Extract from GSOH – hiding at Crispin’s

(The scene: Roger, on the run from the police, suspected of a series of murders of women he has met through a dating agency and trying to prove his innocence, has recruited one of his dates, a TV journalist called Candice, and her colleague, Crispin, to help him. Roger and Candice have tried to get his remaining former dates to go into hiding with him, but, having initially drawn a blank, are forced to stay the night at Crispin’s house.)

As they drew up back at Crispin’s house, it was already growing dark, which suited both of them fine. Roger didn’t want to be seen. Candice certainly didn’t want to be seen with Roger.

"How’s the exclusive going?" was Crispin’s only greeting.

"Have you any food?" was Candice’s only reply.

"Try the freezer."

Candice grilled some pork chops without ceremony and without vegetables. Crispin added some canned peas, microwave chips and instant gravy as an afterthought. Bachelor cuisine. Candice sat, studying the meal, Roger toyed with his food, and only Crispin made any attempt to eat anything.

"You should get stuck in, mate," said Crispin to Roger. "It’s probably better than prison food."

"I wouldn’t be so sure about that," said Roger.

"I’m going to make some calls," Candice announced, abandoning her plate. She pulled out Crispin’s mobile. "I’ve got to have another shot at talking the women round."

"You won’t be needing this, then" said Crispin, stabbing her chop with his fork, along with a generous scoop of chips.

"You can have this too," said Roger, scraping his food on to Crispin’s plate before Crispin could stop him.

Crispin had just loaded his face with a huge mouthful, when the doorbell rang.

"You expecting anyone?" said Candice.

"Don’t!" said Roger. "Remember what happened when I said that?"

Unable to talk, Crispin stole a sidelong glimpse out of the front window.

"Fffck!" he cursed, spitting potato down the curtains. "Iff Frnnk Knn’nnduh!"

"It’s what?" said Roger.

Candice suddenly caught on. "Frank Kennedy! He’s a friend of Crispin’s. A detective friend."

"Oh, God! Not again!"

Crispin emptied his mouth on to his own plate in a disgusting spray of food, and slipped the other two plates underneath. "Quick – get in the kitchen! I’ll find out what he wants and try and get rid of him. If I can’t, make a dash for it."

"Don’t worry – we know how to do this."

The two scuttled out of sight while Crispin gave himself a quick preen, tried to remember what normal looked like, and nonchalantly opened the door. He made sure he had a tight grip on it, just in case he needed to shut it again quickly.

"Frank!" he said, a trifle too cheerfully. "What can I do for you?"

"Let me in for a start. I’ve not come all this way to admire your bloody doorstep."

"I’m just having my…" But Frank had already pushed past him. So much for holding the door.

"You in here?" Frank made his way into the front lounge where the dinner table was set. "Good. It’s turning miserable out there tonight."

"What do you want?" said Crispin, following him into the room. It didn’t look like he’d brought the rest of the police force with him, but Crispin didn’t think this was a social call either.

"I got to thinking, perhaps we can do each other a favour on this dating agency killer thing." He noticed the huge pile of food on the stack of plates. "Flippin’ ‘eck. You eat well, for a thin ‘un."

"Er, that’s because I work hard. Got to keep my strength up."

"Why the three plates?"

"I’ve no place mats."

"Just as well – you might eat them an’ all. You don’t mind me coming in, do you? I’m not interrupting anything?"

"No, not at all. Well… yes. Only my dinner."

"There’s nobody else here is there?"

"No, of course not."

"Only I don’t want to get in the way."

"No, Frank. Stay as long you want. As long as it’s only a few minutes."

Out in the kitchen, and easily within earshot, Candice and Roger craned to catch every word of this performance. The number of times Candice had told Crispin not to contradict himself when writing copy.

Crispin attempted to back-track. "So, what is it you want, exactly?"

"Well, I was thinking – I’m giving you the nod and wink on any developments from the police end, when it occurred to me that you are in a privileged position with the public."

