Author: chrisnickson2

Leeds, The Biography

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It’s an idea that’s been at the back of my mind for a year or so – telling the stories of Leeds through the ages. Not the facts, there are already some excellent volumes that do that, but fiction, a series of short stories, going from Roman times to the middle of the 20th century.

It had been an idle idea until yesterday. Then, digging around online I came across an interesting piece. In 1901, which digging for the Allerton Park estate in Chapel Allerton, workmen unearthed a stone coffin that didn’t contain an entire skeleton. There were only a few bones left in it, along with a coin from about 350 AD. Somehow, that sparked me, a catalyst. So here is what will hopefully be the first story in Leeds, The Biography.

To offer a little background, Leeds may or may not have existed in Roman times. There’s written evidence of a place called Cambodunum about 20 miles from Tadcaster, on the road to Manchester. And both Street Lane and Stonegate Road might have been Roman roads. Might. Additionally, it’s possible that there was a stone ford across the Aire, and Cambodunum was where Holbeck now stands. A lot of ifs, ands and maybes. But put together with the coffin, it’s enough of a structure for a story.

CAMBODUNUM

WIDOW’S WEEDS

 

“I don’t see why they need a coffin, anyway,” Bellator said. “From what I heard, there wasn’t enough of him left to be worth burying.”

            The cart moved slowly along the rutted tracks, branches rubbing along the sides as the ox plodded on. It had taken the best part of two hours to load the stone coffin and lid, and with each dip and lurch it seemed as if the axle would break.

            “Their choice,” Lucillus told him with a shrug. He was a heavy man, somewhere around thirty, his knuckles covered with scars, a thick, ruddy beard on his cheeks. He reached for the wineskin under the seat and took a drink. “They paid good money for it. It’s the Christian way, put them in the ground so they can go to heaven.” He’d been the one who’d done all the work, chipping away at the rock until there was room for the head and body, just like any other coffin, then shaping the lid. Bellator was just the carter.

            A hot gust of wind burst out of the west and scoured their faces. Summer, Lucillus thought wryly. That was the way it had been this year. Usually even prayer couldn’t keep the rains away. But it had been dry since early spring, the grass brown and dead, dust kicking up and choking the throat whenever a man walked.

            “Almost there now,” the driver said. “It’s well before the road to Eboracum.” He shifted on the seat, big belly rolling, and used the goad on the ox. It didn’t seem to make any difference; the animal didn’t move any faster

            Lucillus hadn’t come this far north before. The settlement was just south of the river, a cluster of twelve houses around the stone ford. When he ventured out, it into the country he knew so well he could almost travel it in his sleep. He felt safer there, where family and friends were close. Troops had come to Cambodunum three times in his life, once a whole century of them, exotic men babbling away in languages he didn’t understand as they pitched their tents overnight, buying food and drink. Next morning they’d left so early that they could have been figures from a dream. When the order for the coffin came, he’d been taken by surprise. He worked a little with stone when he wasn’t trying to grow crops.  And with this weather there wouldn’t grow. The pay for the job was too good to refuse; it would keep them going for two months, himself, his wife and their two children.

            Bellator turned on to a smaller track, hardly wide enough for the cart.

            “They’re a strange family,” he said. “Done well for themselves, selling to the garrison over at Adel and up in Eboracum. I don’t know what they’ll do now he’s dead, though. I can’t see her running the business and the son isn’t old enough yet.” He leaned over the side and spat.

 

It had taken a pair of slaves most of yesterday to dig the grave. Under the topsoil the earth was hard as iron. Out in the field the crops were all withered and hopeless, and bones showed through the flesh of the cattle that milled around, snuffling around hungrily for food. Not that there was any to give them. At this time of year they should have been able to crop the lush, dark grass. But what little remained was dry, brittle, with no nourishment at all.

            She’d looked at the accounts he kept on long rolls, taking out a wax tablet and spending hours over the calculations. There were coins in the chest, but half of those were owed, bills that needed to be paid soon. Without a good harvest and fair prices for the cattle they wouldn’t be able to see out another winter here.

            He might have had an answer. He always seemed to have the answer, using his charm to arrange a loan here, to haggle down a price there, and leave the other person feeling he’d done them a favour. It was a strange talent, she thought, but he’d used it well. They’d prospered, moving from farmhouse to a villa as grand as any Roman official. And then he had to let himself be killed by a boar. Killed and torn apart so that all they’d managed to a find was a leg and half an arm, still clutching a spear.

            “Mama?”

            Vassura turned away from the window to face her son. Morirex looked so much like his father that it made her heart ache every time she saw him. But where Glevo had always seemed so assured, in control of everything, the boy had all the uncertainty of youth. Still, he was thirteen, what could she expect from him?

            “What is it, sweetheart?” She kept her voice tender and smiled at him.

            “The men are here with the coffin,” he told her, in the voice that had deepened just a season before.

            She’d heard them arrive, the harsh squeak of an axle that desperately needed greasing and the shout of the carter.

            “I’ll be out in a moment. Give them a cup of wine and gather the men.”

            “Yes, mama.”

            Alone, she wandered through the room, touching every object she passed as if bidding each one farewell. In a way she was, Vassura thought. A farewell to him. He’d be under the ground very soon, ready to meet his god.

            The way Glevo had embraced the new religion had always seemed strange to her. But he’d seen it as the future; that was what he’d said. He’d found something in it that eluded her. She was content enough with her small household gods and a small offering in the stream at the bottom of the valley each spring. At least he’d never mocked her for what she believed, little as it was. He’d been a good husband and father.

            Just stupid at times. Why he’d gone after the boar on his own she couldn’t understand. In the past he’d always taken at least two slaves with him when he hunted, men he trusted. This time, though, he’d left soon after dawn, certain he’d be back well before sunset with meat for them all. It was as if he’d wanted to prove himself in some way. Instead they hadn’t found him until the following day, after the wolves had taken everything of him they wanted. The men had brought the remains home in a sack, reluctant to show her until she’d insisted.

            She’d kept her tears until she was alone, cold and rigid as a corpse herself in bed. She’d forced herself to wait, not to show all the turmoil that filled her; the children needed to see her strong. Morirex had been uncertain what he should do, whether to cry like a child or become the man of the house, firm and unemotional. Narina had wept. She was eight, no more than a little girl still, and the world swept over her at the loss of her father.

 

“We’ll ease it down there,” Lucillus said. The four slaves looked at him doubtfully. He’d arranged two stout boards from the back of the cart to the ground. Together they could manage it; after all, they’d been able to put it in the cart. He glanced at Bellator. The carter shrugged and took a sip of the wine the boy from the house had offered.

