I have been writing fiction for almost thirty years, mostly for the enjoyment of myself and my friends, but writing is my love and my vocation, so of course that’s where my dreams and ambitions are. In the meantime, technical writing helps to pay the mortgage, while I also have fun with web design, reading, watching movies and television, knitting, and imbibing espresso.

by Julie Bozza

Three young boys on a collision course: Albert Sterne – isolated, driven and fiercely intellectual; Fletcher Ash – bright, dedicated and with a strong sense of justice; John Garrett – hurt, marginalised and determined to do to the world exactly what the world has done to him. The eleven short stories in this companion volume continue and expand on the lives of the characters from the same author’s outstandingly popular THE DEFINITIVE ALBERT J. STERNE, which should preferably be read first.

61,000 words/236 pages
£3.75

Publication 1 February 2012
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“If you read The Definitive Albert J. Sterne, this collection is a must read. If you didn’t, I wholeheartedly recommend both books… “
Guest reviewer Lady M at Jessewave 20 February 2012
 

SAMPLE TEXT

Albert’s early childhood was mostly vague impressions. The love between his parents, and their love for Albert, was strong and constant and inviolate. But none of them were ever very demon­strative, there were never any displays of sentiment. The love was simply there as the foundation of everything they did, all the choices they made, the way they kept company only with each other, the scrupulous care taken to ensure that Albert had everything he needed to grow into everything he could be.

There were hazy moments he could remember. Albert, curled up in his father’s lap, listening to Rebecca’s calm voice tell the story of an old friend, long dead; Miles as rapt as the boy. The three of them being polite at some obscure relative’s after­noon tea, then mischievously sharing their boredom with each other through grimaces and raised eye­brows behind the woman’s back – they had gone home and read all evening, happy in their shared silence. Both of his parents a little giddy, someone having talked them into a fine restaurant on their twelfth wedding anniversary, dressing in their usual dull clothes – but Miles had bought Rebecca a silk scarf. The dark green of it picked out the reddish tint to her brown hair, which she left loose for once. Her eyes had glowed.

Late that night, she clutched the scarf in her dead hand and wouldn’t let it go.

When theorizing, the cops fastened on the poor of the soup kitchen with all the determination of the unimaginative – his parents had, it seemed, raised the resentment of some street bum, with their un-Christian wealth and their patronizing airs. And if not one of the down-and-outs, then it must have been a robber surprised at their unexpected return to the apartment, panicking into violence.

Years later Albert, with studies in forensics and criminal psychology and an FBI career behind him, would find sounder theories. It was more likely that their murderer was a person Rebecca and Miles knew well, or perhaps they had been carefully selected by someone falling into the broad category of psychopath. Few murders were random or motiveless in 1952, and very few surprised robbers or resentful bums had the resources for quite that much blood-spilling. Besides which, he and old Aunt Rose had discovered the bodies an hour or two later, and there had been nothing missing from the apartment, nothing disturbed except by the viol­ence. One of the neighbors had heard a scuffle, a cry of protest – but Miles had been knocked uncon­scious and Rebecca had her throat slit too quickly for much of a fight.

Albert had never believed in a God he was not even allowed to name. Rebecca and Miles had done all their good works in honor of the Holy One, and for humanity. But Albert had never felt their reli­gious faith, had never seen anything in their hearts but a pure love for him and a saddened love for troubled humanity. The simple rituals of their reli­gion were only dusted off when in company. Perhaps they doubted, in the face of all the world had become, and inadvertently hid their faith as well as their doubts from their son.

There was a gentle joke that Rebecca sometimes shared with Miles and Albert, when they came across someone hopelessly muddled with religion: “He needs his faith and reason reconciled,” Rebecca would lament with a mock sigh. “Albert, fetch our Guide of the Perplexed.”

It had been years before Albert had realized with some disappointment that the title wasn’t born of his parents’ wry and wistful humor. There was indeed such a book, written in the Middle Ages, purporting to list the thirteen principles of faith of a good Jew.