"I’m… I’m sorry, Frank, I’m not following you."

"Get rid of the little blighter," Candice hissed to herself behind her hand.

"I’ll second that," whispered Roger.

"What we could do with," said Kennedy expansively, settling into an armchair, "is some background on dating agencies in general, y’know what I mean? What kind of people use ‘em, what the service is like and so on. Build up a picture of the clients or whatever they call themselves. Sad bastards, I call ‘em."

"Know what you mean, Frank," Crispin nodded.

"So how about you run a piece on Northwest News and see if you can get members of the public to phone in with their stories? See if you can paint a picture of these nutters. Any gory details, so much the better. Especially off-the-record confessions."

"Frank – you know, nothing is ever off the record."

"Exactly. Find out as much as you can about these wierdos and losers."

The sound of Candice’s teeth grinding was abruptly drowned out by Crispin’s mobile phone going off in her hand.

"Excuse me, Frank." Crispin was the height of casual urbanity. The only thing was, he thought he was going to wet himself. "Duty calls. That’s my phone, in the kitchen."

"Wish I could cook," said Kennedy and, as Crispin left the room, stole a mouthful of pork from Crispin’s plate.

"I can’t get rid of him!" Crispin whispered to Roger. "He’s going to reinvent Crimewatch, Police Five and Dragnet at this rate!" He suddenly realised that Candice was taking no notice of him, and listening with rapt concentration to the phone call she had just received.

"Candice," said Crispin, "if it’s another date, tell him he’ll have to wait!"

Candice hung up. "It’s Elizabeth! She’s in trouble. She thinks she’s got a prowler."

"Well? So have we!" said Roger. "Does she want to swap?"

"We’ve got to go," said Candice.

"I’ll not argue with that!" Crispin leapt to the back door, unlocked it and shoved the pair of them out into the night. Trying to recollect a Tai Chi exercise, he then slowly swaggered back into the lounge to rejoin the detective.

"Just one of my sources with a tip," said Crispin.

"That mobile phone of yours must be bloody loud," said Kennedy, swallowing hurriedly. "I could almost hear what the other person was saying."

"Well… er, they do say good policemen have big ears."

"Do they bollocks. You’re thinking of Noddy."

Outside, in the pitch dark of a damp Manchester evening, Candice and Roger encountered another obstacle. The gate on the side path of Crispin’s house was locked.

"Hang on," said Roger. "I’ll give you a bunk up."

"You will not!"

"Then you give me a bunk up."

"Piss off."

"Which finishing school did you go to?"

"Roger! Climb on top and pull me!"

"Whoa! Honeymoon night flashback."

A patent leather toe-cap caught a shin.

"What was that noise?" said Kennedy. "Y’know, these chips are a bit soggy. You should give ‘em another couple of minutes… There it is again. Can y’hear?"

"It’s… it’s…" Crispin shook his head, utterly bereft of a cover story. "It’s burglars. Probably."

"Oh, that’s alright then."

"Excuse me? You’re a police officer. Aren’t you supposed to catch burglars?"

"Jesus Christ!" said Kennedy, giving up on the chips. "If I went after every bloody burglar in Manchester, I’d never get any work done."

Outside, Roger and Candice had somehow managed to scale the gate. Candice thought she might have laddered something. Roger though he might have ruptured something. They tiptoed over to the Galaxy and quietly let themselves in.

As Crispin heard the familiar sound of his own car starting up and driving away, Kennedy took out a Regal and lit it. "Now, about this TV piece…"

Crispin looked in stern disapproval at Kennedy’s cigarette. "Do you mind?" he said.

"What?" said Kennedy, puzzled for a moment. "Oh! Sorry." He took out the packet and offered it to Crispin. "Help yourself."