            Lucillus pushed the men into place then climbed into the cart.

            “Right,” ordered. “Pull and take the weight as it starts to move.” Very slowly the coffin began to shift. At first it seemed as if they’d never succeed, then, as the sweat started to pour on their faces, it scraped over the wood, sliding down over the boards until it touched the earth. “Pull it!” he yelled. “Pull!”

            Then it was there, sitting in the dust next to the deep hole. Lucillus took a long drink of the wine, still breathing hard, and looked back at the villa.

            He didn’t have the words to describe it. Just the size of it, easily twenty times larger than the roundhouse where his family lived, never mind the barns and stables that stood apart from the building. And the workmanship, each block of stone dressed and even. Part of him wanted to go and run his fingertips over them, to soak in the craftsmanship that was more than he could ever manage. Whoever lived here possessed the world.

            A few more minutes and the lid was propped against the coffin, heavy leather straps under it all. Now there was nothing to do but wait. He leaned against the wagon. The sun beat down hard on the back of his neck and he wiped the flesh dry with a rag.

            “All downhill on the way back,” Bellator said, studying the sky. “If they hurry up we’ll be home well before dark.” He sighed. “Typical rich. They always take their time about things. Even death. Expect everyone else to wait on them.”

            “Are there many like this?” Lucillus asked.

            “Many what?” He coughed and spat.

            “Houses.”

            Bellator snorted.

            “You ought to travel more. This is small compared to some. Go up near Eboracum, that’s where the real money is. The proper Romans. You could fit four of these in one of the villas they build themselves around there. And more slaves than you can count.”

            Then he stood straighter as the door opened.

 

Vassura had prepared herself carefully that morning. The maid had dressed her hair, sewing in the bun at the back, and she’d dressed in her best stola, the one he’d brought back six years before from a trip to Verulamium. She’d never worn in before, keeping it packed away in a chest, only pulling it out to hold against herself, to feel the quality of the material. Today, though, she knew nothing else would do.

            What were they going to do? The question kept nagging at the back of her mind, the way it had since she’d seen all that remained of the man she’d loved. They needed something for the farm to survive, one of those miracles he said his Christian god could provide for the believers.

            Morirex and Narina were waiting in the atrium, the maid behind them. Vassura took a deep breath, picked up the sack and opened the door, moving with the gravity and weight of a widow.

 

She was beautiful, he thought. So clean, no dirt anywhere on her skin. The woman seemed to glow through her sorrow. She approached them with slow steps and greeted them all with a small bow of her head. The children stood just behind her, a boy with dark, curly hair holding hands with a girl who kept dabbing at her face.

            “Thank you,” the woman said quietly. She bent, placing the sack inside the coffin and with a shock Lucillus realised that the story was true; there really was next to nothing of him left. The woman stood, then bent once more, opening her fingers to show a silver coin, letting it fall softly onto the sacking. “For the ferryman,” she explained. “Just in case.”

            He watched her, taken by her sadness, the long, slim fingers with their golden rings. Minutes passed as she kept her gaze on the coffin, then she lifted her head and said, “You can finish now.”

 

She stood, her arms protectively around the children’s shoulders, as the men sweated and grunted, moving the coffin over the grave, then lowering it gradually out of sight. From the moment she realised that he was dead she’d known the place for this. He’d stood here so often, looking out over the valley as the sun rose. Sometimes she’d come out and stand by him, watching the way the light shifted and grew, and for brief moments she could understand why he cherished this place. Buried here, when his god called him he’d rise up and see all this one more time. Then, maybe, his shade would think of her again, with love.

            The carter and the mason left, the sound of the wheels echoing loudly into the distance. The men began to fill in the grave, earth piling on the coffin until it was hidden. She remained in the same place, still there after the maid had taken the children indoors where it was cooler. She stood and kicked at a straggle of weeds, the only things that would prosper in this dry season.

            What are we going to do?

Musings on Monk

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My other job – well, one of them, anyway – is as a music journalist. It’s something I’ve done for the last 20 years and helps me combine my two great passions, music and writing. Over that time, inevitably, my tastes have changed and broadened. From listening mostly to what might generally be termed rock, I’ve moved towards world and folk music, both quite broad churches. But you can add in some classical, mostly sacred choral music, and a smidgen of jazz. Today is a jazz day. More specifically, it’s a Thelonious Monk day. Monk on his own, just letting his mind and fingers wander around tunes.

 

As a pianist he’s unique. All too often his playing sounds on the edge, as if it might fall into complete dissonance. That’s especially true at the start of a tune, when he seems to be feeling his way into a piece, some chords played delicacy, others hammered, with notes and harmonies that shouldn’t fit but somehow do. And he sounds as if he’d be just as happy with a barrelhouse piano as a full-size Steinway grand. Whether on standards or his own compositions, he’s instantly recognisable, always throwing in a surprise, be it a beautiful, lyrical run or a change that offers a lurch, a shift in rhythm. In its own way it’s very meditative music. The meditations are Monk’s. He loses himself in his own vision of the music, and that vision is unlike anyone else’s. To this day, the better part of 60 years since he appeared on the jazz scene, there hasn’t been another like him.

 

He may well have had mental problems and a drug habit, as some have claimed. I don’t know and it doesn’t matter to me. I only know him through his music, and it seems that when he sat at the piano, his particular genius emerged through his fingertips. He played solely for himself. He was lucky in that people liked it, even if many didn’t understand it. With bebop in the ascendant, he happened to be in the right place at the right time. To hear him perform April In Paris, one of those glorious standards, is to see someone open up the petals of a flower and arrange them anew.

 

As a music journalist, to return to his work is a way to cleanse and open the mind again. As a novelist he can be an inspiration. He didn’t attempt to play to the crowds. He didn’t soften things, he didn’t round off the corners just because it would be easier to the ear. He was true to himself. I was to be the writing equivalent of Monk when I grow up. If I ever develop the courage.

A Few Thoughts To End March

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March has been an eventful month. Right at the tail end of February At the Dying of the Year came out, the fifth Richard Nottingham mystery, and a book I’m very proud to have written. It cut deep into my soul and drained me emotionally to write it.

Then, for March, my publisher scored a Kindle 100 deal in the US for The Constant Lovers. The upshot is that the book’s been featured on the Kindle 100 page and pushed by Amazon. And, to help, the publisher lowered the prices of the other ebooks in the series. Having kept track during the month (as well as pushed them on Twitter and Facebook – sorry!) it’s definitely had an effect. At one stage three out of the four books were in the Top 20 in the Kindle Historical Mystery section. I know, a small sub-genre, but it made me very, very happy.

