TAKE TEN Literary Encounters for Teen Readers

7/31/2019 TAKE TEN Literary Encounters for Teen Readers

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James Watson

LITERARY ENCOUNTERS

For teen readers of all ages

Extracts from ten stories bythe author of The BullLeapers, The Freedom Tree,Talking in Whispers, No

Surrender, Justice of theDagger and Fair Game: TheSteps of Odessa etc.

1. BOY MEETS GIRL2. GIRL MEETS GIRL3. DISSIDENT GIRL MEETS DISSIDENT POET

4. ENEMIES MEET FACE TO FACE5. ENCOUNTER WITH BOMBS6. ATHLETE MEETS BULL7. MOTHER FOREST MEETS BROTHER BUSINESS8. GIRL MEETS GHOSTS OF WAR9. ENCOUNTER WITH A FOOTMINE10. DAVID MEETS GOLIATH

1. BOY MEETS GIRLEdited extract from Besieged! The Coils of theViper. In preparation.

The mercenary armies of Gian Galeazzo Visconti, Duke of Milan, calledThe Viper, have brought terror to Italy. Cities such as Siena, Perugiaand Bologna, have either been overcome in battle or been terrified intosubmission.

Florence alone stands out against him. In the burning hot summer of1402, the Viper has laid siege to the city, his intention to starve the

citizens until they are too weak to resist.


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In the refectory of the priory of the Dominican brothers, theMaster, one of Florences most distinguished artists, and Luca,his teenage apprentice, see no choice but to continue with thegreat fresco that the Master has been commissioned to paint.They know that once Viscontis savage mercenaries breach the

city walls few citizens will survive the brutality that has becomethe Vipers trademark.

While escaping the heat of the August sun and sketching themasterpieces of Giotto in the gaunt but magnificent Santa Crocebasilica, Luca has become aware of the girl in a brown robe,hovering in shadow as if compelled to look over his shoulder atwhat his skilful hand commits to the page. Will one of them pluckup the courage to speak?

Ive been sketching the figure of St. John the Evangelist and

the petitioners kneeling around him. Usually, after Ive been herein Santa Croce for a while, Im recognised by one of the laybrothers.

He pinched my cheek once, and I only smiled and shook myhead. Since then he seems to haunt the chapel, and when hesees me he brings out a stool for me to sit on.

He pats my shoulder and leaves me to my sketching.It looks as though the girl isnt going to turn up. Shes become

almost as regular a visitor as I am; about my age, curiouslydressed a brown woollen robe, complete with hood but cut shortat the calf. I guess she bought or stole it from a mendicant friar,

took if off his corpse or traded it for services rendered.Its that kind of world; everything is possible, and blame is asstupid as it can be unjust.

She usually wears rope sandals but at other times she appearsout of the shadows barefoot. Thats how I think of her amystery; a sort of spirit. I never see her arrive, never see herdepart. Yet Ive decided her eyes are too bright for them tobelong to a ghost. Her skin, though fresh, has the hue of darkleather; and there is the hint of a limp, making her rock slightlyfrom side to side as she walks.

Hers is as beautiful a face as Im likely to see in these blighteddays, for the respectable daughters of Florence are kept indoors,unless theyre in service to the rich and need to chance the citystreets to fetch and carry, or if their business is in the tanneriesor the woolsheds along the Arno

Today I promised myself Id speak to her at last. All it needs isa word, a question, a smile. Itd be worth it merely to have hersmile back, for so far shes been as solemn as one of the angelsmy Master complains about in Santa Maria Maggiore; joyless, hecalls them.

I shouldnt feel so disappointed that shes not turned up. Onlya fool gets his hopes up in these horrible times. My hand seems

to lose its motivation to draw, and I realise the only reason I keep


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coming, poring over the Evangelists resurrection of Drusiana,over his Ascension or the Death of St. Francis, is to see her.

I realise Im talking to myself and this is at the same momentthat I sense her presence. She is close enough to see the page ofmy open sketchbook. Ive been scribbling devils. She glances up

at the fresco where there are no devils, and the drumming of myheart tells me she is about to break our silence.Pointing up to Maestro Giottos fresco, she says, Scusami,

excuse me, but is that what you see?I amaze myself with my nerve: I was thinking you wouldnt

come.The comment startles both of us. We evade each others

embarrassment by staring up at the flowing robes of Giottosfigures.

She seems to be pleased at my frankness. You noticed?...Imsurprised, for you seem to concentrate so hard. Im struggling to

keep up with her, say the right words that wont put her off; butshe doesnt need any help. May I look?She almost brushes my shoulder as I turn the pages of my

sketchbook. I say, All very quickJust, sort of, ideas on paper.Why do you like Giotto so much because you sketch only

his figures, dont you?Becausewell, they have volume, roundness. Theyre solid

real.As if theyre about to step from the painting alive?Yes, thats it, exactly.I am pleased. Her interest is welcome, her perceptiveness

obvious. You see, so many paintings are just like the old mosaics everything flat. I hear myself going on a bit, but I cant rein inmy enthusiasm. Theyve no space, no perspective. They shutyou out instead of drawing you in.

Is that the secret perspective?My friend Filippo swears it is. Perspective, he says, is the key

to great art. Without it, we are left with pure decoration.Does it mean the same as having a perspective on life?I decide shes half-teasing me, but Im grateful for that half-

smile and look forward to receiving a whole one. Thats a bitmore complicated, I manage to say. I return to my latest sketch.

That devil could be Gian Galeazzo the Viper, could it not?I nod. My pencil shifts to a space on the page and I begin to

draw a coiled serpent Gian Galeazzos emblem. There are sevencoils narrowing to a pointed tail. Trapped in the final coil is a tinyhuman figure, struggling in terror. That could be the people ofFlorence, I say, in a few days time.

You are very talented.Thank you.I suppose everyone tells you that.They did, once. But therere no everyones any more.Are you an apprentice?For my sins.

She blesses me with a full smile. You look too innocent to be asinner.


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They are clearing the church, locking up. The great works ofMaestro Giotto have faded into shadow. I stand. She is tall, myheight if not a shade taller. She is thinner than I remember her;yet close up, her face is truly beautiful, full of character (as the

Maestro often describes his madonnas and his saints depth ofcharacter, thats what counts, in art as in life).My guess, I say, determined to hold on to her company for

as long as possible, is youre not from these parts, neitherFlorentine nor Tuscan.

You can tell by my accent?We are outside in the piazza. Normally it would be crowded,

but we are almost alone. The heat is as intense as its been sinceearly morning, but now the atmosphere is clammy. Youre fromthe north, I think.

From Lombardy. Remember the Bianchi? I was one of them.

When we marched here, Florence gave us the kind of welcomethat made us want to stay.I laugh, remembering something the Master had said: My

Master approved of the Bianchi, and the city loved them, he says,because they paid their bills!

True, but our cause universal peace, that was whatFlorence welcomed.

Peace, my Master says, is good for trade, and trade isFlorences first religion.

She takes the comment in good part. Be a cynic, if you wish.But it was much more than that. There was a yearning among the

people, for an end to wars and bloodshed. We felt it then and stilldo.

Weve strolled down to the river. Theres scarcely a dribble ofwater. A pale golden light still lingers on the faade of San Miniatohigh above us. The avenues of pine and cypress are deepeningfrom green to black tinged with the last flashes of crimson alongthe horizon

. My names Luca, by the way.Caterina come sta, how are you?Sto bne, grzie, Im fine, thank you!We talk about Florence. You are very proud of the city, arent

you, Luca?And sometimes Im ashamed of it. At its best, I love it. It was

once beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful city on earth.Are you forgetting Venice?Never been, but the Master jokes about his visit there Too

much water! he said.Her face lights up every time she smiles. Especially if youre

not looking where youre going. I went there once. It does pong abit. But as for Florence, its what the city stands for, isnt it, whichmakes you Florentines proud?


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Caterina puts her hand on my arm, shakes it gently with whatI can only guess is affection. I see Florence being truly greatonce more.

I cannot believe it, but we are holding hands. You seem veryconfident in the future, I say. What are you a fortune teller?

She stares down at the riverbed where a child in rags is tryingto scoop up water in a brass pot. Perhaps I amsomething likethat. Or just an optimist. She glances again at the river. TheArno looks as if it is dying, doesnt it? But come the spring,everything will be different. The seasons bring hope.

Im not so easily shifted from my dark mood. Yes, andsometimes the floods wash away bridges. Nobodys safe.

For a moment we both sense that the floodtide is in ourselves,one of sadness and bereavement. Our fingers slip reluctantlyapart. Defeat is in my voice: Its so difficult to hold on to hopewhen everything seems stacked against us.

I guess that she is as loath to depart as I am. Her gaze meetsmine, lingers and I sense that if I had put my arms around herand hugged her she would match the strength of my feelings.

She is now holding out her hand towards me, formally, almoststiffly. Till next time, perhaps. We shake hands. It is almostcomical when really I would like to hold her and kiss her.

Her smile closes this, the happiest hour of my life. Things todo. She turns, strides away, limping a little from the hip.

I call after her. I would like to sketch you.She stops, faces me. The last light of the evening adds a

splash of scarlet to her face and hair. One sitting will cost you ten

soldi.Can I pay you when Im famous?A gold florin if I have to wait that long!I call after her one last time. You didnt say where you live.This time she does not look back. No I didnt. She heads

towards the Ponte Vecchio leaving me suddenly empty, struck bymelancholy as if Id lost something precious that I might neverrecover.

2. GIRL MEETS GIRLEdited extract from Fair Game: The Steps of Odessa (Spire

Publishing & Kindle).

