When Jim Cracksman received a ‘get your ass home now’ text, he grinned good-naturedly and climbed into his beloved muscle truck. As it turned out, that was to be the last time he smiled for many hours.
When he strolled into the house, it was to find his wife and his oldest son awaiting him with white, strained faces. He pulled Patsy into a one-armed hug and looked a question at Jamie.
“It’s Will. He ain’t in France with the school party. Mum got the heebie jeebies because he hadn’t called and got me to do some checking. He never got on the plane. I activated the locators on his stuff and it’s in a locker at the airport. Then I did a naughty and activated his personal locators. He is in Scotland. Stopped moving about an hour ago at some place called Castle Ellan. Which actually is a castle. It’s let furnished, but I can’t find out who to.”
Jim held out his other arm and the boy came and buried his face in his father’s chest.
“He’s only seven years old Dad. We mustn’t let anyone hurt him.”
“We won’t. And you did good work. Now. Who do we know in Scotland? It’s time to call in some favours.”
Patsy lifted a tear-stained face to look at him.
“Rod’s in Scotland. Him and his buddy Sam are doing a distillery tour. And Anna and her motorhome are at some place called Garlieston.”
“Right. You call Ma and tell her somebody has got at Will. Ask her to look after Charlie and the twins while we sort it. Say she can tell the twins if she must, but not little Charlie. Jamie can stop here with us, as he’s already in it up to his neck. But I want the others out of harm’s way.”
She sniffed.
“Yes. I should’ve thought. I’ll get right on it. And I’ll make tea while I’m at it.”
She picked up her phone and headed to the kitchen.

Jamie looked at his father with haunted eyes.
“They are going to start hurting him soon, aren’t they?”
“Not if Rod gets there first they aren’t. And he will get there first. We have to believe that. Now. Quiet. I need to make some calls.”

The conversations were all brief, but Jim looked a little less grim when he finished the last call. As he did so, Patsy came back into the room carrying a big tray with a brown teapot and milk jug, three mugs, and a plate of biscuits.
“Pete is fetching the kids from their schools, and Ma will keep them for as long as it takes. Pa said not to forget Geordie Jackson, plus he knows a guy in Edinburgh who makes boomers if we need.”
“I already talked to Geordie. He has a couple of boomer boys, and they are on their way to a field where they’re going to be picked up by a helicopter what is already on its way to collect Rod and his pal, who I forgot is a doctor, and who insists on going along to take care of Will when they get him out. Anna is packing up the camper and moving to a place Geordie owns on the outskirts of Glasgow. It’ll take her about three hours to do the drive, she says. So she’ll be in position when they bring Will out. Geordie knows who is at the castle, and he says they are not nice people. He also tells me the main man is currently away from home. Expected back tomorrow. Which’ll be why we’ve heard nothing yet. With only average luck, we’ll get the wee man out before the end of today.”
Patsy looked him in the eyes.
“Now what aren’t you telling me?”
“Actually. Nothing. But I’ll admit to being very, very worried.”
“Fair enough. Me too. But the three of us will support each other through it. Now. Tea?”
Jim swallowed a huge lump in his throat, and Jamie just buried his head in his mother’s breast. She patted one and smiled at the other before pouring mugs of tea so strong it would have fought its way out of a delicate cup.
“Sit down and drink your tea. It’ll help.”
They sat, and there was silence for a while before Jamie spoke.
“Has Anna got enough stuff with her to pick up Will’s locator?”
“Yes. She already called it up. She says good work Jamie. She and I think Will is probably drugged, because he isn’t moving. So it’s good there’s a doctor in the rescue party.”
“But. Isn’t he a surgeon?” Patsy asked in worried tones.
“He is, which is all to the good, apparently, as he knows lots about unconscious people. He says William will be fine with him.”
Jamie spoke up.
“Is there any more we can do Dad?”
“Nope. Now is the hard bit. We sit tight. Man the phones. And wait.”
They waited.