The wake for Rebecca and Miles was a quiet, understated affair. Albert was expected to sit through hours on a bench, the closed caskets on a dais before him. They were lying there, his dead parents, in wood boxes. Macabre. There was mater­ial draped over the coffins; one piece a plain red clashing with the polished maple, the other a muddy green, and a small cluster of cream-colored flowers on each. The room itself was plain; unorna­mented benches, off-white walls, and glass in the windows that filtered out the warmth of the sun­light. Uninspired organ music drifted through speakers tucked away high in the corners, repeat­ing the same tunes every forty-three minutes.

What must have been hundreds of people filed through over the long hours of the day. There was a handful of the poor and homeless, uncomfortable but determined to show respect. And a host of distant relatives, doing the right thing by their kin. Then there were the immigrants and the children, the businessmen and the politicians. The social workers and the doctors. Tens and hundreds of mourners.

But none of them cried. They signed the book, stood before the coffins for a while, wandered over to speak to their acquaintances in whispers, patted Albert on the head as if he could be dismissed that easily – then left as soon as their consciences set them free. They all wore the little round hat, the yarmulke; most of them, unused to the custom, hav­ing been handed one at the door. Some of the Jewish faithful had a torn ribbon pinned to their lapels to symbolize the rending of cloth – but they wore it as if it were a decoration rather than an expression of grief. Most of the people, whatever their beliefs, wore dark clothes.

Albert quickly grew to hate the hushed voices, the muted tone of the whole thing. Except for the somber clothes, this wasn’t what his parents were truly about. Yes, they might have appeared to these people as quiet and sober and dispassionate. It may have been assumed they were devoted to the One God and Torah, the One Law. They might be thought to be facing Judgment now, after the death of their earthly bodies. But none of this reflected the Rebecca and Miles he had known.

As the morning stretched into afternoon, Albert wondered which of his parents was in which box. It seemed right, somehow, for his mother to be in the one with the green shroud over it. For a while, as he kicked his feet in small precise arcs, he thought over this instinct. Until he remembered the night they died. He looked up and found Aunt Rose standing a few feet away with one of the funeral home attendants.

“Does she still have the scarf?” he asked her.

Writing has been an important part of my life for more years than I care to remember, and I daily thank The Powers That Be for the invention of the computer and the world wide web.

by Chris Quinton

Robert Rees, full-time librarian, part-time art restorer, is called in to finish a commission when his father goes into hospital – a pair of Elizabethan portraits on oak panelling, Adam Courtney and Ann Darcy. Trouble is, there’s more interest in the paintings than Rob ever bargained for; a lot of people want to get their hands on such priceless treasures, and they’re not always particular about their methods. Just as well he’s got his brother’s mysterious friend Fox on hand to look out for him, then, isn’t it? Or, for that matter … is it?

52,000 words/200 pages
£3.75

Publication 1 February 2012
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SAMPLE TEXT

There were two motorbikes parked by the workshop when I pulled in off the lane. Mike’s Kawasaki and another, bigger, beast in black and chrome. As I got out of the car, my brother came running from the workshop, his face white in the swathe of light from the open door.

“Rob!” he yelled. “Ann’s gone!”

“Yes,” I said calmly. “Mr B has her and we have his money. Or rather, Dad does. Why the panic? Did you think she’d been nicked?”

“Bee?”

“As in Baverstock.” I peered more closely at him. “Mike? Are you okay? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m fine.” His smile seemed a bit forced. “Just a bit hung over, and finding her gone was a jolt.”

“I’ll bet. Too much imagination, Stud.”

“Huh!” Then he seemed to remember something, and the smile was turned up to full wattage. “Rob, come and meet an old pal who’s going to solve a problem for us.”

“Oh?” I said. “I wasn’t aware we have a problem. Apart from Dad.”

“Exactly. I meant what I said, you know. Those paintings could well be hot, and Baverstock may or may not know it. Then there’s Dad’s fall which might not have been an accident or even a fall. So-”

“Mike, you’re not making much sense.”