Kyiv, capital of the Ukraine; a bleak winters night. Natasha, a talentedsoccer player, ambitious to play for her country, broods on the dangers toherself and her brotherLonya resulting from investigations into governmentcorruption by their father, campaigning journalist Victor Kaltsov. When theSBU, Ukraines secret service, call at Victors flat, they find Natasha alone andtake her hostage, driving her through heavy snow to a safe house in the cityoutskirts.

Theres a window open and Natasha can smell countryside awind that has travelled for hundreds of kilometres across the flatlands,


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upwards from the infinite Steppe, an ocean of grass crossed bycountless rivers

Snow is coming in through the car window. She feels its coldnesson the sweat of the hood. Out there, what? gentle forests, avenuesof linden stretching through a thousand years of history, all of it, the

glories and the tragedies, culminating in this: a hostage, hooded, apistol in her ribs, innocent as snow, but then, in this world Dadswords Its the innocent who suffer most.

Myk has turned off the road. The snow is so thick in theheadlights that the Shogun slows to walking pace, then stops. Okay,Comrade, bring her out.

Sergeis pistol is still jammed against her side. Shes grateful forthe coat they let her have. The house seems a long way from wherethe Shogun has been parked. The wind hums through the trees onboth sides of her. She guesses its a dasha, like Dad once rented, inthe good old days when he wasnt on the bad side of people.

Steps, warns Myk. Two wooden stairs lead on to a verandahalready heaped up along its length with freezing snow. The dacha hasno electricity. Myk lights two paraffin lamps. In the first of two rooms,there is a table, bunk beds against the side wall and a wood-burningstove in the corner. Natasha is marched by Sergei into the secondroom, empty except for a single bed. A small window is shuttered.

Natashas captors open the vodka. Myk falls asleep on his arms, butSergei has other plans, and they involve the fair prisoner.

In the darkness she reaches for the bed. The thin mattress is

covered only by a single blanket, and both are soaked with damp. Herlegs are shaking. She sits, then lies on her side, her knees pulled up toher chin. Her teeth are chattering with the cold. She stands, moves tothe door, listens.

Sergei is in two minds: take the oil lamp or leave it. He picks it upand the room sways with shadows, dizzy as his head. He decidesagainst the lamp, replaces it on the table, fiddles for his torch, cantfind it, but does locate his flick-knife.

In search of a weapon to defend herself, Natasha has darted backto the bed. She stoops, then kneels, feeling the metal legs in the hopethat one might be loose enough to remove.

Hopeless: shed need a wrench to shift the nuts and bolts.

Its going to happen. If the idea is in his head, vodka in hisstomach, then hes not going to turn up this juicy chance. Me. Juicy whod ever have thought that? She is shaking, like before a big match,or just before taking a penalty. Jock, our lovely coach, calls me CoolHead. Im not cool now; only maybe Ive got to be

Sergei hears nothing above his own nasal rasp. Natasha hears himswallow; and she also hears herself say, almost aloud, Im nodefender. Miss-time my tackles. Gave away a penalty last week. Jocksaid, Forget it attack, thats what youre born to do.

Attack. Huh!


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A key is thrust into the door, turned soundlessly. Sergei guessesshe is asleep. She steps away from the door. Okay, Cool Head proveit. Jocks back: rehearse; think ahead what youre going to do. Thedoor is opening. It brings with it the faintest image of the snowstorm

and the outline of Myk asleep and snoring.

Sergei pauses. He should have brought the lamp. He entersNatashas room, closes out what light there is as he eases the door to.He almost shuts it, but not quite. He steps forward, his boot scrapingon the earth floor. He stops, breathless, sightless.

Natasha is an arms length away, to his right, her pulsesdrumming. She smells the vodka. She could trip him. She could kickhim. She could even trample on his head. But therell be noise, so shehovers: thats how the best goals are scored, by slipping silently,

swiftly, unseen and unexpected through the defences.

Sergei passes her. He whispers ahead of his conquest. Shush, kid,not a word, this is just between you and me.

Now!The door proves no friend. It betrays her with a loud squeak. But

the vodka proves her ally: it catches in Sergeis throat and he coughs,knows nothing of her departure. Natasha is through the door speedshe never needs to rehearse and across the room.

For a moment her intention is to wake Myk, thinks the better of it,heads for the door of the dacha. Miracle! Neither of the guards thought

to lock it. In the same instant, Sergei discovers his juicy opportunityhas taken flight. He yells out in frustration and fury Myk!

Natasha is away into the storm, its own fury matching Sergeis. Thesnow swirls and blinds. Her trainers sink in it past the ankles movingankles, striding ankles, ankles suddenly stuck in a drift, extricated,commanded to move move! to put distance between the dachaand the runawayIts cold, God its cold. The winds straight fromRussia. It turns crystals into bullets. Need shelter, something tillmorning, till light.

Natasha struggles on through the snow till she reaches the outbuildings of a

farm or large dacha. She has banged her knee in the dark, but the light froma distant window beckons her on.

Well, what are you waiting for? Theres the door knock. Suddenlya dog barks. A mans voice orders its silence, but the dog senses astranger, becomes more excited.

Knock!The door is so solid Natashas fist makes no impact and no sound.

Yet inside they know someone is there. The voices are hushed.Natasha knocks harder. The door opens. Her first reaction is to note theyve got electricity, wonderful! An elderly man, shorter than she is,

holds out in front of him a long-barrelled shotgun.


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Theres only me. I was out running. Got stuck, and lost.The man lowers his weapon. He is joined at the door by a woman

of his own age, and a third person, much younger, who does theirtalking for them.

Let her in, Uncle, and close the door, or well freeze to death.

The elderly man hesitates, suspicious, then nods her forward intoblissful warmth. He steps back for his wife who exclaims, Grief, thechilds covered in icicles. Put more logs on the fire, Vanya. Monika,help me brush her down. Hot water, thats what she needs. Come,child, sit here.

Normally Natasha would resent being called a child; but not at thismoment. If a child gets spoilt like this, they can call her what they like.She grins at Monika as she brings a change of clothes from anotherroom, then hands her a large towel.

Without waiting to be asked, she helps Natasha off with her shirt;offers dry jeans for soaked jeans and then busies herself towellingNatashas hair. Im Monika. This is my Aunt Sophia, and you werenearly shot by my Uncle Vanya.

Uncle Vanya like in Chekhov. My favourite. Other than Pushkin.Its by way of introduction. And my name is Natasha.

Monika is fair, taller, a little older than Natasha; blue-eyed. Shekeeps towelling while Sophia has brought a dish of hot water. Nowwarm those toes, my child.

Some run, Monika observes. This is the wilderness, you must

have been training for a marathon. There is no suspicion in her voice,only good cheer, as though Natashas arrival has broken the monotonyof a life in the outback. Youve hurt yourself.

Monika has noticed Natashas cut knee and the bruise alreadyswelling and turning blue. She dampens a cloth in tepid water, ties itgently round the knee. Keep it on just for a bit.

Natasha confesses, This is too good to be true. I mean, yourkindness.

She is invited to the scrubbed table, served hot broth potatoes,beetroot, leak, flavoured with chervil, and home-made bread. The foodwarms her throat, her chest, and as she eats, they stare, too polite toask questions, so she asks her own: Do the trains go straight intotown?

Dont say you jogged all the way from Kyiv? smiles Monika. Itstwelve kilometres at least.

Sports my thing. I play soccer. Jock, our trainer, says we shoulddo thirty kilometres a week. At least.

You look done in, Child, says Sophia. A nights rest is what youneed.

Youll have my bed, says Monika, Ill sleep in here.Natasha is too exhausted to argue. She stands, tries her knee. Its

not so bad.

Monika takes her arm. Lean on me.


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The bedroom is also a workshop, and Natasha gasps as Monikaswitches on the light. Oh, amazing pysankys! The broad table inthe centre of the room is strewn with wooden eggs pysankys invarious stages of completion, the finished ones painted with images ofChrist, the Madonna, angels and saints, glowing with fresh colour.

There are carvings too, brightly painted, while on drying racksagainst two of the walls are jewel-bright icons. You make these,Monika?

Uncle and me. Im sort of his apprentice. We make them in thewinter, sell them in spring.

Natasha examines two of the famous holy eggs of Ukraine, one ofSt Cyril with a golden halo, the other of a long-haired warrior carryinga broadsword.

I recognise St. Cyril, but who is this?Ryurik the Viking, the founder of Kyiv.

Hes wonderful.Hes yours if you want him.I couldnt.

Something to remember us by. Your good luck talisman.Well, I could do with a change of fortune.I promise: Ryurik will look after you.

Natasha is usually slow to take to people, but in Monikas case itsfriendship, swift and warm and if her expression is anything to go by,reciprocated. She feels suddenly awkward and asks, awkwardly: Youmake a living out of these, Monika?

Monika nods. Her nervous smile seems to suggest she is alsosurprised at her feelings. Well, almost a living. Business has picked upas more and more tourists arrive in the country, especially theAmericans. They prefer the icons, though Vanyas statues of St.George are a nice little earner too.

And when youre not making pysankys?Im a tour guide. Foreign visitors, mainly. Americans in particular.So you know English?Enough to explain to our visitors which are the Mens loos and

which are the Womens.Im learning it too from my trainer. Hes from Scotland. I play

for the Kyiv Falcons, the cinderellas of womens football, though allthats going change at the international tournament in Zhytomyr.

Natasha gazes down at her troubled knee, then grins, raises Ryurikinto the light. Hes already working his magic the pains easingalready!