Five hundred miles north, things were moving at an altogether faster pace. Two men, a couple of small suitcases, and a black leather holdall, waited by the helipad at the Gleneagles hotel. The larger of the two looked at his companion.
“You sure about this, Sam? It’s going to get nasty, and some people will get hurt, or worse.”
“Yes. I’m sure. They have kidnapped a seven-year-old boy. If they have kept him drugged for thirty-six hours, he could be in a bad way. He might need me, and I might need the stuff I asked for.”
“It’s on the chopper. And how bad?”
“I honestly don’t know, Rod. Worst case scenario is brain damage, but at best he is going to be confused, feeling sick, and dehydrated.”
“Right. So we do need you.”
“And we need to hope.”
They fell silent as the sound of a big helicopter engine came closer.
“Why a Sikorsky?” Sam bawled in Rod’s ear as it came in to land.
They picked up their stuff, ran across the helipad and leapt aboard. A big man in a jumpsuit pushed them into a pair of seats and handed them headsets.
“Welcome aboard Rescue One,” he said.
“Thanks,” Rod grunted. “My friend here wondered why a Sky Crane?”
“Easy. These bastards fly in and out of the target area all the time. Nobody will think twice about another. Has anybody thought about what sort of condition the kid will be in when we get him out?”
“Yes,” Sam said tersely. “I’ve given the matter a lot of thought. Is the stuff I asked for on board?”
“Yeah. You know how to use it?”
“I do. But let’s hope I don’t have to.”
“What don’t you want to have to use?”
“Mostly: tracheotomy kit. I’ve had to do it in Thailand to kids that were sedated for too long on the underground sex trade routes. It ain’t pleasant, but it can be the only way to get air into the poor little sods’ lungs.”
“Fuck. Will it really be that bad?”
“Probably not, but I wanted to be sure I had all the bases covered. But the poor little bugger is going to be confused and frightened, and that’s why going home in his friend’s motorhome, where he can rest and feel secure will be better for him than a plane flight where he is surrounded by strangers, or the noise and smells of a chopper.”
“Yeah. I get that. And we can take it in turns to drive. So we’ll get him back to his mum pretty soon. Now I find I’m feeling murderous. Nobody should get between me and anyone I’m beating up.”
The man in the jumpsuit grinned.
“Fine. We’re all fathers here, and nobody is feeling particularly gentlemanly right now. About half an hour till we collect Geordie’s boomer boys. Then an hour from there to this fucking castle. Any orders?”
“Apart from getting my nephew out and demonstrating the family’s annoyance? No. Just do what needs doing.”
“Will do. By the way. This one’s a freebie. Geordie is providing the hardware and the fuel, we’re giving our time. Nobody liked having the Russian Mafia on our turf. But as long as they kept their noses clean we could tolerate them. Taking people’s kids is a big no-no, so we are handing down a lesson.”
“How many are we?” Sam asked.
“You two. Geordie’s boomer boys. Twelve fighters. Pilot, co-pilot and radio guy. Why?”
“Because I have a bad feeling about what they might do to the kid when we tip up. I want to get to him fast.”
“Good thinking. Six of us will escort you right to him. We have his location on screen.”
“Right. Good.”
The two men bumped fists.
They seemed to have covered all the bases, and the men sat in silence until the helicopter dropped down to land briefly. Three men jumped in carrying obviously heavy bags. Once they were seated the chopper took off and headed north. The men put on their headphones and their leader gave Rod a grim wink.
“Got enough stuff to flatten this fecking castle. Geordie says you have to agree, though.”
“Oh yeah. Let’s show them our fist! But we have to get little Bill out first. And if they’ve hurt him…”
The smallest of the boomer boys spat eloquently.
“Aye. There’s examples to be made.”

From The Cracksman Code by Jane Jago

It’s morning and
blue is the sky
And all the birds are
singing on high
It’s morning and
I sure know why
Summer is bloomin’
cos we’re in July.
July,
would you stay with me?
Whisper your promises
of lazy days.
July,
would you show to me
The beauty of summer
and its hazy ways?

It’s evening and
twilight is nigh
But the warmth lingers
as night comes by
It’s sunset and
the moon’s in the sky
Summer nights promise
as with you I lie
July,
would you stay with me?
Whisper your promises
of lazy days.
July,
would you show to me
The beauty of summer
and its hazy ways?

E.M. Swift-Hook

Dear Reader Who Writes,

It always behoves me to assume that there will be at least one new reader of my inspirational course on ‘How to Start Writing a Book’. So to that gentle reader I doff my hat and reveal that I am none other than Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV – author of the  brilliant and inventive novel, “Fatswhistle and Buchtooth”, a seminal work exploring the furthest conceptual reaches of science fiction and fantasy.