As if that wasn’t enough, I finished the rewrite of the sixth Richard Nottingham book, Fair and Tender Ladies, and heard back from the publisher – within 48 hours, no less! – with an acceptance. The result of this is that I’ll end up with four novels out during 2013, a pair of Richard Nottinghams, The Crooked Spire, my medieval book set in Chesterfield, and the one we’re coming to next.

March 29 was the publication day for Emerald City. It’s a very different kind of book for me, and the only one to date that draws on the write what you know theory. It’s set in Seattle, where I lived for 20 years, set in the just pre-grunge (hate that word) music scene, and it’s a murder mystery featuring a music journalist (which I still am, although I’ve never actually murdered anyone. Yet). But it’s the closest to the present day that I’ve come, although the central character is female, a change suggested by the publisher for very practical reasons, as it meant that the excellent Lorelei King could narrate the audiobook, and she does a superb job of it.

There was also a week’s break in Whitby, no snow but a withering wind off the sea for most of the time. Yet it was curiously enjoyable, discovering a church with beautiful medieval wall paintings in Pickering and a day in Durham, where I’d never been before and seeing a Norman cathedral. I’m more familiar with the slightly later elegance of York and Lincoln, so airy and light. By comparison, this seemed somewhat oppressive. The city itself, however, was lovely. And, of course, a walk along the beach to Sandsend and a little time at the abbey.

Now I’m back where I should be, in the Leeds gas strike of 1890, trying to catch murderers and find a missing girl.

To any of you who bought one of these books this month, or at any time, thank you so much. It sounds trite, but I really do appreciate it.

A Good Death – My Mother Remembered

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On March 28, 2008, my mother died. It probably happened on the 27th, suffering a massive heart attack that killed her instantly, but she wasn’t discovered until the following day, so the 28th is listed, whether the actual day matters or not.

We’d call each other in the mornings, always at twenty to nine. She’d ring one day, I’d call the next. It was a way of keeping of touch, so I could check on her. She’d been in hospital with eczema on her legs, and once discharged her ankles had swollen. She’d fallen in the living room of her flat and spent the night on the floor, not willing to disturb anyone at that late hour, in the manner of her generation – an act the led to me giving her a talking to. I lived an hour away. There was a friend in the same block of flats who’d have been by in a minute to help if she’d picked up the phone.

The morning of the 28th she didn’t answer the phone. I waited five minutes and tried again. No response. Then I called Alan, the friend who was close by, asking him to check and let me know on my mobile. I knew. Well, not knew, but I had a strong feeling and knew I should be on my way to Leeds.

My mother was one of the reasons I’d moved back to England. She was in her eighties and on her own. Still perfectly alert and capable, but with such bad arthritis in her left knee that walking more than a few steps was difficult. She tended my father until he died. Then, freed, she didn’t have the physical ability to do much, a cruel irony.

When I was a teenager she’d been the peacemaker in our household, stopping the constant war between my father and my teenage self. She must have been torn apart by it all, but never showed it.

She’d married, as they say, below herself. She’d grown up with a maid and chauffeur during the Depression, gone to Leeds Girls’ High School and enjoyed a fairly privileged upbringing. My father was her second husband; the first had divorced her when she hadn’t been asble to give him a child. She’d indulged my father, not complaining too much when he spent £55 he didn’t really have on an Omega watch back in the 1950s, when I was just a year old and they’d barely moved into the house they’d bought. Or when he came home with a Wolseley car that was luxurious but beyond our budget. Or even when he took me shopping for as harmonica and returned having bought a baby grand piano that barely fit in the front room.

She beat breast cancer in the early 1960s, suffering a radical mastectomy, and uterine cancer more than a decade later.

She endured her only child moving to the United States in 1976. Whatever she felt, she kept it inside. She was happy when I found success as a writer of non-fiction, but never lived to see any of my novels in print, but I know she’d have been proud.

I think of her often, probably more than my father. And there’s comfort of a sort in knowing that her death was instant and at home – as a close to a good death as it’s possible to have, it seems. I saw her body in the bedroom, and her face was peaceful. That, perhaps is something.

Jocelyn Betty Nickson, April 30 1919 – March 28, 2008.

That Rewrite Thing (Thank God)

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At the beginning of February my publisher gently but firmly rejected the next Richard Nottingham novel. That happens; it wasn’t what they wanted, not what they thought would sell. And they’re the experts in that area.

Yes, of course my stomach lurched when I got the news. But, really, as a writer you have two choices at that point. Dump the book entirely or listen to what the publisher’s said and rewrite the thing.

I did the latter and you know what? I’m very glad I did. What I’d had before was a very fair tale, a yarn, perfectly fine for what it was but…it didn’t have the emotional depth. That’s probably because its predecessor, At the Dying of the Year, had been so draining to write. I was all emotioned out.

The new version is more of a whodunit, as my publisher wanted. But it’s also more, a deeper, darker book, a real Richard Nottingham book, the mood of melancholy carrying over from the end of the previous volume. I dug deep into myself, and I’m glad I did, glad that I’d been made to do so. It’s a much better book, too, if I do say so myself.

The moral? That out of bad news, something far more worthwhile can grow.

On Monday I sent the new version of Fair and Tender Ladies to my publisher. Today I heard from them. They love it and they’re going to publish it. It’ll be out in September.

What Is Success?

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So what is success?

For the month of March, my publisher arranged with Amazon for The Constant Lovers, the third of my Leeds novels, to be part of the Kindle 100 deal in the US. So what, you think? Well, it’s a pretty big deal, as Amazon promotes the books with Tweets, emails, and quite probably several other things.

Does it work? Yes, it certainly does. It’s at a low price ($3.99, so still not a complete giveaway) and with the push behind it, the book’s currently 2,606 in overall Kindle sales and in the Top 20 for historical mysteries. To me, that last figure’s the really important one. It’s like…it’s like having a bestseller. I know, it’s still not going to give me Ian Rankin sales status. But each success is relative.

Merely having a book published was a success. Having a second, even more so, and when that book was named one of the 10 best mysteries of the year, I truly couldn’t believe it. Then, last year, after the audio book of The Broken Token was issued, to have it listed as one of the Independent on Sunday’s audiobooks of the year…that was me floored once more. I was up there with writers like Ian Fleming, J. K. Rowling and Mave Binchy. Big names, household names. I’m still not exactly sure how it all happened, although huge thanks to Stephen Pacey, who did such a wonderful job on the narration.

