it all.

Violence, death and brutality are commonplace, and the body count reflects this. Berenger is the moral compass in the book and we see through his eyes the realities of war during this period. As the group of archers become depleted, as skirmish follows skirmish, suspicions for the reason of their bad luck falls on an unlikely innocent as morale decreases.

As ever with a Jecks book the writing is exemplary, it jogs along at a nice pace with well-rounded characters. There are dashes of humour interspersed with gut-wrenching brutality which brings to life a distant period in history.

This is the first in a series of books dealing with the battle of Crécy and the Hundred Years War and I will certainly be getting the next in the series.

Highly recommended reading for fans of historical novels.

Fields of Glory (Hundred Years War Book 1)

Revisiting my "Why did I do that" moment

Here's a revisit to my lightbulb moment, for those who missed it the first time.

Ambulance memoir.

• I have tried to recreate events, locales and conversations from my memories of them. In order to maintain their anonymity and privacy I’ve changed the names of individuals and sometimes places, I may have changed some identifying characteristics, so the people described do not necessarily reflect the actual person or persons involved. Incidents and situations are as I recall.
• Swearing happens. I have used, and will use, some words that some people may find offensive.

Thirty odd years ago I did something very stupid.....I joined the ambulance service.

Today you really have to have degrees coming out of your ears to even think about applying, but back then it was different. It was 1980 to be precise, and I was an innocent 21 year old. In those days they would take virtually anyone!

I was technically unemployed at the time, having been working as a sales rep for all of two weeks and hating every moment; I just couldn’t sell a thing, partly because the stuff I was trying to sell was total crap and partly because I really couldn’t be bothered.

The local job centre was a frequent stop for me; you just walked in and looked at the little pieces of cardboard stuck to the wall, if something took your fancy then you would have a quick word with one of staff and they would sort you out. One day I was perusing the said wall when one of the bits of cardboard caught my eye. The county ambulance service was looking for victims.

I didn’t do anything then. I just walked out and went down the pub.

A couple of days later I decided that trying to sell stuff that I had absolutely no interest in selling was perhaps not a good career move, so I jacked it in. I was now unemployed...again.

Over the next few days I started thinking about how I intended to support myself and how I could get beer money. I was still living with my parents at the time, so beer money was the priority. I chewed the cud and started thinking seriously about joining one of the emergency services.

The police force was a good option, but wasn’t there a possibility that you could actually get hurt? I mean the police had to arrest people, generally people who didn’t want to get arrested. You could even get shot at...with a gun! I’m a coward, and I had seen a few rucks in my time and had seen a few coppers get in the way of a good right hand. No, the police wasn’t for me.

The fire service was another option, but you had to put out fires, and I had no desire to go anywhere near something that was hot and burning and smoking and exploding, you had to climb ladders too.....No, the fire service wasn’t for me either.

That left the ambulance service. You only had to take sick people to hospital, so you should be relatively safe from harm, it would be a doddle. The pay wasn’t that good, but I could do that while looking for a job that I actually wanted to do. I had already seen the bit of cardboard pinned to the wall down at the job centre, so I resolved to wander down the next day and see if it was still there.

I went down......and sadly it was!

Tap tap tapping away

I’ve been a bit lax over the last couple of weeks. I’m in the process of typing up the first draft of my second book. I suppose that’s the downside of hand written manuscripts because when you’ve finished you then have to type up the ninety thousand (or thereabouts) words.

Not that I’m complaining, but it does take time, so for that reason I haven’t done any ambulance stories, or for that matter much else in the way of social media. I have come to the conclusion that what time I have might well be best spent tapping away at the keyboard.

And then the real fun will begin. Editing.

The title has been a little bit of a problem as it started out as Policeman’s Progress, but there is already a book out there of the same name – a bit inconvenient. So, time to wrack my brain and come up with another idea.

Google helps, but you get into flights of fancy as you maniacally tap away trying to come up with something new and fresh. You find that as soon as you think of one title and enter it into the bar another one flashes into your mind, but then you realise that that too has been taken and before long you’re just randomly typing out words in the hope that you find inspiration. I’ve been doing that, but now I think I might stop because I’m getting to screaming pitch.

The title of my new book?

I haven’t decided yet, but the story is about the Yard, the centre of crime detection in Gornstock and what happens when…….Oh, I can’t tell you that yet, well not all of it; but I will tell you this – Gornstock Police have changed, they have moved forward and are now embracing modern thinking. The Commander has decided that the Police must move with the times, push forward with new ideas, rethink their structure – but not everybody likes it.

It is a standalone book, but if you’ve read my first, Banker’s Draft then you’ll know what to expect.