Tomorrow at first light well ski to the station.Youll have to keep picking me up.What are friends for?Friends, yes; it happens that way. How strange, thinks Natasha

that in this moment of her fraught life she feels so happy.


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4. DISSIDENT GIRL MEETS DISSIDENT

POETAn edited selection from TICKET TO PRAGUE (Gollancz,Penguin, Collins & Kindle).

Since her parents were killed in a motorway car crash Amy Douglas hasbeen at war with the world. She has been expelled from school, she has beeninvolved in a violent street fight which has led to her boyfriend being putbehind bars while she has been issued with a controlling order. She hasended up as a part-time carer in a home for men who have either rejectedsociety or been rejected by it.

Josefis a Czech poet. Almost a generation ago he had been permitted to joina group of poets and other writers on a cultural visit to Britain. He absconded,but the decision was so traumatic that the poet, along with all the evidence ofwho Josef actually was, vanished into silence. All he does, from week toweek, month to month, year to year, is stare at an empty television screen.

Neither Amy nor Josef realise on their first meeting that their period ofisolation, their seemingly pointless and directionless lives, are about tochange. The key that unlocks the door to silence is a shared love ofliterature, the enriching power of reading.

From a distance, High Lawns does a passable imitation of a stately

home. It stands on a pleasant incline among acres of meadow andwoodland, all encompassed by high stone walls. Ancient beech treesescort the main drive which stretches through rough pasture to asunken wall. Beyond this are lovingly tended gardens, smooth-croppedlawns, a tennis court and an open-air pool

'Whatever you do,' senior nurse Sylvia Benson, had advised Amy,'never call the place a loony bin. Never use such words as "lunatic","mad", "round the bend" or "round the twist". These unfortunates areour family. Now they're your family.'

'And this gentleman, said Mrs. Benson on Amys first morning onduty, is Josef, spelt with an "f", one of our longest-serving customers.'

'Customers?''Oh yes, that is what we have to call them these days. It sounds

more business-like. Josef is foreign. He smokes too much and hatestaking exercise. A lazy old scruff, really aren't you, Josef?

Still in pyjamas and slippers though it is past eleven, Josef makesno response to Mrs. Benson. He is around sixty, Amy guesses. He isshort, scrawny but still with a generous head of grey hair.

He spares one glance at the tall, handsome girl with blonde hair.There is the dart of a smile from watchful green eyes that seem to say,

'I know secrets but I'm not telling'.


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'Josef won't give you any bother, Amy. There is little point, by theway, in trying to engage him in conversation. He's foreign and doesn'tseem to have bothered to learn our language beyond "I want", "No"and "Football!" He is what Dr. Parrish calls homo mollusca, someonetrapped for ever in a shell of almost absolute silence.'

Amy is wondering, should Mrs. Benson be saying all this in front ofJosef?'Don't worry, he never listens to what anybody says. We call him

Sir Stubborn.'Amy takes to Josef instantly: Sir Stubborn, meet Lady Stubborn.'Shall I turn the telly on for him?''No, he prefers it off.''He looks as though he is watching it.''Oh yes. If he's watching it, or looks as though he's watching it, and

it's off, don't wheel it away or he'll become quite agitated.''And if I turn the telly on?'

'He'll walk away.'Amy grins. 'That means he's got good taste. I'm not struck on tellymyself.'

Mrs. Benson isn't used to considering the opinions of young peoplesent up on Community Service or from the Youth Training, but Amyseems different; brighter, more full of herself. 'You've got a point. Allthat violence and suffering before your very eyes, well it's enough tomake you feel suicidal...'

'Like you want asylum?''Yes, I guess that's what we are at High Lawns, a refuge from all

the horror and carnage.' Ms. Benson explains that Josef, as a special

privilege, is allowed to stay up to watch the late-night football.'Otherwise he retreats into his shell completely.'Amy contemplates Josef. 'He looks so intelligent.'

Mrs. Benson drops her voice. 'There's absolutely nothing wrongwith Sir Stubborn that a good kick up the backside wouldn't cure.Private opinion, mind.'

After settling a nocturnal fracas between two customers, Josef and a Mr.Dodds over a packet of fags, Amy is curious to draw Josef out of his shell.

There is this terrible silence. Amy recognises it because somewhere

in the building, far off, somebody is crying a child, a grown-up, it isdifficult to say. And the crying goes on and on and it makes the silencein this room and the silence outside so clear; like a frost'You've got a real reputation, Josef. Your friend Mr. Dodds says youkilled your kids. I don't believe that... though you were pretty violentjust now. He says that's why you never tell anybody about yourself.Because of your guilt.

'I don't believe that either...Do you know what I think? You'reafraid. If you just stick with Please and Thank You, nobody will reportyou: am I right?'

Why did I say that? Guesswork. But it's pressed something in his

head. Josef's gaze for a second shifts from the empty TV screen. 'Still,don't think you're the only one. Everybody's afraid I mean


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everybody who's ever lost anyone. Or lost themselves, you know whatI mean?'

Another flicker of the eye; a recognition. 'Yes, I think you do.'I hope you don't mind me talking to you like this. I lost my

parents, you know. They were passengers in this car going along the

M25. Heard of that? It's the most dangerous stretch of road since theFirst World War. Then I went to live with my Auntie, who's not actuallymy real auntie at all. She was kind so long as I didn't bring homeany darkies.'

The mournful weeping from a distant ward has continued, and untilit slips into silence, Amy keeps on talking.... 'I quite like it here,actually. It's a sanctuary. I think you like it too, Josef. It's a horribleworld out there, do you agree?

'I get my meals, same as you. And Mrs. Benson thinks they mighttake me on, as a temp. Pay me, even...Mind you, I've only got GCSEs.Though I can swim. I used to race. And when I did, when I competed

and left others ten metres behind, I was somebody. When I didn't, Iwas nobody.'You're very trim, Josef. I bet you did sport when you were a boy.

Football? They're very keen on it in Czechoslovakia, am I right?Course, personally I'm more into books these days.

She dangles a juicy literary worm. 'Now Czechoslovakia that'swhere Franz Kafka lived.' A pause; a flicker of recognition, no, morethan that. 'A bit morbid, though that story about a man turning intoa beetle. Poor Gregor Samsa!'

Something is happening. Josef's face seems suddenly to melt in theglare from the strip light above; melt, go out of shape, and then re-

form, almost into a new face.'One of your favourites, is he, Josef Franz Kafka? We could sort ofread him together. The Castle, what about that? No? Okay, The Trialthen. My English teacher Mrs. Ambler was very keen on him.'

Josef suddenly emits one word. Amy does not recognise it, fears itmight be a curse. 'What was that, Josef?'

'Sveyk!''Sveyk? Right.' A long pause. Baffled. Sveyk doesn't sound like a

swearword. Josef is reaching out his hand.'Come. Please!'Three words! This must have exhausted Josef's usual tally for the

year.'Okay.'Upstairs, to his room, head nodding now, vigorously. Josef switches

on the light, goes to a set of drawers, opens the top one.Amy waits by the door. 'Sveyk.' She practices it aloud. Does it

mean 'bedroom' or 'drawer' or perhaps even a 'secret case' that Mr.Dodds accused him of hiding away?

Josef produces a fat paperback with a flash of yellow on the cover.He holds it up. 'Sveyk.'

At last.'He's the author?' She receives the book. She reads out the title.

'The Good Soldier Sveykby Jaroslav Hasek.'

'Hashek!' replies Josef, correcting Amy's pronunciation.


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Eyes meeting, eyes aglow now.On the cover, an officer in a blue uniform is sitting down and

smoking a fag. Coming through the door, saluting, is a plump soldierwith a stubble beard and a big grin. 'Sveyk?'

Amy points, Josef nods. She turns to the back cover and reads:

The Good Soldier Sveyk and His Fortunes in the World War...it sayshere that it's the "classic novel of the 'little man' fighting officialdomand bureaucracy with the only weapons available to him passiveresistance, subterfuge, native wit and dumb insolence".'

Dumb insolence, eh? Amy gazes across at her new friend. All shesays is, 'Sveyk!'

Josef nods again, and now he smiles. 'Sveyk!''And you want me to read this to you?' She examines the volume

which has suddenly brought her close to this old man full of dumbinsolence. '752 pages, Josef, that'll take us a lifetime!'

Another nod. No sweat. She flicks through the pages, pauses at

Chapter 4: Sveyk Thrown out of the Lunatic Asylum. She looks up butdoes not speak, then turns to the opening page.

She reads out the first few lines:'And so they've killed Grand Duke Ferdinand,' said the charwoman

to Mr. Sveyk, who had left military service years before, after beingfinally certified by an army medical board as an imbecile, and nowlived by selling dogs ugly, mongrel monstrosities, whose pedigreeshe forged.Apart from this occupation he suffered from rheumatismand was at this very moment rubbing his knees with Elliman'sembrocation...

Amy's turn to nod. 'It looks as though it might give us a laugh ortwo.'

Josef is beaming. All at once Amy begins to feel good. She closesthe book.

'Sveyk!' says the old man.'Sveyk!' repeats Amy Douglas, little realising how this one word will

change her life.

Amy and Josef become friends and she discovers that far from being themurderer of his kids, Josef is a poet of distinction, almost but not quiteforgotten in his own country. Her aim becomes to reconnect him with his past

and bring him fully and creatively into the present. In doing so, she comes toterms with her own past and present.


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5. ENEMIES MEET FACE-TO-FACE IN THE

TRENCHES OF CATALONIA

From the Spanish Civil War novel The Freedom Tree(Puffin, Collins, Kindle etc.).