End of Extract

ANGEL

ANGEL
She had been dredged up from the dank river and flung on to the bank. I had imagined she would be bloated, fish like, with the stench of the river clinging to green flesh, and yet as I walked towards the body I could smell her perfume. It was ‘Angel’, the same as I had bought for my girlfriend last Christmas.
She was still pretty with a doll like appearance verging between girl and woman. Her pink lipstick had been smudged as though in some childish pique she had wiped her hand across her mouth and never had the chance to reapply. Her bleach blond hair was matted with foliage which now she would never be able to brush away.
Skimpy night club clothes clung to the gentle contours of her ripening body. White lace bra had come undone and was caught up round her chin, looking slightly ridiculous like a baby’s summer bonnet.
Her unkissed nipples could be seen, erect and dark beneath the gossamer thin dress which barely covered her ghostly skin. Matching briefs had been smudged with fat thumbprints of mud streaking downwards over her thighs, down to an oozing red graze on her schoolgirl knees. Her small feet still had the blistering strap marks from the high heels she had bravely worn all night.
For a fleeting moment I thought of taking my jacket off and placing it over her shoulders, as a father might tuck his child in bed, yet that very act had a familiarity, almost an indecency about it and I kept my distance, hiding behind the formality of my task. I began to snap away, holding the horror of this scene within the parameters of my camera frame. Measured and thereby manageable.
Her eyes dazzled. Even behind the protection of my camera lens I did not want to focus on them. Unblinking, impenetrable, they stared into my soul, down to the pathetic, snivelling, small boy I thought I had buried long ago. They saw beneath my Hugo Boss suit and aspiring reporter’s badge down to the weedy excuse of a body that was never picked for the football team and was still sometimes frightened of the dark.
Her unflinching eyes saw humanity in all its dirt and depravity, naked, exposed and irretrievable.
‘Terrible aint it mate? Just a kid. Have you got enough?’
‘Yes,ok. I think I’m finished here. I’ll head off home now’.
I turned my face to the bitter wind, feeling the zoom lens of my camera digging into my side.

I won’t wait up for her; she’ll only think I’m fussing, being an overprotective mum but I can’t help worrying. At least I know the taxi’s booked and she’ll have her friend Jenny with her.
When she came down stairs she looked so grown up; such a beautiful young woman yet still my little girl. Her eyes were sparkling with excitement.
I still remember that breathless feeling as I stood in front of my bedroom mirror, wondering if tonight I would meet him, the boy of my dreams, straight from a Jackie comic.
Hot pants, white frilly blouse and platform toes, I would dance to T Rex, Abba, and wait to be chosen, praying I would not be the one left unclaimed at the end of the night or suffer the indignity of waiting while my best friend arranged a date with the boy I fancied.
But then after that night I never went dancing again. How stupid and naïve I had been to go outside with him. Of course he wanted more than a kiss and cuddle and to look at the stars.
I should have known; the way he grazed me against the canal bridge as soon as we were beyond the disco lights and the music was just a dull thud. There was something cold and indifferent about him. He smelled of sweat and fags as he fumbled to undo my white lace bra. I can feel his prodding gritted fingers on my skin, taste his sour spit in my mouth. He had stuck chewing gum in my hair, and when I cut it out long strands of my blond hair were glued to it. I never wore that blue mini dress again. Never told anyone what happened that night.

Mum had tears in her eyes when I came downstairs. She said she wouldn’t wait up but I knew she would. She worries so much about me, still treats me like her little girl.
I had looked forward to going out for weeks; my first night clubbing.
Jenny was supposed to be my friend then why did she chat Jason up the minute my back was turned? Only last night I had confided how much I fancied him. We had practised seductive looks and poses; I even let her use the Angel perfume mum had bought me for Christmas.
We had got there too early when there was still a lot of floor space. I didn’t think Jason and his mates had arrived but she must have seen him. I went to the toilet to reapply my lip gloss and when I returned she had her tongue down his throat and his hands were all over her. I couldn’t believe she would do that to me. Neither of them even noticed as I stormed out of the night club.
I stood in the entrance and then some pervey old guy started trying to chat me up. In his fancy suit he thought he was something special. Making out he was so concerned about me and ‘could he help?’ because he could see I was upset while all the time he had his eyes on my breasts, imagining what it would be like...
Honestly mum I tried to phone for a taxi but there was a forty minute wait and I just had to get out of that place. I couldn’t avoid the route by the canal and it wasn’t that late; there were plenty of people about. I thought if I just walk quickly I could be back before you had time to worry about me.
He just came out of nowhere.
I was glad when my body hit the water. Glad that it had ended and he could not hurt me any more.