“Yes, I am. I don’t like the idea of you being here alone, or the panel when we’re both away seeing Dad, so – ”

“I am perfectly capable of looking after myself!” I snapped. “Will you stop equating gay with limp wrists! I’m not a fainting waif and I’m no pushover! It wasn’t me who ducked out of Karate classes because they interfered with my love life!” I had a green belt in Shotokan Karate, hardly Bruce Lee material, but it kept me fit.

“So,” Mike continued, ignoring me, “I’ve arranged a backup bodyguard.”
“What?” I scowled. “Who? Uncle Joe? What could he do? Huff distillery-breath on them?” It began to rain heavily, which did not improve my temper.

“Fox,” he said brightly. “He owes me a favour, so I asked him to stay for a while. Until Adam’s finished and gone back to Baverstock.”

“Oh. Did you.” Fox? What kind of name was that? If he was one of Mike’s friends, he probably smelled like one and was as house-trained; a spotty would-be biker with delusions of style. Or the real deal. This was Mike’s idea of being a responsible adult? My nerves had been stretched raw from the moment I received Lisa’s phone call telling me about Dad, and this was the last straw. I had a choice between anger or anger with violence, and the first swept over me before the second could get a toe in the door. Besides, satisfying though it might be, punching Mike’s lights out would get us nowhere. “Nice of you to consult me first,” I snapped. “You can tell your old pal Fox his company is not required, so he can jump on his toy bike and pedal off back where he came from!”

“Don’t be hasty, Rob! Just stop and think for a – ”

“I have, and foxes are superfluous to requirements!”

” – moment. He can sleep in my room – ”

“No! Of all the arrogant, stupid, selfish – if you’re so concerned about me and the bloody panel, why don’t you and Donna move in here? Hmm? Thought of that, Stud? So hop it, both of you!”

I spun on my heel and stalked into the cottage, slamming the door behind me. It was old, of solid oak, and slammed very satisfactorily. After a short pause, a bike fired up and roared away.

One bike. A sharp tattoo of brass on brass rattled in my ears as someone played a tune on the lion-and-ring knocker. I jerked the door open, smiling with all my teeth. “Fox,” I said, not feeling the need to moderate my words with Mike’s strange friends. “On your bike.” The figure on my unwelcome mat was clothed head to foot in dripping wet motorcycle gear – black leather topped off by one of those black full-face visored helmets that looked like a leftover from the Star Wars epics. He took off his gloves, and then his helmet, and ran his hand through his matted hair.

“Robert Rees,” he said. His voice was quiet, deepish and slightly husky, and started a slow curl of warmth through my blood. “Can I come in?”

In the light spilling from the room I could see he was pale, the almost transparent pallor that goes with naturally auburn hair. His was not just red, it was a copper mane that came past his collar in heavy waves. The warmth became a pulse of interest, and I flattened it quickly. I’d been dateless far too long, obviously. He was about my age as far as I could tell, just under six feet tall and looked as if he’d escaped from a Hollywood Brat Pack: all lean grace and cheekbones and thin high-bridged nose, and a gold ring in one earlobe. He also had a chin with a jut to it that begged to be introduced to a fist. He looked like fire and ice. He looked like trouble. ‘Can I come in?’ Who was he trying to kid? Not a chance …

The impulse sort of faded away and, “Yes,” I heard myself say. I was moving aside to let him walk past me before I fully realised what I was doing. His eyes were very green and as our gazes met, he smiled. The conviction I was imagining things edged into my mind and took over. This biker lout was no more trouble than Mike. A pest and a pain in the backside, but that was all.

“Thanks,” he said. “Mike told me to say he’s sorry he upset you, but he is worried.”

“Huh. I’ll wring his neck when I get hold of him, but it’s not your fault. You can stay for a day or so, I suppose.” I shut the door on the night. I felt oddly disconnected from my irritation with Mike and my unwanted guest, and couldn’t recall why he was unwanted, just that he was. The beginnings of a headache twinged behind my eyes. “Have you got any gear?”

“Yes, on the bike.”

“Bring it in, then. There’s another tarp in the workshop if you want to cover yours up. You look as if you could do with a hot drink. Coffee?”