In the footsteps of his dead father, Willhas joined British volunteersto fight alongside the Republicans in the Spanish Civil War andagainst the forces of General Franco. He finds himself, with hiscompanion Griff, in the bitterly cold trenches of Catalonia, northernSpain. He has been sent out by the group leader, Candy Sam, togather brushwood. In the pitch darkness, Griff and Will lose their way.

In the dark, north, south, east and west wore the same featurelessmask. The stars were over-clouded, and anyway neither Will nor Griffcould read the stars. They left the limestone parapet of the hometrench and dropped in to no-mans land. When you hear a shot,Candy Sam had instructed, drop flat on your faces. Its a thousand toone against being hit.

Every footstep, for Will, was agony because he could hear his steel-shod boots designed to make the biggest possible noise over cracklylimestone. And if he could hear them, so could the watchful enemy. Hemight as well have had bells tied to his feet.

Boulders were the chief hazard and Will duly tripped over one. He fellamong firewood. Roots!Drag them up, then.He was grateful to halt his progress towards the enemy lines. Hehacked at the rough limb of stunted oak. Thisll never burn in a monthof Sundays. The tree took five minutes sawing. It quivered andfought for its survival until Will began to feel sorry for it. Yet he movedon, dragging his prickly victim with him.

The thought of crawling into a trench and finding not their comrades

but a scowling enemy, made Will stop. We need to take our bearings.Instinctively, they crouched down and at the very same moment thehill halfway up the sky burst into flames. An explosion raised the lid ofdarkness, and smaller explosions burst on the heels of the first.

There was one second of silence before the entire battlefrontunleashed its armoury. Somehow the blackness made things worse.Distances closed in. Between a machine-gun barrel and the victim wassightlessness no matter that in daylight you couldnt see the bulletseither.

Head down, smelling the bitter winter earth, hands clamped over ears.A bullet smashed stone close by. Another ricocheted off rocks to left or


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right. Will raised his eyes as the intensity of the gunfire and got thevery worst shock of his life. His gaze fell on another face.

The enemy soldier lay belly down, pointing in the direction of hisown trenches as Will and Griff were pointing at theirs. He was as

terrified as Will and as young: wan faced, pop-eyed, immovable asthough his limbs had been driven into the ground with wooden stakes.

If he was armed, there was no sign of it. At the sight of two of theenemy, he rolled sideways like a rabbit springing from the hand aboutto descend upon its neck. Will said, Please! It was all he could thinkof: please dont do anything, dont shoot, dont run. But Griff cutwords. This was the closest bang, the closest bullet and it drownedWills anguished No, Griff!

Too late. The bullet was straight. The enemy turned half in a circle.

His hand was raised as if to some invisible support, some arm held outto him in the last flash of his living mind. His pop-eyed face fell beforethe rest of him.

There was no need!Him or us.Hed no gun.Beggar that!Will was across the body. If hes only wounded Forget im, hes dead.The young Spaniard lay as only the dead lie. Yet Will would not let

him go. Feebly, he bent over him, willing breath back into him. Sorry.Sorry He no longer heard the flying bullets. He did not care whetherthey struck him. The pop eyes were in his head. He could see nothingbut them.

One life. Sixteen years of caring and loving and feeding, of laughingand crying and running and talking turned, in a single moment tocold flesh. Will cocked his head. He lifted himself. Great waves ofnausea drove upwards through him. He was sick in his throat, sickdown his nostrils.

When the nausea departed it was replaced by anger and disgust.His mind had never prepared itself for this. It had imagined other,nobler pictures all shattered. In these seconds, Wills hatred was notfor the Fascists but for Griff. The look in his companions eyes whichagain and again reverted to the dead Spaniard was of pride. He wasglad of what he had done.

Will gathered up the firewood they had collected. He felt no fear, forhe felt nothing. He was changed. Something perhaps everything ofhis past self lay with the young Spaniard. Back in the home trenchwith the others, he took out his pistol. He handed it to Candy Sam.Give it somebody else, please. I want none of it.


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Wills war moves to the Battle of Jarama, where he meets Molly, a medicalorderly, and is then followed by a desperate journey north, to the Basquetown of Guernica. Accompanied by their Spanish friend Jos, they arrive onmarket day in Peg, a commandeered van.

General Francos fascist army is aided and abetted by German aircraft. Mola,commander of Francos northern battalions, has issued a proclamationdemanding that if submission is not immediate I will raze all Vizcaya to theground, beginning with the industries of war. The proclamation concluded: Ihave the means

The tide of war seemed to be behind them. Ahead were signs of apeople still at peace farmcarts pulled by oxen and piled high withproduce for market. The Basque peasants walked backwards in front oftheir oxen, gently urging them on with the occasional tap of a stick onthe horns. They talked to the oxen and the oxen seemed to take inevery word

The Oak of Guernica seemed to beckon Will and Molly to its quietsolitude. It was, thought Will, like walking out of the bustle of hishome town, Jarrow, to the holy silence of Bedes Well; a similarpilgrimage. They stood before an oak tree like other oaks, not bigger,not grander; yet a special oak.

Beneath the spread of its branches there were wooden seats carvedwith the arms of Vizcaya a tree and lurking wolves. Smell the sea,Molly? It cant be faraway.

Ill remember this for ever. The early evening sunlight tilted redthrough the dark branches as Jos described how, when the rights ofVizcaya were declared, trumpets were blown and bonfires lit on hilltopsall over the province. The hum of the market did not drown the softrustle of the leaves. A breeze carried rose petals along the ground.

Peace!Then from across the town came the sound of a church bell. It

struck single chimes, and the look of contentment on Joss facevanished. San Juan!

Whats he saying, Molly? Jos was dragging them away. Whatshappening?Air raid!General Mola was keeping his word.The three of them ran. And then they stopped running, for where

was there to run? They stood still. They waited. The bell of San Juanstruck again and again and again, stirring apprehension into fear

Above the squall of voices close by, the shouts, the clatter ofpanicky feet, there came a faint drumming roar. Will and Molly knewthat sound well enough. It could be theyll pass over on their way tothe factories in Bilbao. They took comfort from this possibility. Afterall, what strategic significance had this sleepy market town?


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A single plane, blunt-nosed, with the outline of a killer whale,skimmed the town. Heinkel! The bombs were clearly visible. Theyglided through the rays of evening sunlight. Onetwothreefour, andthe ground shook, the air flashed. A blistering wind swept the rosepetals over the dusty earth.

Fivesix, followed by the crack of grenades. Will gripped Jossarm. Were there any anti-aircraft guns in Guernica? The young Basquereplied that there were no guns and no troops either; scarcely a rifle toaim at the sky. Having delivered its load, the German Heinkel 111banked towards the west. Jos beat his fist against stone. He hadheard the rumours, he said, of other bombings, at Durango, Elgueta,at Ochandiana and Elorrio.

Perhaps this was just a warning. Perhaps a single pilot had a fewbombs to drop to fulfil his quota. Perhaps the Heinkel was the first and

lastAn aching pause. Optimism rising, then fading as a secondHeinkel traced the path of the first, its target the town centre. Itcompleted an unchallenged tour of destruction with a burst ofmachine-gun fire.

Jos advised that if a full air-raid came, they must look for the signREFUGIO where they would find shelter behind sandbags. Thirteenminutes. Fourteen. On the fifteenth, silence died. The thunder of manrolled across the western horizon.

Tranvias! Tranvias! The call spread down the street. Tranvias!

Jos explains: Trams. Thats what the people call the JunkersJunkerfifty-twos. The temporary peace was shattered by the clanking roar ofhuge, ugly, clumsy monsters that hardly seemed able to hold theirposition in the air.

Too late for a refuge. Quick, against the wall! Wills hand searchedfor Mollys. They watched the bombs fall in a single, streamingcascade. They saw whole streets shudder with the impact of highexplosive. Houses split in two, lifted from their foundations. Greatwalls keeled over into the streets. Solid brick and stone disintegrated.Plumes of black smoke shot upwards through the jagged ruins

This was a new kind of war, no longer soldiers against soldiers, butthe deliberate extermination of civilians. Will watched the bombsfalling, tilting in line, sometimes spinning. He saw them plunge to thevery heart of the houses. Roofs collapsed into upper storeys, upperstoreys on to the floors below, ground floors into basements.

He was sick with fear. He could hardly breathe. He felt Mollytrembling. Equally shaken, Jos prowled. He refused to stand with hisback to the wall. He advanced into the road. He snarled abuse at theskyThe streets were deserted no longer. For the people, their refugesthreatened to become stone coffins. They fled from battered and

unmolested homes alike. They would take their chance in the open.The town was doomed. They must escape from it.


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Jos had stepped in among the crowds. He tried to rally them, turnthem back as though a barricade or ranks of determined people wouldfrighten the German aircraft away. Gara Euzhadi Eskatuta! GaraEuzhadi Eskatuta!

Whats he shouting, Molly?Its the Basque freedom cryLong live free Euzhadi.

The Heinkels, with their characteristic split wheels, were flying solow that Will could see the faces of the pilots. The aircraft swoopedover the streets. Jos declined to take shelter in a doorway. He was inthe middle of the road, screaming at the Heinkels. Their target was notwood and stone and glass, but running flesh. They dived. Theymachine-gunned.

Jos, come back!The young goatherd was advancing in the direction of a lone

Heinkel coming in from the east, diving low, furrowing the stoneground with machine-gun fire. He was a sleepwalker. He had steppedout of his living skull. Rage was his only instinct. He paused. He lookedover this shoulder at Molly and Will. He raised his fist in salute as if tosay thanks, as if to say goodbye.

