There's a guy in the place who's got a bittersweet face
And he goes by the name of Ebeneezer Goode
His friends call him 'Ezeer and he is the main geezer
And he'll vibe up the place like no other man could
He's refined, sublime, he makes you feel fine
Though very much maligned and misunderstood
When did you first start writing?
1984 - In one of my primary school classes, we were all required to write a story. I wrote three; a trilogy of space battles heavily influenced by X-Bomber/ Star Fleet which was my staple TV diet on a Saturday morning. So convinced was I that it would be the next best thing since Commander Makara decided to park her Imperial Alliance battlecruiser off the port side of Earth, I purposely brought a triplicate invoice book so as to make additional copies without having to hand-write the bloomin' thing twice over.
What's the story behind your latest book?
I don't think I could ever finish a proper novel so I stick with the short story genre. I try to make each one as different from any other as possible.
A husband seeks to improve his marriage in Lip Service; two competitive brothers visit the south of France in Flesh and Blood; in A Christmas Heist, a cat burglar befriends a young girl on Christmas eve; a father reminisces about the war and his wife in the Sweet Passing of Time; and Inspector Milburn deliberates over a particularly nasty crime in The Other Woman.
He took a step closer to the bed. ‘Big girl, isn’t she?’ She was sprawled out with her head face up in-between the pillows, her eyes wide open with fear. There was no mistaking the ligature marks that ran around her neck, the tell-tale blue and purple lines standing tall and proud.
My great-uncle was Constable ‘Edward Jones’ whose superior was not unlike the fictional Inspector Macabre, and whilst the names have been changed and the narrative spiced up a little, The Case of the Bludgeoned Headmaster remains a true crime event set amongst the backdrop of early twentieth century London.
‘I could tell she was full of mixed emotions,’ he continued. ‘For a twelve-year-old, she was very mature. She understood things that only an adult might comprehend. So I told her that it would be all right, that we’d still be able to come down and play and throw pebbles every day even if the Germans did invade.’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes…I saw your mother in a different light that day.'
My great-uncle was Constable ‘Edward Jones’ whose superior was not unlike the fictional Inspector Macabre, and whilst the names have been changed and the narrative spiced up a little, The Case of the Buried Girl remains a true crime event set amongst the backdrop of early twentieth century London.
‘I know what you are looking at,’ said Harry. ‘Meaningless encounters will leave you empty in the heart in the long run, as I’ve told you so many times before. Not that you ever listen.’
‘Meaningful encounters haven’t exactly set your world on fire you know,’ Edward retorted.
Cat’s sack this Christmas eve was practically overflowing with goodies. He’d been at it for almost three hours now and reasoned he could get one more house in before calling it a night and pouring himself that all important scotch he’d been wanting since 32 Elm Terrace (courtesy of Jack who was the best grand poppy in the whole wide world if the attached card was anything to go by).
Dale nodded satisfactorily. ‘If I could get hold of whatever it is she smears on those luscious lips of hers, I’d be a rich man, old boy. Every single man in the country would be clambering to get in on the action.’ He gave me a nudge. ‘Probably every married man, too. “Happy wife, happy life,” as the saying goes, eh?'
A young woman seeks financial recompense in Services Rendered; an elderly couple want to provide their grandson with a birthday to remember in The Gift; in The Punter, a publican cannot believe his luck when an antiquities dealer stops by for a drink; a young boy befriends a police officer in Beware The Baker Boys; and Honey Trap Enterprises might just be the perfect business for a scorned wife.
Bronwyn couldn’t help but chuckle at the slogan printed in red ink just below the Honey Trap Enterprises name and logo at the top of the page: ‘Because Hell Hath No Fury Like a Woman Scorned’, it read.
The Fox and Vic had been good to Phil Bartle; for the past five years the punters came in numbers not seen since old man Bailey had run the place, and that was way before the days of Thatcherism. There was a new housing estate located nearby awash with young couples, retirees and the odd single mom out on the pull on a Saturday night, and Phil’s little corner alehouse was the perfect place
Harold and Mavis Peabody were the kind of grandparents every child dreamed of; the former was a retired British Rail train driver who regaled the young with stories of life on country tracks; the latter spent the weekends baking an assortment of biscuits and cakes sweet enough to alarm even the most liberal National Dentistry Association member.
‘Take the situation I’m in as an example. I’ve a husband who refuses to satisfy my personal and material needs. Imagine what kind of things I’d be willing to do if an opportunity presented itself.’
‘And has it?’ Edward steadied the question with another gulp of his drink.
‘Not yet, no. But let’s assume it did. Completely pretend, of course.’