In fact, it’s perhaps time to give thanks to people who’ve believed, to Lynne Patrick, who took the first chance on me, to Kate Lyall Grant and everyone at Crème de la Crime, to Ali and Lorelei at Creative Content, to the reviewers who’ve liked the books. And to the people who’ve bought them – and seem to still be buying them.

I imagine I’m like most writers- the tales I put down are the ones I’d like to read, the movies that play in my head. When I’m sitting there, getting the words on the computer, I’m doing it because it’s a need, and ultimately for myself. I dig into myself, sometimes down into the parts that might be better left unknown.

But that people are putting their money down to read these words. That’s still the most staggering thing on earth to me. And it’s real success. Thank you all. Truly. And to those of you who’ve written to me to say you’ve enjoyed them, each of you makes my day with an email.

Oh, and I guess I should say this…all the Richard Nottingham ebooks are on sale on both sides of the Atlantic for the rest of March.

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We All Love Leeds

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Later this year we’re moving to Leeds. Or in my case, back to Leeds. It’s where I began, so, the best part of 40 years after leaving, I’m completing the circle. Of course, it’s a very different city to the one I left on January 3, 1976. Back then it still had one foot resolutely in the 1950s. Now it’s a shiny beast with its face turned to the future.

 

I write about Leeds, even though I haven’t lived there in a long, long time. Of course, I’m there often these days, and not just for house hunting. Even when living abroad I went back quite regularly to see my parents and spend time in the place. It’s somewhere I know in my bones and over the years I’ve come to understand how much it’s a part of me. It never seemed liked that back when I was a teenager. I couldn’t wait to get away, first to Birmingham, then to America, to discover those new frontiers. And even when I lived there, I never really explored the place. I didn’t have a car, my friends lived close by. Beyond the city centre and where I lived (Chapel Allerton, Hyde Park, Headingley) there was no need to go further – and I didn’t have the curiosity.

 

My love affair with Leeds began when I was living in Seattle. Always a history buff, on a visit home – home! – I picked up a history of Leeds and was fascinated by what I read. That led me to more books – thank you eBay and retailers of the Internet – and more hunting around on my trips home.

 

Home – because that was what it was just beginning to feel like. But when I came back to England I didn’t move there. My mother was still alive and to live pretty close to her when I was in my fifties just seemed wrong. I’d go far more regularly than before, though. And along the way, I started writing novels that were set in Leeds.

 

That was when I began to understand just how deep Leeds was within me. I felt it in a way I could never quite feel anywhere else. Some part of me loved Leeds. That seemed odd. As someone who’d grown up in England but essentially come of age in America I’d seen myself as a permanent outsider, a man without a country. I was still that – I’m no patriotic Englishman, by any means – but I had a loyalty to place, somewhere that meant something to me.

 

And the more I’ve delved into Leeds history, the deeper the city’s claws have entered me and the greater the desire to return has grown. I’ve been away, I’ve experienced other cultures, I’ve had my horizons widened in a way that would never have happened otherwise. But it’s time. Last year, when I half-jokingly suggested to my partner that we move to Leeds, the idea took root with her, too (her daughter’s lived there for 12 years). So this summer the house goes on the market and that idle glancing at houses will take on a more desperate, darker tinge.

 

We all love Leeds – of course we do! – and I’m ready to go home.

Yes, It’s Victorian (Part 2)

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Last time I put up the beginning of a Victorian novel I’m working on. Here – hopefully for your pleasure – is a bit more. The last I’ll be putting online, because a) I’m still writing the book, and b) because I want some to publish it, which won’t happen if I give it all away here. So, please, let me know what you think:

CHAPTER THREE

 

In the end he was five minutes late, dashing along Boar Lane, past Holy Trinity Church to meet her in front of the Grand Pygmalion. Sergeant Tollman had wanted a quick word that stretched out to ten minutes, then a detective constable needed a piece of advice until he’d been forced to run the whole way.

            “I’m sorry,” he said, gasping for breath. She stood with her back to one of the grand glass windows, the shade od a wide hat hiding her expression.

            “I don’t know, it could mean the engagement’s off. I can’t have a man who’s never on time.” He looked up quickly. But Annabelle Atkinson was smiling, her eyes playful. “You’re going to have to do better than this, Tom Harper.”

            “I…” he began, and she laughed.

            “Oh give over, you daft ha’porth. It took me six months to get you to propose. I’m used to you being late, I’m not doing to drop you now.” She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “If you want to make yourself useful you can carry these.”

            “Six packages?” Harper asked. “What have you been doing, buying half of Leeds?”

            “Just things a girl needs when she’s going to be wed. I could have waited for you before I started shopping, if you’d rather.”

            “No,” he replied hastily. “It’s fine.” He’d been in the Pygmalion when it opened. Four floors of draperies, parasols and sailor suits, and more assistants than he could shake a stick at. Nothing to interest him at all.

            “Come on, then, we’d better get a move on. It’s Saturday and I said I’d help out tonight. We’ll be packed and I want a bite of something first.” She waited until he had all the packages and set off along the street, her arm through his.

            He saw men glancing at her. She had that kind of face. Not beautiful, no Jenny Lind or Lily Langtry, but she possessed a quality that drew the eyes. The first time he’d seen her he’d been like that himself, staring for a second before turning away, then looking again and again until she’d stopped in front of him and boldly asked if he liked what he saw.

            She’d been collecting glasses in the Victoria down in Sheepscar, an old apron covering her dress and her sleeves rolled up. At first he thought she must be a serving girl with a brass mouth. Then, as he sat and watched her over another pint, he noticed the rest of the staff defer to the woman. He’d still been there when she poured herself a glass of gin and sat down next to him.

            “I’m surprised those eyes of yours haven’t popped out on stalks yet,” she told him. “You’ve been looking that hard you must have seen through to me garters.” She leaned close enough for him to smell her perfume and whispered. “They’re blue, by the way.”

            For the first time in years, Tom Harper blushed. She laughed.

            “Aye, I thought that’d shut you up. I’m Annabelle. Mrs. Atkinson.” She extended a hand and he shook it, feeling the calluses of hard work on her palms. But no ring. “He’s dead, love,” she explained. “Three year back. Left me this place.”

            She’d started as a servant when she was fifteen, after a spell in the mills. The landlord had taken a shine to her, and she’d liked him. One thing had led to another and they’d married. She’d been eighteen, he was fifty. After eight years together, he’d died.

            “Woke up and he were cold,” she said, toying with the empty glass. “Heart gave out in the night, they said. And before you ask, I were happy with him. Everyone thought I’d sell up once he was gone but I couldn’t see the sense. We were making money. So I took it over. Not bad for a lass who grew up on the Bank, is it?” She gave him a quick smile.