Jos!He held his empty wine bottle as a club. He cursed the Fascists. He

cursed Franco. He walked almost into the shadow of the Heinkel. GaraEuzhadi Eskatuta! He cast his bottle, spinning, flashing, at the planespropeller

6. Athlete Meets BullFrom The Bull Leapers, set in Crete at a time somewhere

between legend and history. In the kingdom of Minos slaveathletes were brought, under duress, from other parts of the

Greek world to take part in, and often to die in, the favouritesport of the Cretans bull leaping.

Piros knelt at the altar built into the limestone wall of the arena. Hiscompanions, young men and women wearing loin-kilts of stiff browncloth and light boots laced past the calves, bowed low around him,invoking the protection of the Goddess. The silence of the crowd gaveway to excited conversation. The womens dresses shone in themorning sun like the tail of a giant peacock, proudly unfurled. Itsshimmering motion was matched by the women nodding or bendingtheir heads, for their frizzed black hair was garlanded with strings ofpearl and gold chains studded with jewels.

Brilliant blues and reds contrasted with the glaring arena sand. Whitewalls stood in vivid outline against the misty green slopes of MountJukta cleft, it was said, by the gigantic club of an angry god.


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In this flourish of colour, Piros himself appeared no less distinctive. Hewas as black as the court ladies were sallow. His limbs were trim andmuscular. His lips and nostrils were thicker than those of any otherperson there, and he had no need of court hairdressers to make hishair curl close to his skull.

Although he was only seventeen he had long been the favouriteathlete of the crowd. He was called The Egyptian because he hadbeen a slave in the kingdom of the Nile. His mastery of the bulls hadwon him admiration throughout Crete. He was agile, cool-headed, wisein the ways of these creatures made mad by darkness and blindinglight, and starved to make their tempers sharp.

The mark of Piros fame hung around his throat, a chain of goldsupporting a disc engraved with the head of a bull. It had beenawarded him, at the request of nobles and court ladies, by the man he

now approached.

Nickname The Bull for his powerful and frightening appearance,Prince Tauros looked older than his twenty-one years. He sat with hismother, the Queen, and his two sisters. Queen Pasiphae was adisdainful woman with arched brows, thin features and shrewdlyintelligent eyes. Princess Ariadne, a girl of sixteen, also had anickname, but one given her in admiration. She was called PrincessFairlocks. It was claimed that the Earth Goddess, as a birthday gift,had once brushed her hair with enchanted silver. Ariadnes youngersister was Princess Phaedra, dark and solemn

At the rasping summons of a conch horn, the painted gates opened.The bull stood motionless in a cloud of dust and sand, dazzled by thelight. Its head swayed heavily, tail flicked. Its hooves stampedimpatiently on the hot ground. A roar from the crowd broke over thebulls head, confusing it, filling it with panic. It tried to halt the noiseby wheeling round and snorting, only to discover that the sounds hadswelled in volume. They had become united and were advancing totorment the bull with invisible thrusts.

Across a golden distance immediately ahead, a figure moved forward.All the noise and light seemed to concentrate in it. The figure danced,arms waving, and the voices seemed to burst from it, growing louderas it approached. Head down, blood pounding behind its eyes, the bullbegan to trot. It fixed the position of the black shape. Sand rose. Thelight was blocked by a swift shadow. There was a sudden pressurearound the horns, a weight on the head that forced it downwards.Then a soft touch on the hind quarters, and beyond the settling dustthere was nothing, only a yellow mist and specks of light.

The shadows came fast now, one after another. The bull tossed itsangry horns and struck nothing but air. It felt the weight again andagain, the strange final touch on the hind quarters, followed each time

by the triumphant shouts and the sounds of hands beating together.


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Despite its rage, the bull recorded the habits of its attackers. It knewtheir direction; that a shadow left the ground and a moment laterthere was the weight on its lowered horns. With every sortie the bullproved a more formidable adversary. It learned to raise its head as theshadow left the ground. Then there was a more rewarding encounter,

with the impact of flesh and a cry different from the others. The lighttouch of hands on the hind quarters did not come.

Above its own stormy breath, the bull sensed a change in the noise. Itwas less certain, less triumphant. The creature spun around. Instinctwas beginning to dispel its earlier desperation. The taunting had gonewrong. Something white and low moved close by, not dancing now,not waving, its head bowed.

The bull stood with sweat steaming on its shoulders and back, nolonger terrified but filled with eagerness for the attack. The voice, a

few strides away, was human, and in the whiteness there were eyes.Out of line of the bulls vision, it sensed a flickering of shadows, but ithad seen enough of its target to make no mistake. The weight on itshorns was immense, uneven, then fell away, leaving spurts of hotliquid that coursed into eyes and nostrils.

The bull knew victory. Spattered with the blood of the young leaper, itnow came straight for Piros. The Egyptian danced right up to themoment the horns were an arms length away. Then he was in the air,searching confidently past the blooded points to clasp the horns fromeach side. The bulls head jerked upwards violently but Piros was

already plunging forward, body straightened to the horizontal, legsbeginning to bend at the knees.

He touched down on the slippery hide, rose again slightly, thenbrought head and knees tightly to his body. He sprang and landed onthe balls of his feet. Momentum carried him a yard farther where hewas checked by his team mate, Chronakis.

Yet the bull had measured another pattern. Instead of continuing itsrun as it had before, it halted and turned about. Shadows scattered. Awhite low form raised itself feebly. Horns were lowered to kill when allat once a weight came, not from the front, not in the form of ashadow. It was on the bulls back. There was pressure about its throatas though ropes were being tightened.

Its eyes wrenched from the target and held square into the sunlight,the bull stumbled and tripped across the white shadow. Quickly!yelled Piros. Get him away.

Theseus, the Athenian, enters the tale and adventures race throughlabyrinths of intrigue.


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7 MOTHER FOREST MEETS BROTHER BUSINESS

From Justice of the Dagger (Collins Cascades) in which theforest people of East Timor are presented with a businessproposition.

At the village of Muyu Father a man called Marquez, escorted by twosoldiers, came from the timber company. He held up sheets of paperto Muyu Father. It is all agreed with your people. This is a signeddocument.

Muyu Father took the paper, held it at arms length as if it were apoisonous insect. Marquez turned it round. Youve got it upside down,stupid. He knew a little of the language of the forest people. It is anOrder in Council. It requires you to vacate your village.

Vacate?Move. Remove yourselves. Within seven days you understand?How is this? Our people have lived here since Great Island rose

from the sea.Not any longer, snapped. Marquez. In any case, your people have

no claim to the land. And it is not true you have occupied this villagefor a long time.

In fact you people are wanderers, you build a village and then whenit gets stiff with shit, you move on, leaving a mass of litter in theforest.

Muyu Father retorted, All the forest is the Mothers gift to us, solong as we cherish it. We move our villages to let the leaves grow oncemore. Mother Forest gathers back what belongs to it. Always.

Marquez was not happy to be dealing with a tribesman who wasalso a philosopher. The forest belongs to the government, Chief, andthe government decides what to do with the forest.

Lyana heard these words in torment. Hers was not the right tospeak, but nothing could suppress her thoughts: it is you who have norights. This island is not yours. You stole it from us, with your gunsand your aeroplanes. It will never be yours even though you fill thevalleys and the mountains with your battalions, even though you killevery one of us as you killed my family and all my clan.

Muyu Father rarely showed anger. Sometimes by his calmness hemade Lyana angry. And the forest, what has the forest decided?

Marquez paused. You talk as if the forest had a mind of its own.It has a mind. It has a soul. If you listen, you hear the heartbeat of

the forest.As far as Im concerned, friend, this forest is a goddam nuisance.

Its full of flies and lizards and snakes and people like you who get inthe way of progress.

When I look at this forest, Chief, I see timber. I see sawmills. And Isee things being made for the good of humanity. Timber for homes,timber for furniture, timber for building boats.

Oh yes, Muyu Father replied. Some trees must fall. Some must beused, yes. We agree

Listen, I dont want to be preached to on conservation by natives.This forest has fifty years of timbering in front of it. Anyway, the


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government has issued licences. And those licences mean one thing toyour people move on!

All the villagers heard these words. As one voice, they asked,Where do we move?

Further into the forest. There are thousands of kilometres of it not

yet turned to timber.Marquez hated the forest and thus he did not begin to understand it.Muyu Father said, Sir, the forest is not like a long road. Everywhere isits centre, like the circles of the moon.

Marquez was hot. The sweat made his feet squelch in his boots. Hisshirt was dripping into his trousers and his trousers stuck to his legs asif his body fluids had turned to glue. The government knows what isbest for you and your people, my friend.

How can it know, when it is so distant, and when it does not listen?Its you who should be doing the listening, Chief. Then youll see

sense. Youll go to the special villages built for you; send your children

to school to be educated. To be frank, you people need civilizing. Thisis the twenty-first century And your people, sir, interrupted Muyu Father, you talk with guns.

Yours is the justice of the dagger. You have brought massacre. Ourpeople lie dead in the forest

Because your people rose up against the government, stormedback Marquez. Attacked the camps of the soldiers. And because youlistened to the Resistance who would stir you up in hatred against thegovernment.

We do not listen to the Resistance, returned Muyu Father.That is what you say. Soldiers who stray in the bush, they die. Not

because of the snakes, but because your people obey the rebels, dotheir dirty work while they vanish in the forest to start new troubleselsewhere.

We do not listen to the Resistance, repeated Muyu Father, glancingat his son. Muyu nodded, though reluctantly; and his gaze metLyanas: her elder brother had joined the resistance movement. Theycaught him. Tortured him. Gave him a ride in a helicopter; and overthe sea, invited him to take a walk; as the soldiers put it, mundi laut gone for a swim.