For Valentine's Day

I haven't got any poems for Valentine's Day - but here are the lyrics of a couple of love songs. There were supposed to be three, all themed around the Moon, but I haven't come up with the third one yet.

Lady Moon

Gliding high, veiled with cloud
Timeless grace shining down
Though you are so high
You are always by my side
In my mind my lady moon

Leave me here on frozen ground
Falling tear only sound
Though you are so far
You are always in my heart
In my mind my lady moon
In my mind my lady moon
In my mind my lady moon

Born On The Moon

Oh I like to look at your picture
It reminds me of when I had a chance
To turn your head and sway your judgement
And maybe start a little romance
Oo, oo, oo, foolish song
Could not make up for what I did wrong
Mm, mm, it was over too soon
And my love for you was born on the moon

Sometimes I wander in to a daydream
And there I find you waiting for me
I call your name and I follow
But you always turn and flee
Mm, mm, mm, must it ever be?
Will you never turn and see me?
Mm, mm, ‘cos I’m looking at you
And my love for you was born on the moon

Mm, mm, mm, I cry out loud
My love for you is higher than the clouds
Mm, mm, it was over too soon
And my love for you remains on the moon

New novel GSOH available now!

Dear Folks,

my new novel, GSOH, is now available at Lulu.com. I hope you will take a look - you can read a preview of the first few pages.

Best wishes,

NJP

Valentine

Sorry I never called you
But my phone, it fell to bits.
I put it back together but
I'd lost the number six

I can call the curry house
To order vindaloo.
I can call the bookies,
But I can't call you

Perhaps I'll get another one
With camera, games as well.
But no. I'm quite attached to it
And so my love - farewell!

29

"The highest achievement of human ingenuity is justice."

Dr Hall looked round the lecture theatre to gauge the reaction to this assertion, so lacking in equivocation. This was the third lecture in the module, The Psychology of Morality, and so far it had been pretty regular stuff. Pretty regular reaction – note-taking, yawning, wandering gaze. Which were paying attention, which were thinking, which might want to debate with him in tutorial later in the week? Which might anticipate what he was going to say next?

"And the ingenuity of the achievement lies in the way we humans deceive ourselves that it exists."

Did he detect a faint murmur in the ranked tiers of his audience? He held up his pen, a plain, ordinary ballpoint. "Supposing this was yours, and I stole it – what would be justice? Suppose, on the way out of this lecture someone picks the loose change out of your pocket? Not very serious. But suppose that was the only money you had for your bus fare to get home this evening, or to buy food for the weekend. What would be justice then?

"Suppose your change included your keys. Someone gets into your bed-sit and steals your hi-fi? Or you live at home with your parents – someone breaks in, rapes your mother, kicks your father to death. How would you feel if a court said, ‘But the attacker didn’t mean to kill the man – he was sick and the illness, aggravated by the assault, was the cause of death.’ Your mother suffers trauma for the rest of he life, can’t go outdoors. What would be a suitable sentence from a court in this country?

"Would you take justice into your own hands, perhaps? It’s against the law in this country, but if the victims were your own flesh and blood, would you feel entitled? Obligated? Forced to take action? Justified?

"We equate justice with punishment. But how do you make punishment as great as evil and are we in the right even to try? And wouldn’t we be committing evil ourselves?