            “I’m impressed,” he said.

            “So what brings a bobby in here?” Annabelle asked bluntly. “Something I should worry about?”

            “How did you know?”

            She gave him a withering look.

            “If I can’t spot a policeman by now I might as well give up the keys. You’re not in uniform. Off duty, are you?”

            “I’m a detective. Inspector.”

            “That’s posh. Got a name?”

            “Tom. Tom Harper.”

            He’d come back the next night, then the next, and soon they’d started walking out together. Shows at Swan’s and the Grand, walks up to Roundhay Park on a Sunday for the band concerts. Slowly, as the romance began to bloom, he’d learned more about her. She didn’t just own the pub, she also had a pair of bakeries, one just up Meanwood Road near the chemical works and the foundry, the other on Skinner Lane for the trade from the building yards. Now she employed people to do all the baking but in the early days she’d been up at four every morning to take care of everything herself.

 

“You’re off with the fairies again,” she said, nudging against him.

            “Just thinking.”

            “You’re always thinking.” She smiled and shook her head. “Be careful, you’ll wear out your brain.”

            They were strolling out along North Street, through the Leylands, the sun pleasant. Omnibuses passed them with the click of hooves and the rhythmic turn of the wheels, a few empty carts heading back to the stables, but the area was quiet. There’d be little noise before sunset, he thought. All the Jews would be at home for the Sabbath. He’d grown up less than a stone’s throw away, over on Noble Street, all sharp cobbles and grimy brick back-to-backs, like every other road he’d known; nothing noble about it at all. Back then there’d been no more than a handful of Jewish families around, curiosities all of them with strange names like Cohen and Zermansky. The woman all had dark, fearful eyes and the men wore their full beards long, coming out with torrents of words in a language he didn’t understand. Twenty years on and the Leylands was full of them, working every hour God sent, sewing clothes in their sweatshops. He’d be willing to bet there was more Yiddish spoken round here these days than English.

            “What do you want to do tomorrow, Tom?” Annabelle asked.

            He shrugged; he hadn’t even given the next day a thought, although it was the only one they could spend together.

            “The Park?” he suggested.

            “Aye, if it stays like this.”

            “I’m off Monday, too. Until the evening.” He hesitated. “After that I might not be around for a few days.”

            “The gas?”

            “Yes.”

            “You just look after yourself. I’m not dragging a corpse to the register office come August.”

            “I’ll be fine, don’t you worry.”

            “Anyone hurts you they’ll have to deal with me,” she warned and he believed her. If that didn’t make him safe, nothing would.

 

He was back in his lodgings by ten and in bed by half past. In the morning he’d write to his sisters and tell them he was getting married. Then there’d be the visits as they swooped in from Bramley, Otley and Chapel Allerton to inspect the bride. But he’d worry about that when it happened.

            The banging woke him from a dream that vanished like smoke as he opened his eyes. He struggled into his dressing gown and opened the door. Mrs. Gibson, his landlady, wide-eyed and shocked at the disturbance, stood here, a policeman with a long face  behind her.

            “I let him in, Mr. Harper. He says he’s a policeman.”

            “He is, Mrs, Gibson. Don’t worry.” What else would he be, Harper thought irritably, wandering round in uniform in the middle of the night?

            She scurried away. He waited until he heard her door close and said,

            “What is it?”

            “You wanted to know about Col Parkinson, sir.”

            “Has he tried to flit?”

            “No,” the constable answered slowly. “He’s dead.”

Yes, it’s Victorian

On By chrisnickson2In Uncategorized2 Comments

I always said I’d never write anything set in Victorian times. More fool me; I should know better than to use the word never. But that was before I started reading more about the Leeds Gas Strike of 1890. It’s one of those rare occasions when the strikers prevailed and that alone is enough to make it inspirational. And then, long taken with a picture by Leeds artist Atkinson Grimshaw, a story named Annabelle Atkinson and Mr. Grimshaw appeared from nowhere. I liked Annaballe; she installed herself in my head and wouldn’t go away. Then I began seeing a man running down Victorian Briggate, with its horse-drawn trams and Hansom cabs. And a new tale began nagging at me. This is the beginning of it – I’ve only completed 16,000 words so far, but all you’re getting is a snippet. What I’d like is your opinion, please…

ONE

 

Tom Harper pounded down Briggate, the hobnails from his boots scattering sparks behind him. He pushed between people, not even hearing their complaints as he ran on, eyes fixed on the man he was pursuing.

            “Police!” he yelled. “Stop him!”

            They didn’t, of course they didn’t, but at least they parted for him. At Duncan Street he slid between a cart and a tram that was turning the corner. His foot slipped on a pile of horse dung and he drew in his breath sharply. Then the sole gripped again.

            Harper ducked in front of a Hansom cab, steadying himself with a hand on the horse’s neck, feeling its breath hot against his ear for a second, then plunged on. He was fast but the man in front was even faster, stretching the distance between them.

            His lungs were burning. Without thinking, he glanced across at the clock on the Ball-Dyson building. Half past eleven. He forced his feet down harder, arms pumping like a harrier.

            As they reached the bridge the man leapt into the road, weaving between the traffic. Harper followed him, squeezing sideways between a pair of omnibuses, seeing the passengers stare at him in astonishment. Then he was free again, rushing past the row of small shops and watching the man disappear round the corner onto Dock Street.

            By the time he arrived the street was empty. He stood, panting heavily, unable to believe his eyes. The man had vanished. Nothing, not even the sound of footsteps. To his left, a cluster of warehouses ran down to the river. Across the road the chimneys of the paper mill belched its stink into the air. Where had the bugger gone?

 

He’d had been up at Hope Brothers, barely listening as the manager described a shoplifter, his mouth frowning prissily as he talked. Outside, the shop boy was lowering the awning against the May sun.

            He scribbled a word or two in his notebook. It should be the beat copper doing this, he thought. He was a Detective Inspector; he should be doing something worthwhile. But one of the Hopes lived next door to the new Chief Constable. A word or two and the Superintendent had sent him down here with an apologetic shrug of his shoulders.

            Then Harper heard the shout and dashed out eagerly, the bell tinkling as he threw the door wide. Further up Briggate a man was gesturing and yelled,

            “He stole my wallet!”

            That was all he needed. Inspector Harper began to run.

 

He tipped the hat back and wiped the sweat off his forehead. Where was the sod? He could be hiding just a few yards away or off beyond a wall and clear away in Hunslet by now. One thing was certain, he wasn’t going to find him. Harper straightened his jacket and turned around. What a bloody waste of a morning.