Marquez knew he was wasting his time and his breath. No morearguments, Chief, the earth movers, the Yellow Giants as you peoplecall them, come in seven days time, one hour after dawn. Take allyour property with you.

Property? The word has no parallels in any of the many tongues ofthe forest people.

Belongings your pigs, man, and your bows and arrows, though if Ihad my way Id have them confiscated.

There was a waiting as the two men glared at each other. And theforest whispered in a new wind from the south.

Come on, said Marquez as Muyu Father stood still as a hunteraiming at his prey. Give me your word. I dont want any troubleWhatI want, Chief, is empty huts. You will not yet have made theacquaintance of Captain Selim, but I imagine his reputation will have

already reached you. Do not cross him. Obey him to the letter quitthis place without fuss and you will survive.


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Seven days, Chief. Very generous in the circumstances. Then weshall be coming in for a dawn start. Marquez fixed his gaze uponMuyu, sensing the youths hidden rage. And with machine-guns readyfor any hot-heads who protest.

For a second the eyes of Lyana held Marquezs stare. She is a

beauty, he thought, but that look alone could cut a mans throat. Hewas tempted to warn Muyu Father keep the girl out of sight of Selim.Instead, he wagged his finger and repeated, Empty huts, Chief!

Justice of the Daggerwas a Waterstones Book of the Month.

8 GIRL MEETS THE GHOSTS OF WARExtract from The Ghosts of Izieu (Penguin Readers).

Bored with her French village holiday, Elsa fails to befriend a young

local boy. Curiously, he seems to know her and her attempt to start upa conversation makes him nervous. Wondering why he seems soscared, so desperate to get away, she wanders alone into the church.

She is at a loss, rather more upset than she really ought to be. Also,despite the heat of this April morning, she is shivering.

This whole place gives me the creeps.In to the church. It is cool, and, as shafts of sunlight penetrate the

gloom, mysterious. Churches can also be creepy, so full of darkshadows. The slightest sound is amplified, rises to the vaulted roof andseems to return as a reproach.

She sits down. There is a potent odour of incense mixed with damp.This holiday is becoming a disaster. Dads on edge, Carols on edgeand so am I. Threes a crowd: Im beginning to understand what thatmeans. Im the odd one out. I resent Carol and I cant disguise it; andIm mad at Dad. He thinks everything can be normal. Shes not mymum and never will be. I told him in Carols hearing. She probablywont ever forgive me

As for the boy out there, that I dont understand; why his startledlook, especially as he seemed to recognise me; and what or who washe staring at over my shoulder?

Hes a loner, thats my guess; stuck all day on a farm out there,

herding cattle, picking grapes or whatever; probably with only rabbitsand crows to talk to. I liked his eyes and his dark hair, though

Elise wanders towards the east end of the church, and the highaltar. Sunbeams project the colours of the stained glass window, blueand red across the tiles of the choir and the altar steps. She closes hereyes, inhales the scent of spring flowers, though, look as she might,she cannot see any.

The cool has become cold. Thats it, then: five minutes and Ive runout of the tourist attractions of Izieu. Elise quickens her pace towards

a door on the north side of the church. She pauses beside a tray ofunlit votive candles. She picks up a box of matches. Thisll be for myGran. The matches are too damp to light.


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Sorry, Gran. Ill bring Dads lighter next time.Beside the north door is an oak table. There is a large leather-bound

Visitors Book and beside it the stub of a pencil. I suppose people pinchthe biros.

Elise opens the book. Its yellowed pages give off a pungent, musty

smell: wet tobacco and rotting cabbage. What shall I write? Had themost exciting holiday of my life. Back again next year! Better not orDad might take me at my word and rent the cottage for every year tillIm an old maid.

Thats strange, I could have swornMust be the poor light in here.She looks closer at the pages of the Visitors Book. Odd very: couldbe some joker. She runs her finger down the list of names.Astonishment makes her voice ring through the church: It cant be!The last date is 1943!

Not a very good joke. She turns back the pages: 1942, 1941, 1940.Could be that the priests put out an old visitors book by mistake. This

is ridiculous. All at once, the silence of the church provokes her. Shepronounces the word out loud:Ridiculous!

1943: thats the war Dads war. She addresses her words to theback of the church: Hitler, Nazis, Goebbels, the concentration camps Auschwitz, the gas chambersHuh!

Not funny.Elise has been studying both world wars in History. She turns, as if

imagining the church full of parishioners. The wars over, folks!Suddenly, from the West door, a voice: Eloise! You must come

now. The woman wears a shawl around her shoulders and a patterned

scarf around her head. In the poor light she looks ancient but she iscoming towards Elise with the speed of someone strong anddetermined.

She says in a loud, harsh voice, So Stefan didnt manage topersuade you.

Im sorry, IStefan? Warn me?You will bring disaster on us all with your wilfulness.Disaster? She called me Eloise.Stay calm, stay polite. In this gloom shes mistaken me for

somebody else. Elise tries a smile, yet steps briskly towards the Northdoor: your turn, she tells herself, to leg it.

The woman advances on her, clasps her arm. Why do you do thesethings and risk everything?

This is weird. Risk everything? Every what? Elise is pulled towardsthe North door. Youre hurting me. Please let go my arm.

You will remember the rules, Eloise, whatever your natural desires.And you will obey them, like everyone else has to do.

Elise guesses its to do with talking out loud in church. Sure, formost of us, the wars long over, but for some its never over; and thatmeans they take offence easily if you dont show proper respect.

Im sorry. I thought I was alone. The words just slipped out. She iswondering, will a Hail Mary or two get me off the hook and away from

this crazy lady?


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You will not be slipping out in future, I can assure you of that. Thewoman thrusts Elise out of the church door, then prods her in the backwhen she hesitates, dazzled by the sun in her eyes.

They have emerged on to a side street, unfamiliar to Elise, runningat an angle from the village square. Everything looks different from

here. Elise cant make out the war memorial, but her concern is for thehand that bites into her forearm.Please, Im not In broad daylight surely the woman will recognise

her mistake. Shell apologise. Elise can think of nothing to say but, Ithink Ill be all right now. Sorry about that.

But the misunderstanding is not to be resolved. You wish to beindependent, my child, yet

Yes I do. All at once Elise is keen to assert that independence. Thisis not a joke; indeed its scary. She had been shivering in the churchand now she is trembling in the morning heat. Im not a child, and ifyou dont mindMadame.

I do mind. Dont you understand? your actions put all of us inperil. All of us!My actions? I was justShe is not to be heeded. Come now! This is your last chance. When

Elise tries to reply, the woman clamps her hand across her mouth.Move and not a single word!

9 MEETING WITH A FOOT-MINEExtract from No Surrender (Penguin, Collins etc.)

In No Surrender, set during the Angolan civil war, Malenga is avolunteer at a medical centre in the bush; and she has also begun toteach in the local school. She is surrounded by dangers, but the worst lieunder foot.

Tomas possesses all the skills trapping, dribbling, passing; and he canshoot with either foot. That is why Malenga has two extra players on herside. She calls, Pass it, Salu! Her six-year old centre-back attempts tospeed the ball on its way by using both feet at once. Ball and player crashinto the sand at the half-way line between a string of washing, sun-scrubbed and dazzling, and the New Medical Centre.

Okay, mine! The ball is with Malenga. She takes to the wing,overkicking a forward pass that threatens to run into the bush. Theshadows are emerald dark here, and the sand green with oncoming dusk.

Tomas hurls out of his goal towards her. He collides with heroutstretched palm. Foul free kick.

For me, you mean?No, you fouled me, Sis.Tell that to the referee.We dont have a referee.Well then They stand six paces apart, she tall, wide-shouldered,

long-armed, in jeans cut to knee length, wearing a loose shirt of scarlet;


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he in khaki trousers too big for him, taken from a dead bandit by theriver: Tomas of the Nine Lives.

Tomas has no time for rules. Okay, Sis you try penalty. He takes upa crouching position between goalposts that also dont conform to therules one is his backpack (which contains everything he owns), the

other is his hunting rifle.As Malenga wonders whether to slice her shot with the outstep or curl itacross goal with her instep, she is suddenly called for. From the fieldsbeyond the village edge an explosion. The ground quivers. One blast,everybody running.

Bandits!Malenga runs, then halts, uncertain. Doctor Garcia we must fetch

him. Brain and feet equally slow. Stupid. Its shock. Tomas has retrievedhis gun and back-pack. He comes towards Malenga Nakale, trainee medicand schoolmarm. In English now, We not dilly dally, Sis.

In the fields the women have been working the last hour of daylight.

Now they converge upon a screaming. Until now theres been singing, andthe womens voices have been answered by the tune of the cicadas andanswered again deep in the bush by the frog battalions along the riverbanks.

Ma-lenga! Ma-lenga! The crowd of women opens for her. Tomaschecks her progress for an instant. His face is screwed up, one hand half-covering his eyes.

Its Ddo!Stood on a mine.Salus sister; bright star of Malengas class.Beside a cluster of cedars, in their lengthening shadow, Dodora had

been hoeing rich, red earth. Everyone knows mines are to be expected:the last of the war.Tomas go get the Doctor. Salu black bag, please, from the Centre

hurry! Malenga kneels in hot soil; red soil soaked with red. Dont lether look! Hold her head, and her hands. Good. Soothe her. Cool her. Thewomen obey, all eyes on Ddos face, averted from her terrible injury.

The girls left foot is a bloody pulp. You stop bleeding, Sis, instructsTomas.

