Taster for my first attempt into psychological thillers

Working title; The girl in the Mist

 

Chapter one

I stare out of the window. The view is as beautiful as Bill said it would be when he wheeled me into the light. The sky is blue, with a strangely shaped cloud hiding the sun. A cloud that looks like the devil.

From here I can see other houses, dotted along the hillside, white, modern, unlike this one which has survived many generations.  The families in these houses go out in the morning. Some take their children with satchels in their hands. Most don’t return till evening.

Maeve and Alasdair don’t leave the vicinity, though. They are retired and live in the next house along. I know because they arrived on our doorstep no sooner than we had unpacked. 

‘We came to welcome you,’ said Maeve. ‘I knew you’d be tired after travelling, so I thought you might like to share our dinner. I always make plenty.’ Short and stout with wavy white hair and soft looking skin like a powdery marshmallow, she held out a casserole dish covered with a red and white checked tea cloth. 

Alasdair, taller. thinner, wispy-haired with a small moustache and glasses, clutched two bottles of wine, one in either hand, white and red.

Bill hesitated. We had planned a quiet night, just the two of us, but then he asked them in. Bill would. He would consider it rude not to.

‘I hope you like wine,’ said Alasdair.  His incredibly perfect teeth looked too big for his mouth and they clicked when he spoke.

‘This is my wife, Sally.’ Bill turned to me. ‘Look, love, I don’t need to cook after all.’

‘Thank you.’ I forced a smile. 

Maeve’s beady eyes took in the wheel chair, the rug covering my legs. ‘Accident,’ I said.

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ she looked away quickly. 

Bill removed the lid of the casserole. ‘Have you eaten?’ He looked at our guests. ‘Seems like there’s a lot of food here.’

‘I have more at home. I always make a full pot and freeze some, don’t I, Alasdair?’

But neither she nor Alasdair moved. 

‘Then maybe you’d like to join us.’ Bill avoided my eyes which were pleading with him to shut up.

‘Oh, you don’t mind? We don’t want to be a bother. We would never be that, would we, Alasdair?’ Her soft white face lit up.

‘It’s no bother,’ said Bill, setting the casserole dish to one side and taking the bottles from somewhat reluctant hands. I guessed this wasn’t Alasdair's idea at all.

‘Were you badly hurt in the… accident?’ Maeve leant over and patted my shoulder.

‘She doesn’t like to talk about it.’ Bill spoke sternly, disapproving eyes meeting mine.

‘I’ll tell you sometime,’ I said, enjoying Bill’s discomfort.

By the end of the meal I knew all about everyone who lived in each of the houses nearby. ‘There’s the Simpson’s,’ Maeve’s voice was almost a whisper. ‘Fiona and Ian. The big bungalow nearest ours. Two kids. Boys, eleven and twelve. Right little hooligans. Cheeky too. Aren’t they, Alasdair?’

‘I think they’re likeable enough, but yes, maybe a bit cheeky.’

 ‘The parents both work. She’s an estate agent and he’s a solicitor. Her mother lives in the next house along, the little cottage. She watches the kids after school and in the holidays.’ She chewed in silence for a minute. ‘The house below them, Maggie and Donald Pottinger. They’ve been here since they married, twenty-seven years ago. Three teenage kids. The oldest is in university, the second has a child of her own and she doesn’t work. The youngest, a lad, he’s about sixteen. There’s something not quite right about him.’ She tapped the side of her head with her forefinger.  ‘Know what I mean? Then there’s that hippy chap from the cottage nearest the shore. He’s an artist or something. Has a boat. Long hair. Where did you say you came from?’

‘London.’ Bill answered filling everyone’s glass with the last of the red. ‘I must say, this is amazingly good stew.’

‘And what do you do?’ Maeve drained her glass and stared at the empty bottle.

‘I’m a headmaster of a primary school. We grew tired of the city. I’ll be starting a new job in Inverness next term.’

‘We’ve been here for two years now. Great place to retire to. Isn’t it, Alasdair? But the locals, they are a bit nosey.’ Her eyes fell on me. ‘And what did you do dear, I mean, before…’ She glanced at my legs. 

‘A pole dancer. I fell from the top of the pole. Cracked my spine on the edge of the platform.’ 

Her face grew pink. ‘Oh.’

They didn’t stay long after that. Bill saw them to the door and returned shaking his head. ‘A pole dancer? Why do you do that?’

‘Would you rather I told them the truth? Anyway, she was doing my head in with her personal questions.’

‘They meant well, and the food and wine were good.’

I laughed. ‘You just couldn’t be bothered to cook.’ 

‘You do realise the whole neighbourhood will believe you were a pole dancer by tomorrow?’