“Thanks. Black, no sugar.”

“Go on, then. And wipe your feet!”

By the time I’d put the kettle on, he was back, panniers draped over one shoulder, hair straggling wetly over his face. He dropped the panniers and held out a hand to me. “Thanks for the hospitality,” he said and I wondered if he was being sarcastic. “I am house-trained, I promise.”

That got a bit close to reading my thoughts and I could feel my colour rising. “So I should hope,” I snipped, shaking hands automatically. His paw was narrow and long-fingered and chilled, the grip firm without being a power play. I glanced down at our joined hands.

On the first finger of his right hand was what looked to be an antique gold ring, the armorial design on the bezel worn close to obliteration. Hmm. So the Brat Packer was wearing a fancy ring. That didn’t quite go with the image. I wondered briefly where he got it from, then it fuzzed and slipped from my mind. “Furniture isn’t improved by being dripped on,” I said sternly, determined to play the bitch to remind him he was here under sufferance, and if it sounded more bitch-queen, then tough. It might even scare him off. “These are the house rules and if you don’t like them you know what you can do about it. Since you’re the resident Doberman, you can sleep on the sofa in the living room. It’s a lot closer to the workshop than Mike’s attic. You can also do the cooking and washing-up for both of us while you’re here, so I can spend more time on Dad’s work. Do you have any problems with that?”

“No, Rob,” he said meekly. Too mealy-mouthed, by half.

It’s 1976, the Cold War is still at its coldest, and retired agent John Dashwood is persuaded to return to supervise one last mission. However nothing at Ghost Station is quite the way he remembers it and everybody seems to have something to hide – including his two valued colleagues, Rick Wentworth and Harry Tilney, and his enigmatic boss Sir Charles Grandison. When operational necessity requires Dashwood to send Rick and Harry into a dangerous situation, the boundaries between friend and enemy begin to blur and he’s left isolated and wondering which of his so-called allies he can really trust.

65,000 words/314 pages
£3.75

Publication 1 November 2011
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“An exciting and fun spy thriller, which had me on the edge of my seat…”
Review by Sirius at Jessewave 19 November 2011

SAMPLE TEXT

“Rick, tell me what you know.”

“Not much. A missing American in Germany, that’s all we’ve been told.”

“Well, in that case, picture the scene. A road a short distance inside the border with East Germany; Colonel Joseph Zebulon, in uniform, is being driven from A to B in a British staff car in broad daylight, unes­corted. Couple of hours later the car’s sitting empty at the side of the road, no sign of a struggle, no fingerprints that can’t be iden­tified and eliminated. For no apparent reason the car stopped, the colonel and his driver – ” Dashwood handed them pictures of the two men ” – just seem to have got out and vanished. Comments?”

“Armed roadblock?” asked Harry Tilney.

“No.” Wentworth’s response was im­patient. “The driver would have been trained to keep going. Presumably they had bullet-proof glass?”

“The best,” returned Dashwood. “There’s no sign of a shot being fired, no damage to the car or anything else in the vicinity.”

“The driver was in on it,” said Bertram. “Must have been.”

“We’ll get to him in a minute. Anything else?”

Wentworth pursed his lips. “What time of day did it happen?”

“Early afternoon. Returning from lunch with the local British commander.”

“Why was he unescorted so close to the border?”

“Precisely what I’ve been asking.” Dashwood flipped the file until he came to a page thickly covered with heavy black type. “Joseph Zebulon, colonel in the US Army – on their Strategic Staff until about six weeks ago, when there was a fire at a research facility and he was suspected of having started it.”

“So he’s a nutter?” queried Tilney.

“Possibly. Personal details – he’s forty-one, single, from Portland, Oregon. Parents dead, married sister still lives there, no other rel­atives.”

“Girlfriends?” Tilney was looking for any­thing to make the vanished Zebulon seem halfway human. “Boyfriends?”

“Neither – although the latter consid­erably more likely, according to his file.”

“So what does he do for fun?” Bertram asked, uncomprehending.

“Gets himself kidnapped by East Germans, apparently. His area of special­isation is missiles, propulsion of. Details aren’t in the file.” Dashwood sounded dis­appointed.

