It takes time to become an author. It is not for
lack of technical skills, but that you
will write far better books once you have experienced a few decades of adult
life. One still has to do research in
order to avoid errors, but you know so much more than you did at eighteen, you’ve
lived more, felt more, been more. It all
helps make for a better author. (The
eighteen-year-old I once met online who thought she was already a genius, will,
of course, disagree.)
When I was around eighteen, I decided to write a book. It was a failure, not for standard reasons of inadequate perseverance or insufficient knowledge of spelling and grammar, but rather, after just a few pages, (poorly typed on foolscap paper) there was such a delicious ending that I simply could not resist it – such irony.
The
Amateur Detective
The dark, slender young man smiled
with supreme satisfaction. He now had enough evidence to take to the police, to
use to convict the brothers. In happy conceit, he reflected that they had
finally tackled someone who was not easily defeated. In his investigations, he
had met others of the victims of the extortionists. They had all worn that look
of defeat, they had admitted themselves impotent when faced with the
unpalatable fact that there were another type of people in the world, powerful
people, who could squash them, break them to their will as easily as others
would step on an ant.
Chris was happy – too young and
inexperienced to view with much apprehension the possibility that the criminal
brothers knew of his investigations. Before, he had had only suspicions and
hearsay to show to the large sergeant whom he had seen. Surely now, he would be more impressed. That
man’s inadequately concealed amusement had rankled, and caused him to become
suddenly stubborn and to find within himself an unsuspected aptitude for ‘ferreting,’
as he put it to himself. He had gone on to find proof of his suspicions, but,
even so, it had been a lighthearted game to him. He even felt a twinge of
regret that it was time to turn his attention back to the humdrum business that
was his work. Still, it was an achievement. Again, he gave his spontaneous grin
as he sealed the envelope that held the proof to send the Renkin brothers to
jail for a good long time. He put it in his hidden safe, ready for the morrow’s
confrontation. He hoped it would be the same policeman.
There was a sound at the door.
“Come in,” he called, “The door’s
open.”
Still he felt no twinge of
apprehension. Living in complete
security all his life, accepting his easy living and general popularity as his
due, he knew very little of the darker life that only rarely impinges on the
consciousness of the ordinary man.
But when he looked up to find
himself facing two guns in the hands of two slightly weary looking men,
cold-eyed men, even he could not fail to feel alarm. For a moment he simply
stared, incredulous, suddenly realising how absurdly stupid he had been. He
knew himself to be an intelligent sort of a person, he found no difficulty when
matching wits with any of his acquaintances. Now, looking into those faces, he
knew himself to be completely, abysmally out of his depth.
After that first revealing moment
of shock, his defences took over. His face was impassive, betraying nothing of
his fear and desperate determination not to be taken. Because now he remembered
the tales of brutality and sheer sadism of the Renkins. Obviously, he thought,
his brain now moving fast, they wanted him alive, at least for the present, or
he would already have been dead.
The smaller man jerked his gun in
command, silent but quite unmistakable. Rather stiffly, he moved in the
direction indicated, where he was instructed to put his hands against the wall
in the classic position for a bodysearch. Finding him free of weapons, they
spun him around, roughly , but not brutally, and again, the gun commanded. Out
into the hall he walked, whirling as he entered and attempting to slam the door
on the two gunmen. But he hadn’t been quick enough, even for the moment it
would have taken for him to flee. Instead, he picked up the heavy, long-stemmed
ashtray and swung it around in the same movement to catch the smaller man,
first through the door, hard on the upper arm, causing him to swear, and, more
importantly, to drop his gun. Lifting the ashtray again, he brought it down
hard on the place where the man’s head had been half a second before. The other
man was in the room now, too, but the young man ignored the menace of the
pointing gun, still attacking with the ashtray. An admirable weapon, he thought confusedly, Better than the guns which they were obviously afraid of using, probably
for fear that the shot would be heard.
But the sharp crack of the .22 went
unnoticed by anyone outside the apartment. The huddled figure of what had been
a goodlooking and popular young man did not stir as one of the gunmen nudged
his head with his foot to show the small wound, fair in his forehead.
Casually, the two men let
themselves out of the apartment, and drove unhurriedly away. The orders had
been to take him alive, but only if they could do it without inconvenience.
Christopher Haywood had been marked for death for some days.
So now I am all grown up, and have
eight books to my credit. The little
story above was to have been a full sized novel, a thriller. But it wound up only 785 words because I
simply could not resist the irony of the ending – that he thought they were not
going to kill him… And then they did.
My books now:
 |
| Thanks to Jack for allowing me to use his image. |
Summary
Shuki has such a good life now - his new home, his wives and his stepchildren, and becoming more important to him every day, young Zahu. It is hard to believe that Zahu could possibly want to stay with him when he is so much older. Surely one day, he will realise that a young woman has to suit him better than a middle-aged man.
Shuki has such a good life now - his new home, his wives and his stepchildren, and becoming more important to him every day, young Zahu. It is hard to believe that Zahu could possibly want to stay with him when he is so much older. Surely one day, he will realise that a young woman has to suit him better than a middle-aged man.
And then Meriam comes into their lives - Meriam, daughter of Shuki's
sister. Meriam, who looks so much like a youthful Shuki. She fascinates Zahu;
she confuses him, and she tempts him. But she is not Shuki.
Meriam's baby is born when the frost lies heavy on the ground. But then
the first rays of the sun come slanting over, and the countryside lights up. It
is a promise - that bitter times might come, but one day, the sun will shine
again.
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