Paul Anthony's Blog

A book created, written, edited, published and promoted by a bunch of police officers from the UK and the USA - in supports of the registered charity COPS


http://paulanthonys.blogspot.co.uk/20...

Here it is - Book 11 - LAUNCHED TODAY - a non fiction self help book depicting a 20 year journey from yours truly.... all about an authorship, from start to finish.... the good, the bad, and the ugly....

http://paulanthonys.blogspot.co.uk/20...

Bell, Book and Candle
An Extract....

Chapter One
~
Southport, Merseyside. Yesterday

Bordering the Irish Sea, Bob Bainbridge patrolled the Coastal Road linking Ainsdale with Southport. His floppy ginger hair stopped well short of his broad shoulders and seemed to strangely compliment the crooked nose dominating his face. A former Royal Marine Commando, lean and mean, Bob was a fairly new addition to Merseyside Constabulary’s finest. But he was no stranger to callous streets and violent unforgiving conflict.
Glancing at the mirrored serenity of the Irish Sea nestling close to the road, Bob wondered if the kindly residents of Southport would be peaceful and pleasant today. Would he need his new found policing skills, he contemplated, or was he destined for a quiet shift on a sunny day? Snatching lower gear, Bob guided his patrol car though the bend towards Birkdale Golf Club as a dark blue Nissan 4 x 4 cruised by in the opposite direction.
In a building society on the outskirts of Ainsdale, Shona and Marion were the only two counter clerks on duty. The relief manager was in an office at the back submerged in paper work allowing his two employees to gossip about the latest goings on in their favourite soaps. The queue before them consisted of no more than half a dozen customers and included a retired couple waiting to bank some cheques and an eager group loitering patiently to do their business. Both in their late twenties, Shona and Marion chatted to their customers, smiled at the regulars, and slowly pruned the queue.
Outside, traffic was light with only a few pedestrians gracing the streets. On the Coastal Road, a silver coloured Mercedes sped respectfully along the tarmac and cruised past the Royal Birkdale Golf Club before turning inland towards Ainsdale. When the building society came into view, the driver slid the Mercedes into a lay-by outside the premises and waited.
Peace! The up market, wealthy suburb close to Southport merely basked in the sunshine and ignored the interlopers in the Mercedes. Traffic came and went as did pedestrians, dog-walkers, and a couple of elderly gentlemen heading for a round of golf.
A hand in the front passenger seat of the Mercedes eagerly reached for a walkie-talkie radio and pressed the ‘talk’ switch. A voice croaked, ‘Clear! Come!’
Moments later, a dark blue Nissan 4 x 4 cruised into the street and parked in front of the Mercedes. The two vehicles faced each other when the driver of the Mercedes acknowledged the Nissan’s driver.
Two masked men alighted from the Mercedes. Simultaneously, two masked men stepped from the Nissan. They were dressed in dark blue overalls, black leather gloves, black boots and balaclava masks with eye holes cut into the facial area. All four men walked quickly towards the building society. Each man was armed with a black canvas holdall and an AK-47 assault rifle loaded with 7.62 x 39mm cartridges.
At the door, one of the gunmen turned round and checked the street for onlookers. The scene was clear.
Inside the building, Shona was carefully counting out crisp new bank notes to a young customer, ‘One hundred and sixty, one hundred and eighty…’
‘Pay day!’ cracked the happy youth. ‘Once a week isn’t enough, is it?’
Shona nodded, licked her fingers, refused to be distracted and continued, ‘Two hundred, two hundred and twenty….’
Peeling notes from a pile of twenties, she looked up when the front door burst open.
A salvo of gunfire ruined the genteel composure of the day.
Two hundred and twenty pounds in twenty pound notes scattered across the counter and then tumbled to the floor.
The leader of the masked men vaulted a counter, pulled a trigger, and watched the bullet-proof glass disintegrate in surrender to the power of the assault weapon. The sound of the bullet discharging was awesome. Shouting and screaming rent the air when customers dived for cover and staff tried desperately to hide behind the meagre furnishings.
There was another rattle of overwhelming gunfire that reached a deafening crescendo when the deadly cartridges sprayed across the society’s walls and ceiling.
Within seconds, the building was a battle zone.
He was over the counter and into the back offices with his colleagues again raking the ceiling and walls with a barrage of gunfire.
A fluorescent light tube exploded and crashed to the floor bursting into a hundred tiny pieces of razor-sharp menace. A streak of gunfire blasted security cameras from their housing and a display stand hosting dozens of pamphlets was shot to pieces.
Customers screamed in terror when a rabid gunman manhandled them into a corner and a second began opening the cashier’s tills. Meanwhile, a third ripped the telephone system from the wall sockets and raked a thunderous barrage of fire into the computer screens.