‘Who cares? If anyone else asks, I’ll say I was a stripper. I don’t think she was stupid enough to believe me anyway.’

‘It was as good as saying ‘mind your own business.’ Not very neighbourly, Sally.’

I rubbed my head. ‘I want to go to bed, now.’

That was two days ago. I’ve seen Maeve scurrying around her house, throwing occasional glances towards my window, but she has not returned. I’m glad of that. I came here for peace, not to make friends.

Summoning all my courage, I wheel my chair to the door and out into the pale sunshine. I can do this. 

Two boys are flying a remote controlled plane. It buzzes round my house then heads straight towards me turning up at the last minute and crashing into the wall above. They both run in my direction.

‘Sorry Missus,’ stammers the oldest. ‘We just got it. My little brother hasn’t got the hang of it yet.’

I assumed this was Fiona and Ian’s boys. The hooligans. ‘What’s your names?’ I ask as the elder retrieves the plane and inspects it for damage.

‘Stuart,’ says the younger staring at my legs. Without moving his eyes, he continues. ‘He’s called William. Why are you in a wheelchair? Did you fall off a pole?’

‘You don’t ask things like that. It’s rude,’ snapped William, his face growing pink.

I shake my head. ‘I’ll tell you, but it’s a secret.’ I beckon the boys closer and lean forward. ‘Promise you won’t say anything.’

Their eyes are open wide, they both cross their hearts and whisper ‘promise,’ in unison.

‘I’m a secret agent. I uncovered a plot to take over the British government, but I was shot while I was phoning for back up.’

Now the mouths were as round as the eyes. ‘Who…what…?’ begins William. 

I hold up my hand. ‘I’ve said too much already.’

They look at each other. ‘We’ll never tell anyone, honest missus,’ declares Stuart. At that moment, Bill’s car drives up. ‘Is he a secret agent too?’

I shake my head. ‘He’s part of the plot. I’ve got him under surveillance.’ 

‘Thanks for letting us get our plane back,’ says William, grabs his brother’s arm  and they turn and run down the hill towards their own house.

‘What have you been telling them?’ askes Bill. ‘That I’m the bogey-man?’

‘Just that I’m a secret agent and you’re one of the bad guys.’

Bill rolls his eyes. ‘Come on’, he says, ‘I’ve got lunch,’ and he wheels me indoors. 

 

Welcome to my blog interview.

I am pleased to introduce the amazing Jim Webster

Hello Jim. Tell us a bit about yourself.

Well, I’m getting to the stage where calling myself fifty something is stretching the truth a little, I’m married with three daughters, have no real dress sense, or so I am informed. I farm, am a freelance journalist, writer and whatever.

I’ve been a reader of SF and Fantasy since the 1970s and early on discovered the writing of Jack Vance, and he taught me that if they aren’t the same genre, there’s a very broad fuzzy borderline between them.

I’ve written six novels, four fantasy and two SF, and I’m currently publishing a collection of novellas covering the antics of one of the fantasy characters I created.

I live in South Cumbria, England, and frankly why would anybody live anywhere else? Between the hills and the sea, with the best of both.

What bought you to the world of writing?

Frankly, and unromantically, it was the need to eat regular meals. If you’re trying to support a family on a small farm, you have to have as second income. So I drifted into freelance journalism. People kept saying I should write something more ‘permanent’ and when I got a chance I wrote ‘Swords for a Dead Lady’. Once you start writing, stopping is the difficult bit.

What is your first book and what do you think of it now?

My first book was ‘Swords for a Dead Lady.’ I confess that I’m still proud of it, still think it’s a cracking good tale, and it’s still my baby. I took the hero from that and am continuing his adventures in the novellas.

What type of books do you write and do they fulfil your reader’s needs?

I write Fantasy and SF. I’m not precious, I hope I present the reader with a good story, well told, that enables them to escape for a while. Reading a good Fantasy of SF book should be almost like taking a holiday, without all the faff of packing or dealing with airlines.

Would you like to feature a book, if so which one?  Tell us about it?

I’ll mention the latest, ‘Woman in Love.’ https://www.amazon.co.uk/Woman-Love-Port-Naain-Intelligence-ebook/dp/B01H04MHK4

It’s a novella, about 20,000 words and it’s one of a collection. What I did was write, edit and set up for publishing six of them. You can read them in any order, (a bit like the Sherlock Holmes stories.)

They follow the exploits of my favourite hero, Benor, who is living in the city of Port Naain. Each story is self-contained with a mystery or crime to be solved.

In the current one, to quote the blurb, “Asked to look for a missing husband, Benor finds that the female of the species is indeed more deadly than the male.”

How long does it take you to write your first draft?

Depends of how long I’ve got and what else I have to do. I have written 75,000 words in a month. But other books have taken longer because life gets in the way.