“The driver?”

“Standard issue, West Essex Regiment; they’re in the area working-up for the Summer Exercise. Ogden, Stephen Ronald, Corporal – inevitably known as ‘Stan’. Twenty-eight years old, married, one son, wife and child in a quarter at Bulford; she hasn’t been informed of his disappearance yet. Nothing unusual on his record.”

“What do you reckon, boss?” Tilney was inspecting his right thumbnail as if expect­ing to find the solution printed there.

“Looks like a defection, doesn’t it? If Zebulon was starting fires, maybe he intended to go over; it’s not as if he had any close ties in the States any more, is it? But then, how do we account for the driver? They’d never set eyes on one another before yesterday, so it’s unlikely they planned it between them. The question is, did Ogden go willingly or was he kidnapped – and is he still alive and if so what can we do about getting him back? I’m aware that’s four questions,” Dashwood added wryly. “What I’m trying to say is, Ogden’s our priority.”

“The driver?”

“The driver. The Americans will be launch­ing their own investigation to find their man – I’ll clarify the details before you leave, if I can – but for now I want you to concentrate on Ogden. He may be only a driver, but he’s a member of the British Armed Forces believed kidnapped by an enemy power and we need to do everything we can to get him back. We’re making dip­lomatic overtures, of course, but the circum­stances are unusual enough to require a couple of experienced operatives available in the area. So I’m going to task you independently of any other initiative. Rick, Harry, you’re off to Frankfurt on the first available flight in the morning – Desk Officer Northern Europe will arrange the booking. That’s the uh … ?”

“The 08.20 flight,” supplied Tilney without a pause.

“Of course. Let me know if there are any problems with your arrangements. Tom, I intend to hold you back to assist at this end; Harry, you’re on immediate recall until absolutely the last moment. Understood?”

“Understood.”

Dashwood glanced across and found Bertram, too, acknowledging orders. “Rick – stay behind for a word. Thank you, Harry, and good luck. Tom – if there’s no work you should be doing at the moment, bugger off to bed and I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yes, sir. Buggering off now, sir.” Bertram sketched a comical Benny Hill-type salute and retreated rapidly.

Dashwood waited until the younger men had left the room, then rounded the desk again and broke out the cigarettes he had found in the drawer.

“You do realise those are mine?” Wentworth asked wryly.

“They were; I’ve confiscated them.” Dashwood offered him a light, then lit his own cigarette and blew smoke towards a ceiling that apparently received such treat­ment often. When he lowered his eyes he found Wentworth watching him.

“Rick, this is supposed to be your job. Grandison wants you for director. He told me so himself.”

“He’s told me, too, but he doesn’t seem able to get it through Committee.”

“I have an idea this may be his last throw of the dice,” said Dashwood. “If the oper­ation goes well, you’ll get all the credit and probably the promotion too; if it goes badly, I’ll be the one who takes the blame.”

Wentworth nodded. “A bit obvious, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know. Too bloody obvious, per­haps, but it’s a win-win situation for Grandison whichever way you look at it. Anyway I intend to assume, until I discover otherwise, that the situation in Germany is exactly as we’ve been told – only for God’s sake check and double-check everything, you’ll be a long way from home. Be extremely vigilant.”

“I will.”

It hardly needed saying. For eighteen months, while Dashwood had been SO1 and Wentworth SO2, they had worked together on any number of sensitive assign­ments and a sort of telepathy had evolved between them. The same, Dashwood supposed, that Wentworth and Tilney now enjoyed, and that Tilney and Bertram were beginning to develop. It was a vital attribute for the work they did; agents unable to communicate with one another on a sub-textual level were effectively blind and deaf to one another’s needs. That was probably why so many of their marriages failed, now that he came to think about it. They expected their spouses to develop instincts similar to those of their partners, and the spouses were rarely inter­ested enough to make the effort. That, he supposed, together with the fact that agents had to be undiscriminating about their sexuality. It was good to know, though, despite the amount of time they had been apart, that a morsel of his connection to Rick Wentworth still remained.