In the back, with a gun to his head, the distraught relief manager opened a safe.
Screaming for all she was worth, Marion eagerly opened the cashier tills and bundled handfuls of banknotes into the holdalls provided. Hiding in a corner, an elderly man punched 999 into his mobile ‘phone and then dropped to the ground when another deafening crescendo of gunfire exploded around him.
Then it suddenly went quiet. Silence governed the atmosphere for a moment or two before being challenged by the sound of a woman weeping in fear.
They were gone as quickly as they had arrived leaving only an empty safe; empty tills, shattered glass, splintered woodwork, and Marion and Shona weeping uncontrollably. Dust clouded the atmosphere and part of the ceiling hung loosely from its holding. The MDF interior structure of the building had taken a beating and lost.
From a rear office, a dishevelled bank manager emerged and whispered nervously, ‘Ring the police.’
Ignored, he screamed in anguish, ‘For God’s sake! Ring the police!’
In the far distance, a lone siren sounded. The Mercedes took off at a steady controlled sprint in one direction whilst the Nissan took off in the other.
Bob Bainbridge lost no time in making the building society and rushed inside to find the mayhem. There he found a group of terrified customers still huddled together in one corner of the room.
‘Guns or grenades?’ yelled Bob.
‘Guns!’
‘Where are they?’ cried Bob.
‘Gone!’ cried Shona.
‘Which way?’ demanded Bob.
There was a shake of the head from the gathering.
‘At scene, shots fired. Repeat shots fired,’ radioed Bob. ‘Offenders made good their escape. Assistance required! Standby for update!’
Rushing outside to find an empty parking area, Bob looked up and down the road but there was no-one present other than a couple of scruffy looking youngsters on bikes.
‘Hey, guys,’ shouted Bob. ‘Did you see anything?’
‘You mean the robbers, Mister?’ suggested Tom, the slightly older boy poking his nose.
‘Yeah, which way did they go?’ asked Bob.
‘That way,’ pointed Tom.
‘No, that way,’ declared Mickey.
‘Very funny,’ offered Bob. ‘Now tell me again, which way did the robbers go?’
‘Tell him, Mickey. Tell the copper,’ suggested Tom straddling his bike and picking his nose like there was no tomorrow.
Mickey scowled at his pal but then turned to Bob and said, ‘There were four of them. They had guns. Big rifles! Machine guns even! Two of them drove off that way and the other two drove off that way.’ Mickey pointed over his shoulder.
‘Did you get the car numbers?’
‘No, but one was a big Nissan jeep like my dad’s and the other was a blue sporty thing with a sunroof.’
‘What did the robbers look like?’
‘They didn’t have faces,’ replied Tom.
Perplexed, Bob squinted.
‘He means they were wearing masks,’ offered Mickey.
‘Okay, stay here, boys. I need you to help. Is that alright?’
‘Yeah, will we be on the telly?’ queried Mickey.
‘Of course you will,’ suggested Bob.
‘Wow!’ the kids beamed.
Yelling details of the incident into his radio, Bob pushed open the front door of the building society and approached Marion and Shona.
‘Girls, are you alright? Is anyone hurt?’
Snivelling, cowering behind a counter redesigned by gunfire, Shona eventually managed, ‘No, I don’t think so.’
Turning to the rest of the company, Bob shouted, ‘Anyone! Anyone hurt at all?’
There was a shake of heads before Bob updated his radio.
‘Thank the Lord for that then,’ he laughed. ‘Relax, it’s all over.’ Bob threw open his arms but the faces before him were stone: frozen solid in a moment of terror that would lurk in their minds forever.
‘Tell you one thing though,’ suggested Bob rubbing a finger through a layer of MDF dust enveloping a computer console. ‘You need to sack the cleaner!’
Marion giggled and then began to sob.
Looking at the battle-scarred ceiling above, Bob queried, ‘Upstairs? Is there an office upstairs?’
‘It’s the Benefits Office,’ replied Shona. ‘It’s closed today.’
Shaking his head, Bob offered, ‘Benefits office? Pity! Still, you could always borrow their cleaner, I suppose.’
Suddenly, the ice was broken. Shona laughed in relief and Marion’s face relaxed.
‘Let’s start again, shall we?’ suggested Bob. ‘Does anyone remember anything that might help us find these people: anything at all, folks?’
The relief manager stopped shaking, studied the ceiling and the cartridges littering the floor, and offered. ‘I can. I can, officer.’
‘And what do you remember, sir,’ enquired Bob.
‘Their leader, he called me Kafir.’
‘Kafir?’ probed Bob.
‘Yeah, Kafir! What kind of name is that, officer?’
Stunned, Bob Bainbridge felt sick to the bottom of his stomach and shuddered at the very thought of the word. He’d never heard the term as a police officer. But Bob was very familiar with the continent from which the word originated from his days in the armed services.
‘Kafir, surely not,’ replied Bob, bewildered. ‘Kafir!’
‘Don’t you believe me, officer?’ asked the manager. ‘It Was Kafir. What does that mean?’
Puzzled, Bob replied, ‘If memory serves me well, sir, it means disbeliever.’
Fifteen minutes after the crime occurred, the robbers dumped two stolen vehicles in a layby, switched vehicles, and entered the motorway heading towards the Pennines to make good their escape at high speed.