Anyway, back to tapping away!

Never miss an opportunity!

Ambulance memoir.

• I have tried to recreate events, locales and conversations from my memories of them. In order to maintain their anonymity and privacy I’ve changed the names of individuals and sometimes places, I may have changed some identifying characteristics, so the people described do not necessarily reflect the actual person or persons involved. Incidents and situations are as I recall.
• Swearing happens. I have used, and will use, some words that some people may find offensive.

Early 1980’s

We were on our way to deposit our patient at hospital and I was in the back chatting away with him; he had minor chest pains which either could or could not be cardiac related. At that time we had no equipment to check on heart rhythms or even to take blood a pressure, it was all down to experience. We were talking about normal things, football, the weather, his imminent demise, when I felt the vehicle slow down. I craned my neck and had a look through the connecting door to the cab; there was no traffic, so I was a bit confused as to why we had slowed down. A few seconds later we were off again, this time with a little more speed.

At the hospital Denny seemed to be in a bit of a hurry. We did the changeover pretty quickly and made our patient comfortable on the hospital trolley and left the nurse began to do her checks. We tidied up the vehicle and I went to walk over to the tea room as was normal. Denny had other Ideas.

‘Come on Clive, we need to get back.’

I pulled a confused face; Denny was never in a hurry to do anything!

Being the junior member I didn’t argue, I just shrugged my shoulders and climbed in the cab. Denny jumped in and off we went. I booked available with control and they told us to return to station. This seemed to please Denny.

We retraced our way back, and although it was a slightly longer route, we went through the same villages that we had just come through. Denny had a look of serious concentration on his face, so much so that he hadn’t even rolled a ciggie for the journey back.

As we entered the small village where Denny had slowed down earlier, a triumphant look crossed his face. He pulled over next to an old house that was being refurbished. Outside, in the drive, was a skip.

I sat there and waited while Denny went off and began to speak to the owner. There were a few grins and a lot of head nodding and Denny rubbed his hands in glee. He then walked over to me.

‘Give us a hand will you.’

‘Er…yes, sure. What are we doing?’

‘This old door and that frame is just what I need. He’s letting me have them.’

A few minutes later the back of the ambulance was filled with and assortment of old bits and pieces; there was a big Victorian door, a window frame (glass still attached), a couple of lengths of four by four, a fire grate and a couple of other bits and bobs.

Denny seemed pleased with his haul. I on the other hand was not as pleased as I just knew that something was going to happen.

It did.

About five minutes later the radio crackled to life.

‘Red call. RTA. A41. Two cars involved. No further details.’

‘Bollocks!’ said Denny. ‘Ask them if there’s another vehicle available.’

I did, and got the response I thought I’d get.

‘If there was another vehicle we would have sent it. Sorry, it’s yours.’

Denny growled and moaned as he turned on the blue lights and hit the accelerator.

The RTA turned out to be a minor one, a few cuts and bruises but one patient needed to go to hospital for a few stitches. I opened up the back of the motor and the patient stopped dead in his tracks. The back of the motor was filled with…er…stuff.

Denny and I did the only thing we could under the circumstances; we ignored it all.

The patient just looked confused as if the RTA had done something to his head and that he was really suffering from a concussion and was hallucinating; what he thought he was seeing wasn’t really there so if everybody else was ignoring it then it might be an idea for him to ignore it too. I sat him down and then moved one or two things around to get a bit more room. The door was being a bit of a problem, so without explaining why I propped it up and asked him to hold on to it. For some very strange reason this he did. He didn’t even ask why he was in the back of an ambulance after having been involved in a car accident and holding on to an old Victorian door. He just did it!

Fortunately we had to go through our town to get to hospital, so we did a quick detour to station. Nothing was mentioned until Denny and I unloaded everything and stacked it up in the appliance room, with the patient even giving us a hand.

‘Can I ask something?’ queried the patient when we were just about to set off again.

‘Of course mate,’ replied Denny, who was just shutting the back door.

‘What was that about?’

Quick as a flash Denny responded. ‘NHS cuts mate. We’ve got to save money and we’ve been told to keep an eye out for anything useful. Station’s falling apart and there’s no money to fix it.’

‘Oh!’

Denny shook his head sadly. ‘Yeah, the things we have to do, eh?’

When the newspaper came out later in the week I was relieved to see nothing in it, obviously NHS cuts weren’t worth a mention!

Twitter twats and twots.

Now, I’m not an expert at using various social media platforms for the purposes of promoting my book. However, I’m an expert in what riles and annoys me.