Do you plot or not, if so why?

Yes, but on the hoof. I have a basic outline in my head. But the detail, the twists and the turns, I work out as I’m going along. I’ll take a walk and whilst walking I’ll ponder an episode, work out motivations and suchlike. So during writing the plot can twist and turn no end.

Do you write in 1^st or 3^rd person, or have you do both?

Normally 3^rd person. I’ve done stuff in the first person but never a book

How do you edit your work?  Do you leave your draft alone for a while or edit as you write?

I edit as I write. I’ll often start work by reading yesterday’s work and correcting it. I’ll also go back and change bits so they fit with what is now happening.

But when I’ve ‘finished’ I’ll put the book down for three to six months and then come back to it to edit it. Then it goes to my professional editor

What type of people/readers do you market your books to?

Persons of infinite good taste, wit and perspicacity. Anybody found reading one of my books immediately becomes not merely more attractive, but it improves their credit score.

On a more prosaic level, I think that the majority of my readers, or those who get in touch with me, are ladies of mature taste. 

Do you self-publish or have you worked with an Agent/Publisher

Both; I’ve dealt with small publishers and feel that for them the business model is broken. They depend for their survival on one of their authors breaking into the big time, and effectively helping to fund everybody else. But when an author breaks through into the big time, they allow themselves to be lured away to join the stable of one of the bigger companies.

How do you promote your writing? 

Badly. I only remembered I had to promote this book a fortnight before it was launched.

I tend to do blog tours and mention it casually on Facebook.

Where can we buy your books?

The ebooks are available on pretty much every format. The paperbacks are available through bookstores but you’ll have to order. The best way to get the paperbacks is through Amazon, for example https://www.amazon.co.uk/Learning-Hard-Trade-Jim-Webster/dp/1785382233/

Who are your favourite authors?

Jack Vance undoubtedly. Cordwainer Smith, but of modern writers I’d mention Will Macmillian-Jones, (I love his Banned Underground series,) and M.T.McGuire

What other hobbies do you have?

Military history, wargaming, walking

A short piece from the story.

Tallis said thoughtfully, “Bald as an egg? There used to be a fashion amongst young men about town for shaving your head entirely. About ten years back. Some people got their heads tattooed as well but I thought it had faded away.” He smiled and then declaimed quietly;

“As bald as an egg

Was Philinious Begg

Both his suit and his mistress were brash

Some would not quail

To tell you his tale

But I’m a poet, not a sweeper of trash.”

Benor stood up, “A friend of yours?”

“Briefly.”

Benor was intrigued, “A fellow artist then?”

Tallis shook his head. “Alas no, he was a librettist, a composer of romantic ballads whose words are sung by drunken stevedores to their lady loves. Purveyors of sheet music fawn upon him and compete to shower him with gold.”

Benor nodded, he was beginning to understand the ways of the literary fraternity.

Links.

One of my characters, Tallis Steelyard, keeps a blog.

https://wordpress.com/stats/day/tallissteelyard.wordpress.com

I also have one, but I make a point of not doing author stuff on it J

https://wordpress.com/stats/day/jandbvwebster.wordpress.com

My ‘Land of the three seas’ has a Facebook page where I tend to put stuff

https://www.facebook.com/Land-of-the-Three-Seas-426394067386022/

And of course I’ve got an Amazon author page

http://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B009UT450I/ref=dp_byline_sr_ebooks_1?

Taster for Book number four in the Raumsey series.

Well folks, life has been getting in the way of my writing life recently but I am offering you the chance to see where I am going with number four. This novel follows the life of Isa's daughter, Annie.

Chapter One

'You can't get married to the minister.' Annie Reid faced her mother.

Isa wiped her hands on her apron. 'Why not?’

‘How could you put another man in Dad’s place?’

‘I’ll never forget your father, but he’s gone. I’ve been lonely, and we're both free. In any case, it’s hard enough for Bel to feed herself, let alone us as well.’

'So we’re leaving? Dad might have been the heir to Scartongarth. Why should Bel have it?' Annie set her hand against the lime-washed wall which held the faded framed photograph of her grandparents on their wedding day.

Isa gave a pained sigh. ‘Look, Annie, there was no will. By rights it should have been Jimmy’s, but he doesn’t want it, Bel does.’

‘But you said Dad…’

Isa held up her hand. ‘I said it was a possibility only. I didn’t know then how Bel felt about the place, and I won’t fight her for it. She's worked hard to keep it going with the war and all.'

‘Then why did we come back? Was it for him, the Reverend Charleston?’

‘Of course not. There was nothing left for us in Canada. You know that.’

The arguments died on Annie’s lips. She, too, had been captivated by Bel’s gentle charm and had no real desire to take the croft from her. She changed the subject. 'So we'll be moving into the manse?’