*
And so the scene is set but it isn't long before the action starts to boil over and the plot thickens. Tighten your seat belts and hold on tight as a nationwide high speed, fast moving criminal enterprise is tackled by Britain's elite. GThey are going to win aren't they? .... You presume to much, more twists than a ssnake on ice in this one.

Here's a fresh extract from Behead the Serpent....Another murder mystery thriller that will have everyone out of breath...

There's been a shooting... a crime... a burglary.... There's a chase on and that's where we join the book....

‘There he is,’ yelled Barney. ‘Stop him, Harry.’
Without a moment’s thought, Harry Reynolds reached out to try and catch Conor but the Irishman was too slippery.
Taking a stride into the rain, Harry joined the pursuit.
Pulling his gun again, Conor snapped off two wild shots in the direction of his pursuers.
But Conor didn’t wait to see Barney and Max simultaneously crash to the ground to avoid the bullets.
Screaming!
The sound of gunfire panicked the crowd and a loud scream rent the air as Conor carved through the horde of shoppers and sprinted towards the clock tower.
They were up and chasing again with Barney shouting into his radio, Max pushing his way through the screeching crowd, and Harry Reynolds yelling, ‘Stop him! Somebody stop him!’
On reaching the clock tower cafe, Conor spun round and took aim at his chasers.
Diving for cover, Barney collided headlong into a litter bin cemented into the ground and Max threw himself onto the ground.
A siren sounded as a police car neared the market.
‘Blat! Blat!’ Two more shots from Conor were way off target. Snapping the trigger again, he realised the chamber was empty.
Then there was the sure turn of an engine from somewhere close by and Conor was out of the market and crossing the road with his empty weapon waving aimlessly at his pursuers.
You’re going nowhere, thought Max.
Suddenly, a mast appeared in Max’s vision and he lost his bearings.
One, two, three, four strides and a huge jump saw Conor leap over the harbour wall onto a waiting vessel. In midair, Conor’s arms rotated for speed and length and in those precious seconds, he loosened grip of his gun and it clattered to the ground.
Max didn’t see Conor land but he heard the heavy fall landing on the yacht’s deck.
Abruptly, two outboard motors exploded into life and the long vertical wooden mast moved away from the wall and into the mainstream of the dock.
Max took in the mast; the furled sail, the wooden deck and a yacht bearing the name, ‘SERPENT’, on its hull. Next to the vessel’s name, Max took in the image of a strange looking sea creature which adorned the hull. It resembled the shape of a sea serpent from the tales of ancient mariners long ago.
There was the vague outline of another man in the Serpent’s cabin as the vessel’s wake churned its getaway. Moments later, Conor O’Keefe appeared at the yacht’s stern and cheekily waved to the helpless Max.
A police car, lights flashing, siren wailing, radio blaring, arrived at the harbour side.
Slowly, Max turned from the disappearing yacht and a smiling crook and spoke to the patrol car driver, P.C Jim Temple. ‘Too late, Jim! Too late! He was too quick for us and bloody lucky, that’s all.’
‘I came as soon as I got the call,’ countered PC Temple.
‘At least we know who we’re looking for, Jim. But can you get on the radio and chase up the ambulance,’ suggested Max. ‘We’ve got an officer down and Barney wrapped around a block of cement somewhere!’