I thought I told youI fetch Garcia. Fast. She wishes she could do the racing away, the

plunging into the bush. She looks down at the leg, writhing.The foots severed. Stop the bleeding.

Malenga pictures Tomas go, sprinting down the slope from the village,down the burning yellow track which leads to the river, where Doctor LeonGarcia has gone today of all days to treat a sick worker on the bridgeproject.

Shes tugged off her shirt: red to red; places it over the leg, the stump.Stretcher we must get her to the centre. Ddo, listen. Im doing what Ican. Youll be fine.

Salu brings the medical case Garcia has been putting together forMalenga, of worn black leather, wide-based with a tough steel clasp.

Under the leg, fragments of mine. She scrapes them away. Treat for

shock. In the past few weeks shes watched over Garcias shoulder. Yourturn will come, Malenga.


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Im not ready.Youve the gift.But do I have the nerve? Ddo fights to sit up. Her face is stretched,

swollen. Her scream is aimed at Malengas heart. Keep her flat. From themedical case she takes a roll of cloth, stronger than a bandage. Old Maria

has hobbled up from the village. The very breath of her is a comfort. See,Marias arrived. Thats good news.

As she has been taught to do by Dr. Garcia, Malenga applies atourniquet.

Water has been brought. It is offered to Ddo, calm now, fading. Nodrink. Doctors orders. Malenga works at the exploded leg, at the arteries.No to drink, no to antiseptic too. Not in a deep wound.

The tourniquet will have to be removed shortly. She is tying off. Thestretcher has arrived. In the corner of her eye, a metallic glint. Salu is

holding the leftovers of the mine.Malenga is up, stiff, swaying, steadied by Old Maria. For a moment inthe turn of the light, the rectangle of steel held by Salu resembles one ofthose old catechisms hand-stitched and placed above the bed. Salu tracesthe lettering with his fingers. He has just begun to read.

His catechism for the day shines clear and bronze in the falling sun. InEnglish, it says FRONT TOWARD THE ENEMY.

In the story that follows, Malenga is taken captive by a squad of SouthAfrican militia assisting Unita the rebel army of Angola. She meetsHamish, another captive, a young South African national serviceman, a

deserter. Theirs becomes a journey of survival, friendship and love.

10. David meets GoliathA selection from Pigs Might Fly a story set in the 1950s.

16-year old Clark Gable Stevens (nicknamed Curlew becauseone of his few talents is being able to imitate that wild bird of themoors) is suddenly faced with a crisis having to give up hislayabout existence and grow up. His father, proprietor of

Fettertons Ritz Cinema, already in grave peril as the developerswish to flatten it in the name of commercial progress, has taken afall. With a number of significant bones broken, he will be holed upin a hospital bed for days, weeks or even for ever. Who but his sonCurlew can rescue the Ritz?

With his stalwart friends Curlew goes in to the window-cleaningbusiness only to discover thatNigel Morgan, his rival in love forthe fair Susan, has already set up his own window cleaningcompany. His assistants are the toughest muscle-men in thedistrict.

Efficient as well oiled robots, the Amalgamated Federation of UnderageWindow Cleaners marches through the back doors of Edward Street,


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duck the washing lines and rap, at the exact same instant, on thecouncil-house green doors.

And as if one voice serves for all of them, the good ladies of EdwardStreet give answer: 'Eeh, no luv, sorry...We've already called thewindow cleaners.'

Curlew is, as they say in books, 'taken aback'; or to be more exact,gobsmacked. To Mrs. Bolton at the end house, he protests, 'But therearen't any window cleaners in Fetterton, Mrs. Bolton. You werecomplaining about it in the chippy only the other day.'

Before Mrs. Bolton can explain, a voice from behind Curlew starts tomake all things clear. 'Then you'd better do your 'omework proper,'adn't you, Stevens?'

Curlew turns, feels a stab of terror much as David must have feltfaced by Goliath at the sight and shadow of Frank 'Dumb-bell'Mason, the biggest, solidest muscle-man in town, known for hiscapacity to head bricks and not feel a thing. Two teachers are still off

school for having warned Frank about ogling girls in the gym; and thatwas eighteen months ago

Curlew's brain is struggling to work out just what is happening; orrather why, because whatis happening is that he is being lifted off hisfeet by Dumb-bell Mason and carried out of Mrs. Bolton's backyard.

The whyis soon evident. 'Feast yer eyes on that, Tadpole.' Dumb-bell points to a smart van drawn up at the street corner. In big lettersare the words: MORGAN ENTERPRISES LIMITED: ALL THINGS OURSPECIALITY. 'Geddit, Microbe? Us was first.'

Curlew does not need to guess that Dumb-bell has his assistants

close by; but he asks anyway, 'I guess the Terrible Twins are alsoworking this pitch, Frank.' He is referring to Kev the Crunch and Herbthe Hangman. Together they comprise what Curlew calls them, theThree Stodges.

'You guessed right.'Dumb-bell Mason recites to Mrs. Bolton the window-cleaning

charges as set by Morgan Enterprises. ''Front and back, will it be,Madam? That'll be three pound.'

'Three pounds?' Curlew hears himself exclaim. 'That's outrageous.''It does seem a bit steep,' says Mrs. Bolton.Curlew forgets his personal safety: economics are now on his mind:

'We can do better than that, Mrs. Bolton,' he announces. Curlew isaware that his comrades, each at the same position in the backyardnext door and next door but one two three four and five, are waitingfor a sign.

He raises his voice to a shout. 'Three quid a house? That's a rip-off.It ought to be reported to the United Nations. We, in aid of the Savethe Ritz Campaign, are offering a quid a house ONE POUND AHOUSE, front and back. No quibbles, no hidden extras.'

Dumb-bell appeals, in an almost gentle, persuasive voice, to Mrs.Bolton:

'These are snotty-nosed kids, Mrs. They'll make a complete mess ofthe job.'

'Okay, Mrs. Bolton,' parleys Curlew, 'if we don't do the job to yoursatisfaction, we won't charge you a penny.'


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'Two quid a house,' comes back Dumb-bell, looking black, andpromising with a swift sideward glance at Curlew that his window-cleaning days are numbered.

But Curlew's character has always favoured words to personalsafety. And the words are coming now. 'Don't you listen to that sort of

business tactic, Mrs. Bolton. If he's having to cut his price, he's sure toskimp the job.'Mrs. Bolton makes her decision in favour of windows cleaned at a

quid a house and all the other housewives in Edward Street opt for thesame.

'Okay,' concedes Dumb-bell Mason, pride very damaged, 'onceyou're outside this backyard, Stevens, you'd better start prayin.'

'Tell you what, Frank,' calls Curlew from the top of his ladder.Somehow he has to make an escape route for himself and hiscomrades. 'We can do a deal. After all, we businessmen must watchout for each other right?'

Dumb-bell knows Curlew of old. He suspects him and his sort:talkers. He despises his physical puniness, but fears his brains. 'Ohyeah?'

'Yeah. This street is long enough for both of us. There're fourteenhouses, so we could finish our wack, that's seven

'I can count, block'ead!''Leaving seven for you to mop up the rest of Edward Street.''Bugger that,' calls Herb, 'not at a measly quid a shot.''Suit yourselves. But you could put your prices back up for George

Street and Victoria Road.'

It is quite possible that, if an unexpected disaster had not struck,some sort of deal between the warring parties might have beenarranged; and the physical survival of the Ritz Campaign Committeeguaranteed.

Fate decided otherwise.The first batch of windows has been duly cleaned, the jobs duly paid

for. Curlew pockets Mrs. Bolton's pound but politely declines a glass ofVimto. It reminds him too much of blood.

Deep in gossip over her backyard wall with a neighbour, Mrs.Toliver at Number 11 has forgotten her husband's breakfast fry-up,which is about to become a fire-up.

Ronnie Whinnet is first to spot the smoke. 'Fire! Fire! pan's onfire.'

Chippy Bulmer knows about frying-pan fires. His Dad's place onceburned down completely, so his voice is the loudest, the mostscreeching:

'Fire! Fire! Call the Fire Brigade! The ambulance! The police!'The good ladies of Edward Street go straight into a free-fall panic.

'My kitchen!' screams Mrs. Toliver. 'My newkitchen!'Everybody rushes to her aid.'Water water!' yells Mrs. Toliver.What a godsend, then, for the women of Edward Street to see

salvation stacked beside the van of Morgan Enterprises: a row of full

water buckets waiting as if already expecting this emergency.


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One or two ladies get so enthusiastic about throwing the waterthrough Mrs. Toliver's kitchen window that they let go the buckets aswell. This brings out Mr. Toliver who's been reading the morningpaper, unaware of what has been going on. Luckily he only gets a facefull of the contents of a bucket rather than the bucket itself.

A 999 call brings out the Fetterton Fire Brigade. It arrives quickerthan you could recite the Lord's Prayer. They must have smelt thesmoke. The fire truck swings immediately into reverse; indeed soquickly that the driver misses seeing the Morgan Enterprises vanparked in Edward Street back.

The crunch of metal can be heard three streets away, but not itseems by the driver of the fire truck. He continues to reverse, withMorgan Enterprises clanging on his tail, right up to Mr and MrsToliver's back door.

'It's okay, Officer,' says Mr. Toliver. 'Job's done.' He smiles as ifdisaster has been averted rather than multiplied. 'It'll have to be

cornflakes for me this morning.'

Now could all this possibly be Curlew Stevens fault? Not the fire,not the Fire Brigade, not the damage to Morgan's wonderful new van but the whole situation? His fault or not, he knows who is going to beblamed He bellows, 'Comrades, this is a Red Alert. Repeat, Red Alert.To all points of the compass run! Scarper! Get fled!'