Isa sighed. ‘It’s a fine big house and Donald has his stipend. We’ll be comfortable.’

‘Is that why you’re getting wed? So we won’t starve?’

‘No. I like Donald a lot and he’s a good man. You’ll be welcome until you decide your future. You’re clever, Annie, you could go back to school, maybe get a job in an office.'

Annie’s interest peaked. Maybe her mother marrying the minister wasn’t such a bad idea. ‘Would he pay for college?'

‘You’re my daughter. I wouldn’t expect him to do that  even if he could afford it.’

Disappointed, Annie gazed at the floor where the flagstones shone with Isa's regular polishing.

'Maybe, maybe if you had a word with Mr Dick...' said Isa.

‘Mr Dick? The schoolteacher?'

‘He could give you some learning at nights. I could do a bit of washing, a bit of cleaning for him. If you want an education, we'll find a way to make it happen.'

This was so like her mother, pushing her to better herself when there was little chance of it becoming a possibility. Yet Isa’s enthusiasm was catching, her philosophy in life had always been, ‘there’s no such word as can’t.’

‘Then I don’t want to live with you and the minister,’ Annie muttered.

‘Bel would never turn you out, but see how you get on with Mr Dick. Right now, I need you to go to the shop for me.’

Annie snorted. ‘I’d best go and get my coat, then,’ she said, edging around the table in the middle of the floor. To go anywhere in this room she had to move sideways. Against one wall sat a pinewood dresser which held the crockery, in another was a bed in the recess with a door on either side, one leading to the passageway, the other to a steep staircase. On the third wall was the window, a dresser in front of it, and on the fourth was an iron stove with a mantelpiece and a rod for drying clothes. It was all so different from the roomy space where they had lived in Canada until a few weeks ago.

Annie climbed up to her room beneath the rafters, sat down on her makeshift bed with the large sack of chaff for a mattress that Bel called a chaff seck, and put her head in her hands. In spite of her words, she liked Donald Charleston, and he would be good to her mother. She had seen how quickly the strands of white had streaked Isa's coal-black hair after the Great War took her father. Over the years, she’d watched her mother struggle against poverty and she, Annie Reid, fuelled by her mother’s never-ending optimism, hungered for more. She had thought something better would be waiting for them in the place her parents referred to as ‘home,’ but the war had devastated Britain, and nowhere more than the islands. Without an education, the only life for a woman was gutting the fish, going into service or hopefully marrying a good man.

From beneath her pillow she pulled out the magazines she bought to pass the long hours on the journey to Scotland. In the meagre slice of day entering through the skylight she studied the photos of grand ladies, of fine carriages and city streets. ‘One day,’ she said, in a determined voice.

Annie knew she was beautiful. Even if the pock-marked mirror on the passage wall hadn't told her, the way men's eyes followed her, did. No, she was not going to settle for becoming a mere crofter-fisherman's wife or a skivvy for some rich family.

She didn't want lessons from Mr Dick with his big belly and bulbous nose and the veins that stood out on the backs of his hands like fat worms. But it seemed if she wanted to get anywhere in life she would have to do as her mother asked.

‘Where are you, girl?’ Her mother’s voice came from downstairs.

‘Coming, Ma.’ Annie stood up and lifted the coat which doubled as an extra blanket. She was taller than the average woman, and could only stand upright where the beams met in the middle to form the roof.

Downstairs her eyes fell on the big pot on the range. Her stomach clawed for a good feed. She lifted the lid. ‘Is there anything to eat other than porridge?’ She had never been fond of the grey gooey sludge, and since it had become their staple diet, she detested it.

‘There’s a crust of bread in the larder and some cheese.’ Isa went to the jar on the mantel and took out a ha’penny piece. ‘See if Lottie’s’s got any flour, I need to do a baking.’

Once outside a sharp breeze blew in from the Pentland Firth and lifted the hem of Annie’s skirt and the strands of her thick black locks. She never pleated her hair or tied it in a knot the way the local women did.

Sucking in the sea-salt air, she looked around. It would take time to get used to the flat expanse of Raumsey with its one-storied, stone-built cottages and miles of grey ocean beyond, or a sky that seldom, it seemed, was free of clouds.

Sloping down from the shingle path and behind the hummocks of waving grass, the pebbles on the beach rattled as angry breakers smashed over them. For seventeen years she had grown up in the prairies of Alberta and had never seen the ocean. Now she embraced its wildness. It was the one thing that fascinated her about this island. If only her dad were with them now, he would have built a boat for the fishing and turned Scartongarth back into the success it once was. Her brother, Dan, who had remained in Canada, would come and help them run it, and she would go to university and her mam would not be marrying the minister.