The chase is well and truly on - this is the third in the Davies King trilogy, what will Davies think when he catches up with his crew?

More importantly, why are the crew on board the Serpent planning to attack the national grid. The cyber war is in full flight as the lights slowly go out across the UK, Holland, Northern Europe, and North America..... You'll need a torch to read this one.

Paul Anthony

Here's a fresh extract from my personal favourite 'Moonlight Shadows'.... You'll need a passport for this international chase thriller.... We catch up with the non stop intrigue and action far away from the murder scene....

Kamakura, Kanagawa Prefecture: The Archipelago of Japan.

Once the moonlight shadows slipped away, a new dawn steadily tumbled over the ‘Land of the Rising Sun’.
Maureen McCluskey smiled appreciatively when the first distinct rays of sunshine penetrated the skyscrapers of the thriving bustling city that was her home, Kamakura: a city with a population of about 200,000 situated on the archipelago of Japan, in the Pacific Ocean, and located approximately thirty miles south of Tokyo.
A holidaymaker from England travelled to visit Maureen.
On a scheduled flight, he’d flown into Narita International Airport, Tokyo, stayed overnight in Yokohama, and now made his way to meet her. More importantly, she was making her way to meet him.
Conscious of the sun slowly rising and bearing down on the streets, Maureen heralded the new day as a unique opportunity to celebrate. It was the tenth anniversary of her residence in the town she’d made her home. Gradually, carefully, and as dawn grew into the fullness of day, she strode through the streets to the rendezvous.
Maureen had settled well from the outset and taken residence in a reasonably well appointed apartment close to the town centre. She found useful employment and bought herself a second hand semi-reliable car with which to tour Japan. Over the years, she learned to speak the language despite, generally, keeping herself to herself. In time, she made friends, particularly at work. Now she enjoyed pals who were Japanese, Chinese, American, Spanish, English, Dutch and German. Most of her mates shared one thing in common: they were all whizz kids, computer geeks, and slightly bizarre brainy people. Some of her friends wondered how she had survived financially in the beginning but Maureen reminded them of the inheritance her uncle bequeathed her some years ago. Of course, she hadn’t been stupid, she declared. No, she explained, an annuity had been bought with the inheritance and a comfortable amount deposited into her account every month. Maureen met most of her friends at work. And work was an electronics company specialising in making computer software for a global market. From small beginnings, she gained both respect and knowledge as she progressively climbed the career ladder.
Of course, that’s why he was visiting her from England today. Maureen had found something useful, something she knew the man would be interested in.
Dressed in a dark fur-trimmed blouson, dark trousers and flat heeled knee-length boots, Maureen was single and into her late thirties. Her light brown hair was fairly long but rested easily on her narrow shoulders. Tall, slim, and self assured, Maureen was, in her own quiet way, a self disciplinarian. If she had a weakness, it would be a propensity to be occasionally naive.
There was a faint bluish mist ahead but the phenomenon held no fear for her. Kamakura was located not too far from the coast so a touch of adverse visibility now and again wasn’t unusual.
Approaching the mist-shrouded Kotoku-in Temple, Maureen evoked memories of her real home and the reason she had specifically asked to meet the man who had flown from England to see her. Chuckling to herself, she read the notice at the entrance to the grounds. The words seemed so appropriate to her appointment and read:

‘Stranger, whosoever thou art and whatsoever be thy creed, when thou enterest this sanctuary remember thou treadest upon ground hallowed by the worship of ages. This is the Temple of Buddha and the gate of the eternal, and should be entered with reverence.’