"This pen I am holding up was sent to me through the mail. It was from Amnesty International, a well-know, world-wide charity that campaigns for fair trials and just treatment of prisoners, and the stopping of torture. They were asking for funds for their cause. They pointed out in their leaflet that a pen such as this, in the hands of a secret policeman, could be used as an instrument of torture. To blind somebody. I will leave you to imagine the fundamental details.

"It is often said that the best person to define what is just response to a wrong-doer’s act is the victim. Let the victim decide what is just. If you’ve just had your eye gouged out, what do you think you might say?"

Terry felt distinctly uncomfortable in his seat. He was a mature student, which meant that he was a good fifteen to twenty years older than most of the other students on this course. He had chosen psychology because he wanted to know more about people, and, being a social science, he had been led to believe there would be lots of women on the course. He thought it might be a positive thing, to start looking around for someone to start a relationship with, since his wife had died. And, since he had also been made redundant with a fair settlement, and had no other responsibilities, he felt he should do what he liked. There was some doubt he’d get another job at his age anyway. He could re-skill… or he could just go and be a carefree student doing what he wished. He looked round at the other students and wondered what they were thinking. When he’d picked this particular module, "The Psychology of Morality," he hadn’t known what to expect. Maybe dry and dull. This was turning out to be neither.

Dr Hall, the lecturer, was continuing. "You see, it’s not just a question of ‘who is qualified to make decisions about justice?’ It’s also about what would satisfy the unjustly treated." He paused. "There was some work done at the Psychology Department of Freedom University in The States back in the Sixties. It was very controversial, and could never be repeated now, certainly not in this country, in this university. The usual guinea pigs were students, and they were locked in cells for long periods, then shown films of people undergoing torture, and told they would have similar things done to them unless they confessed to some crime none of them had committed. To make up for the fact that this was not a real prison – and to spice things up a bit, because – after all, experimenters love to push the parameters – the subjects were given adrenaline beforehand, so they would have a fear-reaction guaranteed. Then – when they had identified with and empathised with the victims – they were asked what sort of punishment the torturers should get. The results were surprising.

"A lot of the students actually came up with suggestions that were even worse than the things they had been shown – and believe me, they were bad enough. But in some instances, the pseudo-victims couldn’t say anything. They became hysterical. They started to scream. Some carried on screaming for several hours, until the adrenaline wore off or they were given barbiturates to calm them down.

"And that is my point. The only justice some victims get is to scream. All they can do is scream. They get nothing else. When you are hurt, you can scream intermittently for hours. But how long can you make a single scream? How long could you scream for, if you were in pain and believed you were about to die?

"I’m going to tell you a number. It’s a number that I promise you that you will never forget. Not when you leave this lecture theatre, not when you go home, not when you finish the term, or the course. Not ever. The only justice these people got was to scream. And the longest single scream any of them made was for just twenty-nine seconds."

(To be continued, possibly...)

Naked

An hour ago the transporter had stopped. We were forced to disembark and marched through the woods for about half a kilometre, roped together at the ankles. Seven of us, all male and all young Jewish men. We had been caught in one way or another after being hidden or helped by friends and sympathisers, who themselves risked severe penalties. It became clear why we were brought here after the spades were handed out.

The soldiers smoked cigarettes and joked amongst themselves whilst we were made to dig. Underneath the initial layer of grass, the ground was hard and full of tree roots. Digging was difficult enough; we were practically starved, muscle tissue long ago wasted away, but knowing that we digging our own grave made the task virtually impossible. The soldiers kept shouting at us. There were three of them in total. One wore a fixed smile and clearly enjoyed the work. He had slammed the butt of his rifle into the groin of one of the prisoners during the journey, simply for making eye contact. He was older than the others, perhaps about twentyfour. The others were about nineteen or twenty, a similar age to myself. One had dark hair, the other a classic German blond. After the incident in the lorry we had all kept our eyes to the floor until we reached our destination.