When I first signed up for twitter I hadn’t a clue how it worked; it might have been an age thing, it might have been a limited knowledge of all things technical. I sat there for a while watching to see how things worked, following people who seemed to know what they were doing, until  I then tentatively started to follow suit.

What I didn’t do though was to follow people and then as soon as they followed back hit them with “a here’s my book go and buy it. It’s the best book ever and you don’t know what you’re missing” type tweet….or indeed a DM to the same effect.

What the hell do they think they are doing?

Spattered all over twitter, blogs, web-sites etc there is information regarding this practice. It universally tells you not to do this. I found this out and I know diddly-squat, so why do some cretins still do it?

All the authors on twitter have books to sell; but, be true here, who clicks on a book link from a new follower and immediately spends hard earned cash on a book that you know nothing about? Who amongst us is waiting with baited breath for that tweet to come flying into notifications so that we can find out what a total stranger has written. Of course you know it’s a bestseller and it is going to take the publishing world by storm; how do you know? Because they’ve just told you.

It gives authors a bad name. It gives the self-publishing industry a bad name. It gives book promotions a bad name. It gives YOU who do this a bad name. It is not a nice thing to do, so don’t do it!

Build your platform slowly. Interact with the people you follow. Be friendly. Let people find out a bit about you, and about your book, organically. Don’t be a pain in the arse. Above all, learn how to use social media properly.

Okay, rant over. I will now crawl back into my comfy little scribbling hole.

Book promotions!

We’ve all heard the story about a pretty young girl who gets spotted by an agency as she walks down the street and is then catapulted to international stardom via the catwalks. Within a year or so she’s a multi-zillionaire; she has a yacht, diamonds the size of golf balls and a social life to rival any WAG.

It happens, not often, but it happens.

But it happened once, so others hope that it is going to happen to them too. Cue hundreds of girls walking down that same street in the hope that the very same person who did the spotting is still there.

A little clothes shop owner sees what’s happening and starts to talk to the girls.

‘You’ve got to dress better; I have all the latest fashions here that are guaranteed to get you noticed. Make up too, tons of the stuff, all new and the latest products; wrinkle free skin and a suntan too. What more do you need? Oh, a new hairstyle? I can sort that too, I know someone cheap, does a wonderful job with hair.’

He starts to make lots of money from all these girls and each and every one of them appreciates that he sees something in them, he convinces them that they have talent and that he is really only helping them out.

All the while his till is going ‘ker-ching ker-ching,’ hundreds of times a day. He’s getting rich beyond imaging and all because he saw the girls and realised what they were hoping for. He was savvy enough to realise that they had virtually no chance of ever meeting the agency spotter but he was making money, so why should he care. He’s spotted a gap in his market and he was going to grab all the money he could from it while he had the chance.

Seem familiar?

Paid book promotion.

Now I have no doubt that there are some book promoters out there who are genuinely interested in, and good, at helping an author sell their books. I would guess that they also charge a lot of money for their services, but they have the contacts, they have access to that elusive group of people who are actually willing to part company with their cash for books; i.e. readers.

There are also those book promoters who bring together all the authors they can and charge them a small fee, miniscule in the great realm of things, and offer to promote their books for them. They offer to put the book on a website that has on the banner-heading the word “Readers” so all the authors flock to them. Books are now listed all over the site. But who actually sees them? Not readers, that’s for sure! Sometimes (or once) they tweet to their followers, thousands of them to let them know your book is available on their site; er….their thousands of followers who also happen to be authors.

The author then tweets and facebooks and google+’s etc that their books are on this site which then encourages other authors to sign up in the hope that they too can find the holy grail. ‘Ker-ching!’

Thus the book promoter has a steady stream of hopefuls (mugs) signing up to give them MONEY freely.

This book promoter is now making so much money from hundreds, if not thousands of authors who hope to get noticed by that elusive group of people called “readers”, that they rub their hands in glee as their till continually goes ‘ker-ching ker-ching’, they don’t have to do much now as more and more trusting authors sign up to their services and promote THEIR website. (See what’s happened there? The author is now promoting the book promoter!)  The book promoter can now sit back and watch the dosh come rolling in; and he doesn’t have to do a thing!

That’s the trouble with most hopeful authors; they’re a trusting bunch of people and only see the good in others.

These book promoters know that.

They will promise you the earth, but give you only a speck of dust; and even that grudgingly.

Look very carefully at any book promotion service. If it looks and sounds too good to be true, then it generally is…..or am I just being a cynical old git?

Time Management for Writers

Time Management for Writers

Writers must always have time to write, and we need to be careful of getting too involved in selling our wares rather than creating our wares. 878 MORE WORDS

Twitter

jorobinson176