When Maureen approached the ubiquitous outdoor bronze statue of the Great Buddha of Kamakura, she reflected that in Dublin, her birthplace, almost everyone was Catholic. Here in Japan, virtually all and sundry were Buddhist, and she’d decided it was time to leave the sanctuary. She was homesick. Her mother needed her and she wanted to return to the banks of the Liffey and the Emerald Isle. Maureen wanted to go home now.
Early morning tourists were filtering into the area, marvelling at the Great Buddha, touching it, prodding it, photographing it, and just enjoying its presence, its religious significance.
‘According to the handbook, the Great Buddha of Kamakura is over forty feet tall and weighs over ninety three tons,’ said a man’s voice.
Maureen identified his voice, hadn’t heard it for a decade, but recognised it immediately, and assumed he’d shadowed her for a while before approaching her from behind. He’s probably followed me for the last twenty minutes at least, she decided.
Replying unhesitatingly, Maureen said, ‘I didn’t think you’d miss it standing that tall; the statue I mean.’
‘Makes sense to meet in a place full of tourists,’ said the voice.
‘Are we alone, Dickey?’ she asked.
‘Alone as we need to be, Siofra,’ he replied.
‘Is anyone following me, Dickey?’
‘No, should there be?’ he asked.
Siofra glanced casually over her shoulder and caught sight of him standing quite close. It was Dickey: the man she called the Baron. He was dressed in a brown leather three quarter length jacket that was belted but unbuckled. His belt hung loosely from the waist loops and the two ends trailed away below four dark brown buttons that might occasionally fasten his coat. The fourth button was looser than the others and about to become a nuisance. She watched him smooth his dark swept back hair as he fingered the lowest button. It was made of horn, coloured dark brown, and complimented the soft leather he wore. A tan open-necked shirt lay beneath the jacket and his sharply creased coffee coloured slacks looked down on highly polished brown lace up shoes.
‘I thought you’d be pleased to see me,’ she said. ‘Instead, I see you’re browned off, Dickey.’
‘I often dress in brown. It’s one of my favourite colours. Do you like my jacket, Siofra?’
‘No, I don’t. Funny that though, Dickey, I’ve waited ten years for someone to call me Siofra and when they do they can’t even pronounce it correctly. She-Fra, say it.’

But who is the Baron? Why has he travelled from London to see her. And why does Maureen have two names?

Here's a FRESH extract from The Conchenta Conundrum - One of the murderer's is making good his escape - or so he thinks -

... He pulled in and set the handbrake tight. Clumsily, he dragged the package from his car boot. Straining with the exertion of it all, he rested a moment, regretted the foolish fingers of courage he had found necessary to embrace, and with a mighty heave, threw her into the ocean.
Without remorse, he watched the green plastic suit holder gradually sink through the waves. Concerned things had not gone to plan and the scotch had been a stupid accessory in his plan, he looked out to sea and scolded himself for his ineptitude.
The tide smashed into the cliffs and withdrew. The tide roared and crashed into the cliffs again but left no traces of a lady who had been murdered by ? ? ? ...
With his back to the sea, he guided the car through the leafy lanes. It was as if someone had at last lifted a great weight from his shoulders when he slid his foot heavily onto the accelerator pedal and made good speed towards the house.
His mind soon wandered to a patio that needed checking. Had he washed the area thoroughly? Had the fire in the barbecue burnt out his kimono and swim shorts? Had he cleaned the spade with which he had pummelled her skull into a dozen little pieces? Had he... He did not see the big red two-litre tractor emerge from the meadow and lumber casually into the lane.
There was a rush of adrenaline and a squeal of tyres when he heaved onto the brakes and swung the steering wheel fiercely to his right. There was an almighty crunch of metal and a cloud of dust when the front of his car collided with the rear offside of a farmer’s tractor and a rusting red mudguard crumpled to the ground.
Stunned! He was stunned for a moment but quickly jumped from the car and ran towards the farmer and his tractor.
With a hurried smile a hand was clasped and a head and face were checked for injury. No injury was found and reluctant smiles were forcibly exchanged. There was a quick inspection of a front bumper and a rear mudguard followed by a quick examination of debris and skid marks on the road; and there was recognition of how things might have been worse.
Then there were recriminations.
‘It was your fault,’ alleged the car driver. ‘You didn’t stop. You just drove straight out of the field onto the road.’
‘No, lad,’ retaliated the elderly farmer standing his ground. ‘You were driving too fast. You are at fault, lad.’
‘Too fast!’ snapped the car driver. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, you are a typical tractor driver. No respect for anyone. You think you own the road, don’t you?’
‘You were at fault, lad,’ argued the farmer. ‘You been drinking?’
The farmer leaned closer to smell a whiff of alcohol on the car driver’s breath. He stroked his chin then shook his head in disgust.
Suddenly, there seemed to be a cold nip in the air which burnt into the car driver’s skin and kindled his mind.
‘Drinking?’ queried the driver innocently. ‘Of course not; look, there’s no need to bother the police. It’s only a rusty old mudguard.’
‘Rusty?’ challenged the tractor driver, annoyed at such a suggestion. ‘It’ll still cost money. Rusty or not, it’ll cost money to replace.’
Wisdom of a kind intruded and the car driver responded, ‘Yes, yes, of course; perhaps this would help.’ Digging deep into his wallet, he produced a wad of banknotes.
The farmer sniffed again, sensed an odour of alcohol, stroked his chin again, and hinted, ‘Do you think that will be enough, lad? Mudguards for agricultural tractors aren’t cheap, you know, and I’ll need to go to the dealer at Tevington for this.’
‘Well, of course. I understand; how silly of me.’ His hand delved into his wallet again and more notes were delivered.
‘That should do it, lad,’ reacted the farmer with a smile.
‘And we’ll settle on that, shall we? No police, I mean.’
‘Aye, we’ll settle on that, lad,’ replied the farmer. ‘No need to be bothering the police when it’s all sorted, lad.’
Cash changed hands and a big red two-litre agricultural tractor straightened in the lane. A car reversed and then slowly edged passed the tractor. There was a wave and a pip of a car horn and he was gone.
The farmer watched the car disappearing down the lane and examined his brand new banknotes. They were fresh, crinkly, new, and unfamiliar to a man with soil on his hands. He lifted his head again and allowed his eyes to zero into the disappearing vehicle.
Stepping up gingerly to his tractor cabin, he found a biro pen and his magazine stuffed into the side pocket. The car turned left at the end of the lane and moved out of sight as the farmer wrote the car registration number down on the front of the ‘Farmer’s Weekly’.`
‘Funny money is it?’ queried the farmer aloud. ‘Well, I suppose I had a good day on the fields today.’
Tommy Watson, farmer of Crillsea Farm Estates, patted the side of his tractor, brushed away debris from the ground with his foot, and fired up the engine. Not a bad day’s work, he thought, preparing to return to his farm. Not a bad day at all. Smiling, he crumpled the bank notes into his fist, pocketed them, and made for home.