“I want you to understand I’m not taking over. This is your job; I’m only here to smooth the path for you.”

Wentworth’s head tilted as he regarded him carefully. “Who is Zebulon?” he asked, as though what had gone before was utterly irrelevant.

“At the moment, I have no idea – but I doubt he’s what he’s supposed to be. Bait, perhaps, intended to trap them into over-reaching.”

“Them? Which ‘them’ did you have in mind?”

“That’s what you and Harry are going to have to find out.”

Wentworth shrugged. “Is it true you were getting a blow-job when Tom came to collect you?”

“Absolutely. The boy had the most incredibly talented mouth. Shame I never got to try the other end.”

“So you think you were set up, do you?”

“Almost certainly. I’ll have to look into that while you’re away. Boy’s got a file, though.”

Wentworth’s eyebrows climbed. “What are we getting into here, John?”

“Nothing we can’t get out of, I feel sure.” But Dashwood didn’t sound entirely convinced.

Joshua Delaney and Carmine Angelo Trezini, cop and low-level mobster, should have absolutely nothing in common; yet, accidentally brought together, they rapidly became both lovers and allies against important crime figure Matthew Picano. Of course, taking down a man like that was never going to be easy – but Josh has no idea of the scale of the sacrifice he will eventually be called upon to make.

53,000 words/218 pages
£3.75

Publication 1 November 2011
Order from our online shop

“This book quite literally sucked me in and wouldn’t let me go.”
Review by The Romanceaholic, 1 November 2011

“[Recommended] to those who love cop/mobster love affairs, court room drama and gentle love…”
Review by Pixie at MM Good Book Reviews, 14 November 2011

“The entire story improves as it goes on … “
Review by Cryselle at Jessewave, 31 December 2011

“I love a good redemption story…”
Review by Lisa at Top2Bottom Reviews, 3 January 2012

SAMPLE TEXT

Angelo Trezini was slowing down, too cold and too dull to even think. Well, his only thought was a wistful wish for the energy necessary to feel sad or sorry or righteously pissed off. He was fading fast.

He was in a freezer. A large storage room of a freezer, packed high with cartons of food, and lit so brightly that Trezini was forced to squint. When his eyes were open, that is. Mostly he was just pacing in a circle, eyes shut tight against the harsh light and harsher cold, arms wrapped around his chest. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d walked this circle, but it was often enough that he didn’t have to look where he was going any more.

A muffled clang, and the door swung open. It all happened so fast, and Trezini was feeling so slow that he didn’t have a chance to take ad­vantage of the situation. As luck would have it, he was as far away as his circle took him – by the time he’d turned and drawn his gun, the door was already slamming shut again. And Trezini had company.

He was staring down his gun-barrel at a big dumb hunk of a man wearing a cop’s uniform. A man who was so ridiculously handsome that Trezini almost forgot the cold for a moment. There was a stillness about the man, a sense that he was completely self-contained.

The two men considered each other for a time; neither making any untoward moves, though Trezini aiming a gun at him didn’t seem to faze the cop. Wisely, even though the cop held a gun loose­ly in his own hand, he made no attempt to lift it; he hadn’t even instinctively tightened his grip. After a still moment, the cop carefully turned the butt of the handle towards Trezini to show him that the clip was missing, presumably confiscated. Maybe the morons who’d put Trezini in here had already learned one lesson.

Eventually, as the cop lowered his hand to hang harmlessly by his side, Trezini demanded, “Who the hell are you?”

“Officer Joshua Delaney, thirty-third precinct.”

“Yeah, the pleasure’s all mine,” Trezini sarcas­tically responded. “What are you doing here?”

Speaking in an unexpectedly conversational tone, the man explained, “Well, I assume someone didn’t appreciate me issuing parking tickets. There were cars parked illegally outside the warehouse.”

Parking tickets? Trezini didn’t bother hiding his disbelief. “What, are you feeling suicidal? This isn’t the part of town to get nosy in.”

“I’m new to Chicago.” There was still a complete lack of self-consciousness, despite being so badly caught out.