            He paused on the bridge, lighting a Woodbine and looking down at the river. Barges stood three deep against the wharves, men moving quickly and surely along the gangplanks, their backs bent under heavy loads. It was a hard way to earn a day’s pay, but what wasn’t?

            On either side of the Aire the factories were busy, smoke rising to cloud the sun. A trace of deep blue floated on the water from the indigo works upstream, bright against the dull grey. The bloated corpse of a dead dog sailed past it, carried by the current. He watched it until it passed from sight.

            Briggate was busy with Saturday couples, in from the suburbs and parading in their best. The men were shaved so close their cheeks looked pink and prosperous, their wives showing off their bright summer dresses, freshly laundered by a servant at home in Headingley or Roundhay or wherever they lived.

            He wasn’t in a mood to see any more smug faces. Instead he cut through Queen’s Court, where washing was strung out between the crumbling old houses to dry, hopeful of a glint of sunlight. A barefoot boy threw a ball against the wall, concentrating furiously on catching it. The ball slipped from his hand and rolled towards Harper. He picked it up and tossed it back, the boy grinning as he pulled it out of the air.

            He cut through the ginnels, someone singing a song beyond a door, and came out by the Corn Exchange., strode quickly across the market with a wave and a wink to the girls working behind the stall at Mr. Marks’ Penny Bazaar and across to Millgarth police station.

            “Had a productive morning, sir?” the desk sergeant smirked. For a moment he was tempted to reply, then shut his mouth. Whatever he said, George Tollman would have heard it scores of times before. The man had stood behind that counter since God was a lad. He’d been there twelve years earlier when Harper had nervously reported for his first day as a young constable and he’d likely remained until they carried him out in a coffin. Instead Harper just shook his head and pushed his way through to the office. He tossed his hat onto the desk and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment.

            “Bad morning?”

            “One of those when you wonder why you even bother.”

            He glanced up at the man leaning against the wall. Billy Reed had been promoted to Detective Sergeant six months before. In his early forties, he’d joined the force after ten years in the West Yorkshire Regiment. When he’d started out in plain clothes he still thought like a soldier, obeying every order without question or hesitation. Harper had pushed and prodded at him until he’d learnt to think for himself. The black dog still nudged the man at times, leaving him, his temper like quicksilver, but Reed seemed cheerier than he’d once been. He’d even gone out to Hepworth’s and bought a new suit to replace the old, fraying jacket and trousers he’d worn so often.

            “Never mind,” Reed told him, “it’ll be busy soon enough now the gas workers are on strike.”

            “They didn’t have much choice, did they?” Harper observed angrily. “The council sacked half the stokers at the gasworks and said they were going to pay the rest less and take one of their holidays. For God’s sake, Bill, how would you like that?”

            “You’d better not say that when the chief’s; you’ll give him an apoplexy. By the way, one of the constables was in here earlier asking for you.”

            “Who?”

            “Ash.”

            That was interesting. Ash covered the beat that had once been his, the area between the Head Row and Boar Lane, west from Briggate over to Lands Lane. It was the old, poor yards and courts, the part of Leeds that had barely changed in a century or more, where folk counted themselves rich if they had threepence left come payday. It had been his for six years, until he’d become a detective. He’d known the faces there, the people, all the crime and the promises that end up as nothing. He’d carried men home to their wives on a Saturday night after they’d drunk away their money, tended wounds, and laid a sheet over the old who’d died of hunger.

            Ash was still new, just a year as an officer, but he seemed conscientious enough. If he had something it might be worth hearing. He stood and picked up his hat.

            “I’ll go and find him.”

            Reed leaned close, his eyes twinkling. “I hear congratulations are in order, too.”

            Harper laughed. There was never much chance of it remaining a secret for long.

 

TWO

 

He found Ash outside the Theatre Royal, gently moving on a match girl. Once he’d watched her go reluctantly down the street, the constable turned to him. He was tall, a good hand’s breath over six feet, the cap making him taller still. His uniform was crisp and pressed, buttons shining and pressed, just as the regulations ordered, hair gleaming with pomade, the moustache neatly clipped.

            “You were looking for me?” Harper said.

            “Yes, sir.” He glanced around. “Maybe we’d better walk a while. Just in case the sergeant comes around.” He led the way up the street before ducking into a court, his wide shoulders brushing against the sides of the opening. The few people outside their doors melted away at the sight of the police.

            “What is it?” He was curious now, wondering why Ash needed to talk out of sight of prying eyes.

            The man chewed his lip for a moment before answering, his face dark and serious in the shadow.

            “It might be summat or nowt, really, but I thought I’d better pass it on. Do you remember Col Parkinson?”

            Harper nodded. Parkinson had never done a day’s work more than he was forced to do, always some little scheme going on that usually paid out to nothing. A thin, ferrety face, most of his teeth gone, those left in shades of black and brown. His wife was almost as bad as him; the only good thing he could say about Betty Parkinson was that she doted on their daughter. Martha must be about eight now, he guessed. Soon enough she’d be done with school and out working if Col had anything to say about it.

            “What’s he done now? It shouldn’t be anything you need me for.”

            “It’s not him, sir.” Ash hesitated. “Well, not quite. It’s that little lass of his. She’s not been around for a week. He says she’s gone to stay with his sister in Halifax.”

            “Does he have a sister there?” He couldn’t recall.

            “The neighbours say that the first time he mentioned her is after the girl was gone.”

            “What about Betty? What did she tell you?”

            “She’s in Armley jail, sir. Three months for receiving. Not out until the end of July.”

            Harper snorted. It was hardly a surprise. If one of them wasn’t in jail usually the other was. “You want me to talk to him?”

            Ash nodded. “He’s sticking to his tale but there’s summat in there I just don’t believe. And I don’t want anything happening to Martha. She’s a grand little girl, always happy. You wouldn’t credit it with parents like hers. I just didn’t want everyone knowing.”

            “I’ll go and have a word. Where does he drink these days?”

            “At home with a jug unless he has a bob or two. That’s the other thing, sir. He seems to have a little money.”

            Harper jerked his head up.

            “What are you trying to tell me?”

            “I don’t know, sir.” Ash frowned. “I honestly don’t know.”

 

Around here he didn’t even need to think of the way. He’d walked it every day for so long that he knew every twist and turn, each ginnel and gap. At one time he’d could have said how many lived behind each door, what they did and whether he needed to watch them. Many would be strangers now but there would still be plenty of faces he’d recognise.