*
But what happens next - nope, it's not quite as simple as you might think... Real murder investigations never are...

The policeman stood in the centre of the road with his arm held aloft. He wore the green shirt of the national police force, short in its sleeve, with a tie to match. A white lanyard ran from his broad shoulders to a brown handled pistol, which poked from a black leather holster worn on his belt.
Fritz stopped, fingered a gold stud in his left ear lobe, and worried for a moment. He watched the policeman approach, heard the stomp of his black laced jackboots, and saw the trousered fatigue of his dusty uniform. Then he saw the pistol poking from the policeman’s leather holster. The policeman was time-served, etched in his face, swagger in his walk, forty something. Parked behind the policeman was a dark green Landrover belonging to the national police.
Fritz studied the Landrover, with its deeply grooved tyres, and realised the vehicle was just what police would use to negotiate Monchique’s rough terrain, ideal for those mountain tracks and twisting pathways that led to the Colombian plantation. Winding down his window, Fritz leaned out and acknowledged the approaching policeman as an aircraft flew overhead. Looking skyward, Fritz saw the aircraft visibly climb as Monchique’s mountain tops reached towards its underbelly.
An aperture in the aircraft’s belly appeared and a cloud of chemicals scattered earthwards across the raging flames below.
There was a woman on the road, hobbling, frail in the movement of her varicose legs, stooped in the weak carriage of her body. She was elderly, weighed down by many years and the heavy bags that she carried. From head to foot she was dressed in black, a shawl, a woollen cardigan, a long plain cotton dress that skirted to her ankle, all coloured black: widow woman. The widow woman glanced over her shoulder and looked towards the mountains, tried to see the flames that drove her from her home, and wept a tear which ran down the wrinkled cheek of her face. Her fear of the bushfire was set deep in her tired brown eyes. It was as if her brown eyes had been replaced by the raging inferno’s yellow flames. She hurried by, shuffled with the weight of her belongings crammed into bags that she carried. She ignored the aircraft overhead, the policeman, and a man leaning from the window of his car.
The policeman ignored the widow woman; he was at Fritz’s car window. His hand rested casually on his holster as he bent down and spoke to Fritz. The policeman told Fritz that a major evacuation of Monchique was taking place; the road ahead was blocked, and would be blocked for quite some time. He told Fritz that emergency services were rushing resources to a bushfire whilst removing a frightened local population to safety.
A family walked past, frayed at the edges, tired, carrying their suitcases and bags, carrying a holdall, carrying a puppy dog that was limp in its leg. Father’s thumb stuck out as a wagon approached. All the family stopped, thumbs in the air, hoping, pleading with moistened eyes. Stress plagued the father’s face, smudged, and blackened from smoke and fire.
The wagon drove on, a puppy dog whimpered, and a thumb dropped.
The flat-bedded wagon was laden with boxes and bags, two beds and a wooden table with its carved legs pointing skyward. The wagon’s exhaust pipe bellowed black gaseous fumes. The wagon was rusting at its wing, creaking with the weight of its load, chugging towards safety. The driver did not stop, did not wave, and did not pause. He was crying as he drove down the hill with his rescued belongings sagging on his flat-bedded wagon.
Fritz watched, fingering his gold stud in worry. He saw cars turning back, heard sirens, saw anxious faces on bewildered people, and then saw black curling smoke rising from the blue of a dying sky. In mountains, fields, and nearby plantations, Fritz saw the Bushfire destroying. Chaos ruled with curling smoke and heat and flames dominating the area.