It's as simple as that: surrender or scarper.All but Chippy, Clem and the mastermind of the Save Ritz Campaign

manage to duck the outstretched talons of the Three Stodges. Dumb-bell Mason has Curlew by the neck.

'YOU are goin' to pay dear for this little fiasco, 'orsefly. When I donewi'you they'll not recognise you. Not even your mad Aunt. You'll beneedin' more than plastic surgery you'll be needin' a brush anshovel.'

Curlew is lifted off his feet and pinned over the bonnet of thedamaged van. He reckons that unless he does some quick thinking,he'll be doing plenty of bleeding. He protests: 'You disappoint me,Frank.'

The comment, being unexpected, checks Dumb-bell's massive fist.'You used to protect little-uns, underdogs.'

Now this is not strictly true. Dumb-bell did once warn off a big guypicking on a little guy, but it was for money. Still, he has his pride, anda principle or two. Curlew goes on talking. 'If you want to fight fair andsquare, Frank okay, I'm up for it!'

Curlew does not believe that he has said this, but he understandswhy. He is playing for time And Dumb-bell knows it...

The condemned are marched to Market Square. On the way theypass St. Stephen's Church. The sight of its comforting stone portalsgives Curlew the idea of making a sudden wrench and dart for it, andclaiming now what did they call it in the old days?

Ecclesiastical sanctuary.


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'Right, Skunk!' The market place is deserted except for a fewpigeons pecking among wood-framed stalls and windpools of litter.Truly, an ideal place for an execution.

'One last request, Gentlemen.'Herb the Hangman grins through broken teeth. 'E wants a Christian

burial, Frank.'Kev the Crunch almost falls over laughing.Dumb-bell Mason has stripped off his leather rallying jacket. 'You

wanna make yer last will an' testerment, d' you, Lumpashit?'Curlew is shaking. These guys really mean it. 'Er, if you don't mind,

I'd like toto request an adjournment pro tem.' He has not theslightest idea what an adjournment pro tem is, but then nor does anyof the Three Stodges.

It sounds legal.'Stuff yer big words, y'frozen funk. There won't be no jourment

totem.

What I mean, Frank, is a delay.Now they all fall over laughing: 'A delay? 'E wants a delay!''Yes, just till I get my distance glasses back from the optician's.'Dumb-bell never tires of showing his cannonball fist. 'You think y'll

need specs to see this 'eadin' in yer direction, Foureyes?''You'd not fight a blind man, would you?''Blind? I serpose y' cleaned them winders usin' radar?'Curlew pleads for life and liberty: 'A truce, that's all I'm asking for.'

He is talking fast. 'What if I got our Campaign treasurer to hand overthe money we made?' And faster: 'It'll take only seconds to get to hisplace and back.'

As if to prove this, Curlew tries a move in the right direction (forhim, that is) only for his foot to encounter Kev the Crunch's anklebone. As receipt, he is awarded an early birthday present in the formof Kev's unwrapped fist and a Christmas gift in the shape of brotherHerb's kneecap.

The agony of it is one thing, but the worst of it is being shot up inthe air as if he had no more substance than a bag of fleas. Curlewlands back on the market place cobbles and staggers straight intoDumb-bell who at this very same instant is pulling a huge pea-greensweater over his head.

'Oh no!' Curlew hears Clem and Chippy groan in unison.

Dumb-bell, head trapped in the sweater, loses balance. He emits aroar loud enough to awake the Ninth Legion from their slumbers in OurAnnie's archeological trench; and in trying to respond to the blow, hetangles himself further, until the Growling Goliath is fighting himself.

To the casual observer, the shameful tumble of Fetterton's ownMister Invincible has been caused by none other than the MightyMidget, Clark Gable Stevens, Pacifist Extraordinary.

On even ground, Dumb-bell would recover his balance in a secondand end Curlew's triumph as instantly as it began. But even ground isnot what Dumb-bell has fallen on: at this point, Market Square drops

at a steep angle. With his arms still trapped in the pea-green sweater,Dumb-bell begins to roll in the direction of the Cenotaph.


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There has been time during these events for a fair sized crowd ofspectators to grow. It has witnessed, from afar, a youth incapable ofknocking a hole through a pie-crust despatch Fetterton's answer toRocky Marciano from here almost to eternity.

Could this be the beginning of a legend as long-lasting as Robin

Hood and his Merry Men?Probably not; for, needless to say, raging bulls of Frank Mason'ssize, weight and muscle, are not to be obstructed long by lambswool,terylene, nylon or even polyester. Launched back on to his feet by Kevand Herb, Dumb-bell returns to the fray with the speed of a BlueStreak missile.

He is spitting flames.Clem is calling: 'Curlew, the others are coming. Stand your ground!'Despite Curlew's orders to his comrades to hasten home and

barricade their front doors, they have turned downhill racers on hisbehalf.

This combat-to-the-death promises to improve on the battle scenein Henry V; it may even dim the glory ofThe Sands of Iwa Jima.It is touching. Curlew promises himself never to forget the desire of

his comrades his commandos! to sacrifice their all on his behalf.The first skirmish proves the right of might. Herb takes out Seth byshoving a flattened palm in his face. 'An' you can piss off back toBarbados, sniveller!'

He grabs him, flings him like a dead cat into Phil the Ghoul.Curlew shouts, 'Orderly retreat!' But Dumb-bell is all over him,

going for his best feature, his nose, and punching him in the stomach;which reminds him he's hardly eaten any breakfast.

Suddenly, into this mle, hotchpotch or hotpot of puffing, gruntingstrife, there sails a whistling handbag and the voice of Curlews AuntAnnie shrieking like a South American football commentator.

'Stand back! Stand back, you pig-livered villains! Leave thatdefenceless child alone or I'll call in the military!'

Our Annie stands tall as a house front in her drainpipe raincoat andhiking boots. Her handbag isn't one of those that petty thieves snatchin Woolworth's. No, it is a canvas sack containing lumps of limestonefrom Fossil Bank.

In her other hand, so far poised but not in action, is her geologist'shammer, specially forged to shatter the hardest rock. She is, in short,an awesome sight: Thor, God of Destruction (or at least his sister)appearing twixt two claps of thunder.

'Release him at once, you lice-infested rabble, or I'll boil your scalpsin dripping.' A speechless paralysis stills the warriors on both sides.She has stepped between Curlew and Dumb-bell. Her geologist'shammer hovers an inch beneath Frank's chin. 'And you, well, youought to be ashamed of yourself, Nigel Morgan, a young man withyour antecedents.'

Among her other shortcomings, Our Annie is shortsighted.Sometimes she does not even recognise Curlew, her own nephew.

Dumb-bell Mason, confused at being mistaken for his Boss, only gets


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out the words, 'I'm not before he has to suffer more abuse pouredon the head of Nice Nigel:

'All your puny, conspiring, slippery, slimy life you've been a meanson-of-a-gun.'

'Miss, I'm Frank!

'Yes, and I'm going to be frank with you, you mangy chip off the oldblock. When you weren't running a protection racket with kids withmore pocket money than courage, you chased harmless foxes over thecountryside in your silly red jacket, with your mad dogs foaming at themouth disgusting! Huh, so I'm amazed you're actually doing yourown fighting for once, Nigel Morgan.'

'Not me, Miss,' Dumb-bell almost whimpers.'Like your boneheaded Dad, making people's lives a misery. And

what do you get up to when my back is turned?''Not me, Miss,' Dumb-bell actually whimpers.'When I should be doing something important like digging up Pictish

bones 'Sorry, Miss!'You pick on a poor, motherless waif like our Clark, whose only

muscles are what he eats off Sawyer's Fish Stall once a fortnight.'

Herb the Hangman gets in a word edgeways. 'It were im as startedit, Miss.'

'Rubbish! If you gave this nephew of mine a boxing glove he'd nothave the slightest idea what to do with it, cage it or eat it with tomatoketchup.'

'That's true, Our Annie,' agrees Curlew.

'And you can shut up too. I'm ashamed of you, brawling in front ofthe Cenotaph. My Donald didn't lay down his life so you could go onrepeating the mistakes of mankind.'

'Sorry, Our Annie. It was all a big misunderstanding.'Clem offers support. 'Things kind of got out of hand.'The Three Stodges retreat, eyes still warily fixed on Thor's hammer.

Dumb-bell's courage is returning in small sips: 'There'll be anothertime, Madam.' He glares at Curlew.

There is to be no truce. Curlew knows that this fight to the deathhas only been postponed. He tries words of peace if not friendship: 'Nohard feelings, Frank.' He's not sure whether he is asking a question ormaking a statement; but having said it, Curlew realises it is theunderstatement of the century.

No words can describe Frank Dumb-bell Mason's hard feelings. Hepicks up his peagreen sweater, grabs his rallying jacket. The answerhe gives sends freezing shivers down the spines of Curlew and histeam. He is brief. He is to the point; and he means every word:

'The Ritz is dead!'

Pigs Might Flywill appear as an independent publication on AmazonKindle in the near future.

James Watson novels available on Kindle:


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Fair Game: The Steps of OdessaTalking in Whispers

The Freedom TreeTicket to PragueJustice of the Dagger

http://www.watsonworks.co.uk/

Blog: Watsonworksblog.blogspot.com
http://www.watsonworks.co.uk/http://var/www/apps/conversion/tmp/scratch_2/Watsonworksblog.blogspot.comhttp://www.watsonworks.co.uk/http://var/www/apps/conversion/tmp/scratch_2/Watsonworksblog.blogspot.com

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