            He slipped through to Fidelity Yard. The place was even worse than he remembered it, cobbles broken, half the flagstones pulled up, the windows of the cottages so grimy they could barely let through any light. A dog barked as he passed one of the houses. A sign in a window advertised Smiley’s Barber Shop, a dirty red and white pole hanging at an angle. But the chair inside was empty and the barber gone. He smiled. Johnny Smiley would be out at the Rose and Crown, supping what money he’d earned during the morning.

            Harper stopped outside the black door, paint peeling away from the wood in long strips. This wasn’t a place where the houses needed numbers; no one back here received letters. He brought his fist down hard, knocking long and loud then rattling the door handle.

            “You can stop now. He’s not there.”

            The woman’s voice made him turn.

            “You know where he is, Mrs.Dempsey?”

            She blinked twice until she placed him, arms folded across her broad chest. Virginia Dempsey was sixteen stone if she weighed an ounce and not much more than five feet tall. If anything, she was bigger than ever.

            “Well, if it in’t Mr. Harper. Looking reet flash these days, you are, Constable.”

            “You’d better get it right, Ginny. It’s Inspector Harper now. And the suit’s one of Mr. Barran’s specials, five bob discount to a bobby. Nowt flash about it, love. Do you know where I can find Col?”

            “Got business with him do you?” she asked suspiciously.

            “What do you think? He’s not on my social list.”

            She sniffed.

            “Happen you’ll find him at the Leopard Hotel. Spends a lot of time there these last few days, what with his missus in Armley and Martha up in Halifax.”

            “Halifax?” he asked as if he’d heard nothing about it. “What’s she doing up there?”

            “Gone to stay with his sister.”

            “I didn’t even know Col had a sister.”

            “Oh aye.” She lowered her voice. “That’s what he says, leastways. I’ve never seen her meself.”

            “Martha was just a nipper when I saw her last.”

            “I bet she’d still know you, Mr. Harper. Dun’t forget anything, that lass. Sharp as owt and twice as bright. Betty even had a picture took of her when they were flush. Up on their wall, it is.”

            He nodded slowly.

            “Up at the Leopard, you said?”

            “Reet enough.” Her laugh came out like a cackle. “Don’t know who he’s been robbing but he’s not been short lately. But mebbe you’d know more about that.”

            He smiled.

            “Aye, maybe I would, Ginny.” Let her think that for now. If he needed more he could always come back.

 

Hotel was a grand word for it. He wouldn’t have stayed there for love nor money. He passed by the archway leading through to the cobbled yard and pushed open the door to the saloon bar. The wood was ancient and dark, the white ceiling long stained shades of brown and yellow by smoke.

            A few men were drinking, sitting at tables in the cramped room, some glancing up as he entered. They all had beaten-down faces, the tired look of the weary and the worn. Harper spotted Parkinson in the corner, his head drooping, an empty glass of gin in front of him.

            He sat down noisily, dragging the chair over the flagstone floor. Parkinson raised his eyes, squinting at him questioningly.

            “I know you, don’t I?” His gaze was blurry, the words faintly slurred. Not drunk yet, Harper decided, but he’d taken the first few steps on the road. The man would still be able to think. And lie.

            “Aye, you do, Col.” He knew the man was barely older than him but he already looked old and faded, cheeks sunk where so many teeth had been pulled, the hair thinned away to nothing on his scalp. “It’s Inspector Harper. Constable Harper as was.”

            Parkinson nodded his slow understanding as Harper stared around the bar, not surprised to see it had quietly emptied. It always happened. Some of those would have known him, the rest would have smelled him for a rozzer.

            “You been staying out of trouble?” he asked.

            “Course I have,” the man answered.

            “I hear your Betty’s in Armley again. What do they do, keep a cell for her up there?”

            “Not her fault,” Parkinson told him. The Inspector almost chuckled. If he had a penny for everyone time someone had said that, he’d be a rich man. It was never their fault.

            “And how’s Martha? She was no more than a bairn when I saw her last.”

            “A good lass,” Col said, nodding his head for emphasis. “A very good lass.” He patted the pockets of his tattered old jacket. “Do you have a cigarette?”

            Harper pulled out the packet of Woodbines. Parkinson’s gaze slowly followed his movements. He handed one to the man and lit it.

            “Martha,” he prompted.

            “She’s with me sister.”

            “I didn’t know you had one, Col. I never heard you talk about her.”

            “In Halifax.”

            “Oh aye? How long’s Martha up there for?”

            “Till…” He hesitated. “Till my Betty’s out. Better that way.”

            She should have been at school but he doubted Parkinson would worry about something like that.

            “Better for you, you mean. If she’s not here you don’t have to look after her. So what’s your sister’s name, Col?” Harper asked idly.

            For a few seconds Harper didn’t answer.

            “Sarah,” he said finally. “She’s married, got little ‘uns of her own, too.” He took a deep draw on the cigarette.

            “Where does she live in Halifax, then?”

            “I don’t remember”

            “You don’t, Col? Your own kin? You sent Martha up there and don’t even know where she’s going?”

            “I put her on the train. Sarah was meeting her at the station.”

            “How would she know what train? Good at guessing is she, this sister of yours?”

            “I sent her a letter.”

            Harper laughed.

            “Come on, Col. You can’t write and you don’t know where she lives. How are you going to send her a letter?”

            “I had her address at home, on a piece of paper up on the mantel. And my Martha writes a reet good hand. I had her do it.”

            “How long’s she been gone?”

            “A week.” Parkinson shrugged. “Day or two longe, mebbe. I don’t know.” He started to rise. “I need to be going.”

            Harper clamped his had tight around the man’s wrist.

            “Not yet, Col,” he said quietly. “Not when we’re having a good little natter.”

            Parkinson sat down again, shoulders slumping.

            “What Betty think about all this?”

            “I’ve not told her yet. I will.”

            Ash had been right, Harper thought. There was something going on here.

            “I think you’d best give me your sister’s address. Just so I can get in touch and make sure everything’s all right.”

            Parkinson shook his head. “In’t got it, do I? I threw it out after we’d sent the letter. Don’t need bits of paper cluttering up the place.”  Harper kept hold of the man’s arm, fingers digging hard into the flesh. Parkinson’s eyes were starting to water, his look almost pleading.

            “I’m off to Armley on Monday to see Betty, so you’d better be telling me the truth.” He squeezed a little harder, feeling the man flinch. “You understand?”

            “Yes.” He let go. Parkinson cradled his wrist, rubbing it lightly, his look a mix of wounded pride and anger.

            “You’ve got money for a drink, too,” Harper noted. “That’s not like you.”

            “I won it. A bet on the rugby.”