The troops were young men, drawn mainly from the Home Counties and the south of England. To the Irish they spoke with a strange English accent. To some, the army was a friend. To others, it was the enemy. In some quarters it was preferable not to take sides at all and have as little to do with the army as possible. They had been there since August, 1969. The troops were nervous.
‘What's going on? Why have we stopped?’ shouted the army sergeant moving his fingers to release the safety catch on his assault rifle as he raised it across his chest in readiness.
Sitting on the crown of the road in the middle of Shantallow were a group of children. Aged about twelve, they wore short trousers, long-sleeved grey pullovers and scuffed, worn-out shoes. They were children at play, positioned across the road, as pearls on a rope.
The Land Rover was prevented from continuing its journey.
One of the children sang a gentle haunting song, ‘God made the land and God made the sea. To be sure, I hope He shines down on me.’
Removing his cap, Gordon leaned out of the Land Rover and shouted, ‘Clear off! Get off the road, will yer?’
Mumbling something softly to his partner about Catholic kids, Gordon reached into the rear compartment for his weapon. He favoured a habit of never leaving the vehicle without his gun. As he was about to get out of the Land Rover he heard the faint sound of an old Irish melody drifting towards him again.
‘God made the land and God made the sea. To be sure, I hope He shines down on me.’
The young child singing bathed in light from a nearby street lamp and remained seated cross-legged on the road, apparently oblivious to the policeman. The other children slowly moved from the roadway to the footpath.
The Land Rover idled about forty yards from them, its headlights illuminating the scene.
The engine continued to tick over. Gordon gently pressed the accelerator with the gear stick in neutral whilst his hands rested firmly on the steering wheel.
From the window of a high rise building overlooking the street, a middle-aged man in a long black coat put down his binoculars and pressed the transmit button of his walkie-talkie radio. The man spoke quietly, ‘Now!’
It was all over in a matter of seconds.
On the wasteland, approximately fifty yards from the Land Rover, two young volunteers hoisted a home-made mortar tube out of a battered old blue suitcase and aimed it slightly above the roof of the Land Rover.
The taller of the two laid his walkie-talkie radio to one side and rested the mortar tube on his shoulder, whilst the other youth loaded it. He pulled the trigger.
There was a loud explosion and in less than a second a shell pierced the air and collided with the front offside of the Land Rover. The vehicle erupted into a ball of fire as the impact of the lethal home-made device lifted it off the ground and spun it round so that it turned at a right angle to its original axis.
The two young occupants of the Land Rover were heard screaming in the face of death when they were thrown about like peas in a drum.
A cloud of black smoke climbed the sky, billowing upwards in a horrible spiral.
The man in the long black coat stepped away from the window and pocketed his radio. As he walked quietly out of the room that had been seized only hours before for the ‘hit’ a motor bike rode off at high speed.
Simultaneously, a door opened nearby and an anxious mother gathered up her twelve-year-old son and took him indoors.
The voice of the twelve-year-old asked, ‘Did Ah do alright, Ma? Did Ah do what you wanted, Ma? Did ya like ma song, Ma?’
His mother listened for the sound of approaching footsteps and men running. She heard nothing. She held the child closely, saying, ‘Hush, Liam Connelly, will yer now? It's late. Now, go yerself ta bed before yer da' gets home.'