The guy was patently harmless, so Trezini re-holstered his gun, noting that his companion’s self-possession remained constant despite the withdrawal of this threat. “Yeah, that would explain why you’re in this neighborhood at this time of night, trying to ticket wiseguys for letting their meters run out.”

“Blocking a fire hydrant,” the cop corrected him, “parking too close to an intersection, and parking on the sidewalk.” He let a beat go by before asking, “These people are mobsters?”

Trezini let out a laugh. “Don’t get too excited – this bunch are nothing more than associates and wannabes. Total amateurs.” As requested, the cop remained unexcited, though the frown tilted towards Trezini indicated that he was certainly curious. Trezini asked him, “You’d still have given them tickets, wouldn’t you, even if you knew? You’d still be nosy.”

Delaney shrugged, as if this was of no importance. “Yes.” His breath fogged whenever he spoke.

Belatedly realizing he’d started shivering again, Trezini recommenced pacing around his circle, hugging himself ineffectually. He closed his eyes against this harsh fate.

The cop commented, “We’re in danger of dying from hypothermia.”

Trying to generate the heat of sarcasm, Trezini said, “Quick, aren’t you? They’d have taken my gun if they planned on me surviving.” He shrugged, though his shoulders were already stiff. “Or maybe they panicked, they just didn’t think, and now they have to let the freezer do their work for them.”

“Then we have at least two advantages.”

“What?’

A hint of humor kicked up one corner of the cop’s mouth. “They didn’t search me. I have a spare clip.”

“Being armed ain’t gonna count for much when we’re dead.”

“Here.” When Trezini opened his eyes again, he found that the cop was shrugging off his woolen coat while looking about him at the freezer’s in­terior. “Take this,” the guy said, absently holding the coat out towards Trezini.

Well, Trezini was hardly going to refuse it, though he was suspicious of such noble generosity.

Noticing this momentary hesitation, the cop ex­plained, “You’re far slimmer than I am, and you’re only wearing a suit; you need it more.”

“Sure. Who’s arguing?” Trezini grabbed the coat, put it on over his suit jacket and buttoned it up. Unfortunately the extra layer didn’t seem to make much difference: perhaps Trezini was already too cold, and couldn’t warm up again.

Delaney seemed oblivious to the discomfort; his warmest garment now a knitted woolen sweater. While the two men were both about six feet tall, the cop certainly had the larger frame, giving the rather attractive impression of solid muscle and perhaps a little excess padding. Turning the collar up and huddling gratefully into the coat, Trezini dismissed the cop for his stupidity while also reluctantly admiring him for his decency.

The cop checked that the door was indeed locked, the safety handle disabled. And then he began looking around the freezer; as he went, he absently reloaded his gun, and chambered a bullet. Trezini watched him with little interest, having already searched for escape routes. Well, Trezini watched him with the interest anyone reserved for men who were movie-star handsome, though it was really far too cold for any reaction beyond a vague appreciation.

There were no exits other than the locked door, but there was a grated vent high on one wall. The cop hauled a few cartons of frozen food over and stacked them so that he could climb up to the vent. Guessing what the guy was intending, Trezini wrestled some of the modular metal shelving apart and handed Delaney a sturdy bar.

The grate was soon prized off, and the cop was leaning inside. But, “It’s no use,” the guy announced. “This duct leads straight up for twenty feet, we’d never climb it.”

Well, Trezini hadn’t really been hoping for much, anyway. The cop scrambled down again, and continued exploring – leaving the cartons, grate and bar where they were. Trezini watched him surreptitiously, beginning to get curious. Who the hell was this guy?

“We must have both surprised them,” Delaney eventually said. He produced a folded-up blanket from a cabinet near the door. “They didn’t remove the first aid kit and luckily for us, it contains a blanket.”

Trezini frowned at him, wondering what the cop would come up with next, and pondering the prob­lem with this scenario. “Of course,” he sighed. “There’s only one blanket.”