I looked around at our secret cemetery. It was a small clearing in a wood with oak and birch trees predominant. On another day, through a more appreciative pair of eyes, the location could have been described as tranquil and picturesque. I imagined myself walking through the trees on a warm summer evening, side by side with a girl, laying together in the grass and forgetting the world for a few precious moments. I stared ahead at the dark earth that was to form my last resting place. Unmarked, hidden away, part of a dirty secret that must be kept from the world. I wondered if some young couple would pass over this ground in years to come, unaware of the atrocities that had taken place earlier.

Progress on the grave was clearly unacceptably slow to the smiling soldier. He snarled out an order and the two subordinates climbed down and each took a spade from a prisoner.

The dark haired one was alongside me in the pit. He was digging at twice the rate that I could manage. I ventured a glance at him. He seemed vaguely familiar. I risked a further look and recognised him at once, although I hadn't seen him for over ten years. Stefan and I had been friends at Kindergarten age. Oblivious to the tension building between our races we had been kindred spirits catching frogs by a local pond. Stefan had inadvertently harmed a frog when lifting it from a fishing net. It had caught its foot in the netting and was moving with difficulty. He had been mortified and took it upon himself to nurture the animal back to health. A week later we released the frog, back into the pond, with the usual ceremonial pomp that would seem necessary to two seven year old boys to mark such an occasion. And now? What had become of this innocent child? A case-hardened cog in the evil Nazi war machine.

He climbed out of the pit without a second glance and his companion followed. We were ordered out and then made to remove our clothing. To achieve this the ropes attached to our legs were removed. One of the prisoners, having decided there was nothing to lose, made a run for the trees. The smiling soldier was on him in a flash, slashing across the back of his legs with a long blade. He was dragged back and held over the edge of the pit while his throat was cut, before his pathetic, sinewy frame was allowed to fall into the grave.

Stefan had removed his hand gun from a holster and was motioning us towards the pit. The blond one was helping him line up the prisoners. The smiling soldier walked behind us slowly, backwards and forwards along the line. I could feel his smile burning into my naked back. I looked up at Stefan. His face was gaunt, his eyes sunken and grey. I spoke his name, softly, almost imperceptibly low. But the sound of ones own name is surely the most unmistakable that a human ear can detect and there was no doubt that Stefan heard and recognised my faint uttering. He looked up and into my eyes. I stared back at his, reaching deep into the dark fetid world that he now inhabited. His jaw lowered slightly and as I studied his face, his eyebrows raised in recognition. “Ben,” he breathed.

I was still staring into his eyes, waiting, perhaps for some retribution for my effrontery. They told me that, just like me, he was a prisoner, held in some alien world where fear was the watchword. He looked at me, his eyes pleading for forgiveness and I, in my nakedness, was overcome with pity for this creature from my past, sent to execute me. My lips tightened together briefly and my eyelids nodded in assent. Stefan looked down and stepped behind me.

I could feel the moist grass and loose soil beneath my feet. The mid morning sun flickered though the canopy of leaves parted by a gentle draught of wind. The breeze lapped around my thighs and up the channel in the small of my back. I felt so close to nature that I thought perhaps there were worse places to die. Drowning in a stinking, rat-filled trench or strung out across a smoking field of barbed wire. I thought of my parents whom I hadn't seen for so long and felt a longing to be re-united with them.

A gunshot broke the silence. The blond soldier had shot one of the prisoners. His body fell limply into the pit. Another shot and another body. I closed my eyes and waited for the end. Then a louder shot and I heard something fall behind me. A shout from the blond soldier and then a reply from Stefan followed by another shot. This time I saw the blond soldier fall clutching at one of the prisoners. I turned around and saw the smiling soldier dead at my feet. From my upside down view of his face, his smile looked even more sinister than it had in life. Stefan looked back at me and the other three remaining men, one of whom was on his knees sobbing. Stefan’s own eyes were watering as he spoke softly.

“Get dressed.”