Make ready with those catapults,’ commanded Domitian: a tall, angular centurion dressed in Roman splendour. ‘Archers of Syria, make good your eye for the God of Fortuna will grant you sound fortune on this great day of reckoning. Fortuna will guide your arrows of revenge. Hear my words, I say unto you. I have spoken.’
Listening to Domitian’s words, easing a quiver to his side, Hussein prepared his bow. Hussein had no tender fingers to ease the clay; no soft fingers to make a pot and shape the curve of an urn; no nimble fingers to turn the scriptures and leaf the pages: he was a warrior. Smaller than the centurion; his hair was black and flowing. His skin was a deep olive colour: smooth in its texture; perhaps a touch swarthy in its pigment. Hussein was just a simple Syrian peasant: a nobody simpleton from a nobody town. But he was an archer and his eyes were the dark brown eagle eyes of an assassin.
The first heavy chariot of destruction trundled sluggishly by. A dozen numeri: half-savage tribesmen from an auxiliary army, shouldered their weight against a mobile catapult under the watchful eye of Domitian: a legendary soldier who was famed in battle. Domitian stood tall for a centurion measuring five feet eight inches, perhaps nine, and his face bore no stubble from the long hot siege. His blade was sharp. His back was erect, his shoulders broad, a commander in battle. An ugly scar ran down his face from the high cheekbone near his left ear to the side of his throat.
Another heavy catapult rolled by. Two unfortunate mules pulled the ponderous machine as it gradually clambered up a rocky incline. Eight sweating tribesmen laboriously pushed, steadied and guided the wobbly apparatus as it neared the mighty gates of Masada.
Following the first catapult, and fanning out as the mouth of Masada beckoned, ranged an overwhelming array of Syrian archers. Hussein, the simple peasant from the banks of the Euphrates, led them. The loose brown robes of his Syrian archers ran to their knees and were covered by dark cloaks knotted on their chests. Each archer carried a gladius: a two-foot long sword, sheathed at the waist. Leather quivers hung over their shoulders as they marched with their bows held low in readiness.
Behind Hussein’s archers followed the rest of the Roman artillery. There were catapults, large and small. The catapult was no match for the mediocre defenders who had no fight in their belly; no weapon at their arm.
The cornuas sounded.
Increasing their tempo the archers gradually massed in front of the fortress as Hussein mustered his men and carefully withdrew an arrow from his quiver. Grains of sand gathered, rose, and clouded into the atmosphere as row upon row of marching Syrians broke into a gentle jog.
‘Make haste,’ ordered Domitian; his voice booming across the hordes. ‘Exalt the Gods for your strength. Jupiter and Mars watch over you, my warriors of revenge. Feel not fear in your heart. Heed your leader well.’
Another signal trumpeted across the sands as the Legions vacated their campsites and marched towards Masada. Blades of retribution sparkled in the desert sun as the loose brown robes of Syria hung in terrifying waiting.

Sunset
~ ~ ~
There’s a cliff top and an ocean,
And time in pure slow motion.
Gaze across the blue expanse,
And spot the seagulls glide in dance.

There’s a rock and a thunderous sea,
Caressing, embracing, cleansing you and me.
And wave after wave crashes into the wall,
A crescendo of hurried spray, and then a gentle fall.

The sun dips at its timely hour,
And proclaims sunset’s mystical power,
When a myriad of sloping rays,
Strike the horizon and distant bays.

There’s a golden, yellow, violet, red, sunset bright,
Where shades of pink and blue ignite a starlit night.
And a million grains of sand with no memory of before,
Witness our eternal love shining from the core.

~

When I Dream of You
~ ~ ~
When I dream of you, there’s no one there.
When I reach for you, the room is bare.
Why did you go away? I have to know.
Where do you sleep tonight?
Are the angels there?
When I dream of you, I see your face.
When I talk to you, it’s an empty place.
Why did you go that day? I loved you so.
Where do you sleep tonight?
Are the angels there?
On your last journey, it left you cold,
Now I have memories, stories untold.
On our last journey, memories unfold.
Why did you leave me? I miss you so.
Where do you sleep tonight?
Are the angels there?
I see you each night, your twinkling light.
Sparkle down upon me, star heavenly bright.
You are the new one, second on the right.
Is that where you’re sleeping?
Are the angels there?
When I dream of you, my tears fall.
When I dream of you, times I recall.
I’ll be with you one day,
I’ll hold you dear.
Where are you sleeping?
Are the angels there?
~

Extracted from 'Sunset' available on kindle from Amazon and from Lulu in print.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B001KDTZU2
http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/anthony...