I started to write stories when I was nine or ten, and haven’t stopped ever since. I published a novel and other fiction and non-fiction. But the internet changed everything, because I discovered there’s a lot more women (and quite a few men) interested in reading and writing m/m stories.

And so Ravages happened!

Steve Gavan and Daniël Borghart are professional soccer players for Kinbridge Town – and also secret lovers. All that changes, however, when Steve innocently wanders into a city park and falls victim to a vicious gang of queer-bashers who beat him within an inch of his life. After that there are no secrets any more – and it’s a very long road back, for both of them, from there…

98,500 words/392 pages
£4.25

Publication 1 August 2011
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RAINBOW AWARDS 2011

Sixth equal in Best Gay Debut Novel/Book category

“I just want to sigh happily and rejoice at the triumph of fighting human spirit and be glad that our heroes found each other.”
Review by Sirius at Jessewave 19 December 2011

“…well worth reading if you want to be amazed by just how strong the power of love can be…”
Review at Miz Love and Crew Loves Books 11 August 2011

SAMPLE TEXT

If there’s anything happier than him and Daniël watching a footy match, he’d like to hear about it, so they could try it too. It’s a quiet sort of happiness, but it makes him think beyond the moment. He’s not ready yet to dismiss himself as ultimately irrelevant, a nice experience at best, in comparison with the much more important career that lies ahead for a player as talented and dedicated to the sport as Daniël Borghart. He thinks he can still manage a couple of good years with those legs of his. Although when it comes to staying with Kinbridge Town, he acknowledges some of it is likely wishful thinking on his part. By the end of the season, he’ll be thirty-two, with young guys like Miller and Borghart breathing down his neck. And there’s more on the way, with the owners allowing manager Degaré a very healthy budget. Still, every club, no matter how much in love they are with their new stars, need the dependable players; the older guys who can be overlooked all too easily and still make the difference between a team and eleven high earning guys who just happen to be on the same pitch at the same time. But it’s becoming less the alpha and omega of his existence. He wouldn’t go as far as saying it’s just a game, and things like privacy and what the papers would write or the songs the Kinbridge Kings would sing don’t matter, but something is shifting.

And whatever that something is, it makes him smile and swagger a bit like he’s drunk, although he’s almost never drunk, and think about his future in a way that’s new to him. He’s no longer young enough to have any grand illusions; the world is what it is and people are what they are, but that doesn’t mean nothing’s ever going to change. If one day Daniël looks him in the eye and tells him it’s all over, that he’s no longer as important as the beautiful game, he will bow his head and try to keep his dignity while walking away. Until that day, he will keep on searching for a solution to reconcile the irreconcilables. He’s not the one to start the revolution, but he’s willing to try and jump over his own shadow to prevent Daniël from being unhappy.

He walks and walks to get rid of the abundance of energy. Dan is getting his parents from the airport and as much as he understands that Mr and Mrs Borghart want to spend some time with their son, he almost wishes they could welcome them in their home together. But no matter how many hours of the day they’re spending with each other, there is no their home. Daniël had shown him pictures of his parents and his younger sister Naomi, and Steve in return had shown pictures of his mother and grandmother, or nan, as he would always remember her. He guesses Daniël’s parents wouldn’t be too bad about it, but something shared between a few is likely to become something shared between many. And they are not ready yet to share this with others.

So he keeps on walking, Daniël in his head, with a smile and a swagger and the knowledge that within a few days he’ll have his arms full of one sexy Dutchman starving for attention of the non-parental kind. He’s almost certain that by that time, he’ll be ready to invite Daniël to top him again. If not out of curiosity, he wants to know if the second time will be easier, then because much of the pleasure he had felt the first time came from the absolute joy Danny had radiated. He has to see that look in his lover’s eyes again. Perhaps they could try out another position and see how that works out for both of them. He loves it when Daniël straddles him, showing him that having a cock up your arse doesn’t mean you can’t be dominant, even aggressively so. Once or twice, things like that should be savoured like exclusive delicacies, he had been ordered to grip the headboard of his bed and let them stay there unless ordered otherwise. It had been an extremely educational way of learning that yes, you could be milked dry and still beg for more of the same.