            “Frist time for everything, eh, Col?” He waited a heartbeat. “If you have something to tell me, find me at the station.” Harper stood slowly then bent down, his mouth close to the man’s ear. “I hope you haven’t been lying to me, Col. If anything’s happened to Martha I’ll make you wish you were dead.”

 

Parkinson was hiding something, that was obvious. But as he strolled back to Millgarth in the sunshine he couldn’t imagine what. He could see Col sending the girl somewhere so he didn’t have to look after her, but the tale of a sister was all lies. The big question was why; what was he hiding?

            As soon as he entered the station he could hear the buzz of talk all around and the dark undercurrent of complaints. Something had happened. In the office he looked at Reed.

            “The Superintendent wants you,” he said, glancing up from a report.

            “What is it?”

            “All leave cancelled from Monday.”

            “The gasworks?”

“What else would it be?”

            He knocked on the door and Superintendent Kendall waved him in.

            “Sit down, Tom,” he said. Kendall was in his fifties, grey hair cut short. When Harper became a detective Kendall was already an inspector; he’d the young man in hand and passed on what he’d learnt. Now he was in charge of A Division, a solid policeman, utterly honest and loyal to the force. The only thing he lacked was imagination. “When did you get back?”

            “About two minutes ago.”

            “Long enough to have heard, I suppose.” He picked his pipe out of the ashtray, tamped down the tobacco with a nicotine-stained fingertip and struck a match. “There was trouble at the Wortley works last night.”

            “Trouble?”

            “Nothing bad. Not yet, anyway. That’s going to start on Monday. They’re bringing in the replacement workers then.”

            “The blacklegs, you mean, sir,” Harper said coldly.

            Kendall ignored the words. “It’s our job to keep everyone safe. We’re not playing at politics with this, Tom. All we’re going to make sure no one breaks the law.”

            “And if they do?”

            “We arrest them. Whoever they are.”

            Harper nodded.

            “The train with the replacements is coming on Monday night. And I expect you to keep that quiet,” Kendall said pointedly. “They’re bringing them into the Midland goods station so they can just march the men over to the Meadow Lane works.”

            It made sense, he thought. The gasworks was just across the road, no more than a hundred yards away.

            “What do you want me to do, sir?”

            “I want you down there when they arrive.”

            “In uniform?” He hoped not; he’d been grateful to leave the blue suit behind. He had no wish to wear it again.

            Kendall shook his head.

            “You and Reed will stay in plain clothes. There’ll be a crowd wait. Bound to be. Mingle with them. You know what to do if there’s a problem.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            The Superintendent sighed.

            “It’s going to be an ugly business, Tom. Probably violent.”

            “Probably?” He could feel himself start to bristle.“It’s certain to be. The gas committee’s getting rid of men just to save a few pennies. Of course they’re angry.”

            “I know where your sympathies lie,” Kendall said. “You’ve never made a secret of them. But I’m relying on you to do your job properly.”

            “I will, sir.”

            “After Monday night you’ll be on duty until all this is over. I’ll have some camp beds set up.” He hesitated. “You’ve been a bit of a dark horse.”

            “Sir?”

            “A little bid tells me you’re engaged.”

            Harper smiled. He hadn’t allowed himself to think about Annabelle during the day; he’d wanted to concentrate on the job.

            “I proposed last night.”

            “Well, you’d best tell her she won’t be seeing you for a few days.” Kendall’s face relaxed into a smile. “Getting married might be the best thing to happen to you, Tom. It steadies a man. I’ve been married almost thirty years now and I’ve never regretted a day.” He grinned. “Well, not many of them, anyway.”

            “Thank you, sir.”

            “Are you working on anything special at the moment?”

            Harper thought about Martha Parkinson.

            “Something odd. I’m not sure what it is yet.”

            “You’ll need to put it aside until all this is over.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “No need to report before Monday evening. I won’t need you before then.”

            “Thank you, sir.”

            Back in the office he pulled the watch from his waistcoat pocket. Half past four. Plenty of time yet. Reed had gone, his desk neat, the small piles of paper carefully squared off, the pens lined up. That’s what happens when you hire a military man, he thought. Everything in order.

            He looked over at his own desk. Documents everywhere, scrawled notes, a nib that had dripped ink on some paper. But then he’d never had army discipline. He’d left school at nine to work at Brunswick’s brewery. Twelve hours a day of rolling barrels around had given him muscle, and he’d spent his free hours reading, borrowing everything he could from the library. Novels, politics, history, he’d roared through them all. He’d laboured at his writing until he had a fair, legible hand. Then, the day he turned nineteen, he’d applied to join the force, certain they wouldn’t turn him down.

            He found Ash in the changing room, sitting on a bench, painstakingly updating his notebook.

            “You were right about Col. Something’s going on there.”

            “Any idea what it is, sir?”

            “Not yet,” Harper said with a quick shake of his head. “But I want people keeping an eye on him in case he tries to do a flit.”

            “And if he does?”

            “Bring him in.”

            The constable nodded, then said,

            “Sounds like this strike’s going to keep us busy for a few days.”

            “Aye. Just make sure you don’t end up with your head broken.”

            Ash laughed. “Cast iron skull, that’s what me ma always says. More likely they’ll be the ones who are hurting.”

Killing People For A Living

On By chrisnickson2In Uncategorized7 Comments

I kill people for a living. As jobs go, it’s not a bad one. I work from home, make my own hours and the death can be as mild or as gruesome as I like. It’s a chance to exercise my creative side. The money might not be as good as some jobs, but there’s a certain satisfaction in the work that makes up for it.

Of course, it requires a basic selection of implements. A sharp knife is always useful, rope, wire – you’d be amazed at how effective a garrotte can be – a gun, rope. Nothing that can’t be obtained in a shop or with a modicum of ingenuity. After that it’s just down to the imagination.

I’d say it’s a growing trade, but then it’s always been here. Killers have been around almost as long as man – just think of Cain and Abel in the bible, and they wouldn’t have been the first. I’m not a killing machine, I leave that to the repressive machines that have roared through history like juggernauts. I prefer the personal touch, always one on one.

Sometimes the victims deserve it, sometimes they don’t. That’s out of my hands. I’m only the instrument of death. The decision comes from somewhere out there and it’s transmitted through me.

Dark nights, shadowy, rainy evenings, bodies bleeding into the snow. They mount up. I’ve actually lost count of how many there are now. 26 maybe? The total really doesn’t matter. I’ve seen most of their faces. I remember the eyes, the twist of a mouth, not numbers.

Oh, and before you think just who is this rather sick puppy, maybe you should know I’m a crime writer.