Today’s topic came to me a while ago and then I was distracted by my Muse offering other, more pressingly urgent dangleberries of wisdom and demanding that those took precedence. But then my focus was rehoned to the point by Mumsie walking into my writing cave, bearing her trademark pernod and ginger wine in a champagne flute with the inevitable green olive drifting in the murk. “Oh my god, Moons, this place stinks worse than a sumo wrestlers jock-strap!” I delicately pointed out that she was referring to my vetiver, bergamot and lemongrass aromatherapy oil, blended expressly to induce higher states of creativity.

Mummy was not, however, much impressed by this revelation. Instead she picked up my pristine first edition copy of Fatswhistle and Buchtooth and opened it, bending the spine and splattering droplets of her alcoholic creosote over it’s pages. Before I could recover from the horror of her deed, she had dropped the irreplaceably precious item back on my desk. “Don’t they say you can’t tell a book by the cover? Got it wrong with yours though. Shite inside and out.”

How to Start Writing a Book – The Write Cover.

A book cover needs to be a visual precis of your prose. It should capture and enrapture the roving eye as a reader runs through the rows of books either on a shelf in a shop or on a scrolling screen. Yours must be the cover that cries out as that putative reader sifts through stacks of books to find their next favourite fiction.

But how is this achieved? If you read the academic artists they will talk of proportions, the Golden Mean, of colour strengths and shades and other esoteric claptrap. It is actually stunningly simple – make it red.

Red is the most eye-catching colour as everyone knows. We are all primally preprogrammed to see red as a signal of something requiring our attention. Therefore, so long as your cover is red your book will be read.

A more sophisticated and subtle touch can be achieved by drawing on that other universal colour combination guaranteed to draw the eye – black and yellow. Our perceptions are precisely honed to hover our eyes on anything that resembles hornets or wasps. So, if red is not appropriate for your magnificent tome – black and yellow may well serve the same end.

Of course, to be sure, combine the two concepts.

Oh and put a naked lady on it, ideally headless.

Follow these infallible rules and you will create a cover that none will miss and your book will bound from shelves be those physical or metaphorical.

Until next time, au revoir mes petites poissons.

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy’s profound thoughts in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

Kathleen looked out at the rain and wondered for the thousandth time why she was there. She was a teacher now and there was a stack of marking to be done and lessons to prepare for the coming term.

But instead of being at home, getting work done or reading a book or watching TV, her cat curled on her knee, she was out here in the rain, in the middle of a wood.

Waiting.

And waiting.

There was a small, moving patch of grey and her heart leapt.

This was why she was here.

Her first sight of badgers.

E.M. Swift-Hook

This is the story of what happens when a pragmatist gives in to a romantic impulse. Be warned.
I’m that pragmatist and my name is Alysson Kowalski.
Now that we all know who we are, there’s a couple of things you need to be aware of before you start reading: I swear too smegging much; I couldn’t give a flick what you think of me; and I do expect you to pay attention. Listen up, there may be questions later.

Through the skinny end window of my three-metre square office I watched Jackdaw Court grow from a hole in the ground to something one might call an architectural oddity if one was being kind. That having been said, and almost in spite of myself, I got interested and when the ‘for sale’ boards went up I dropped into the estate agent on my way home.
I sat in my tiny ‘apartment’ (ain’t that a joke: read bedsit with pretensions) ate pizza, and studied the blurb with increasing fascination. It was the tower that got me. Ever since I was a little kid I’ve been fascinated by towers, and the idea of living in one really floated my boat.
Not being one to let the grass grow, I was in the estate agent’s prim little office before nine thirty the next morning.
“The tower at Jackdaw Court. When can I see it?”
The over-presented receptionist looked at me as if I was something that had crawled out of the undressed lettuce that undoubtedly formed the mainstay of her meals. I favoured her with my best and most dangerous glare, and she thought better of whatever it was she had intended to say. Instead she made painfully slow progress on her computer. After faffing about for at least ten minutes she made a breakthrough.
“You can see it now” she said brightly. “Mister Brown is free.”
“Well wheel him out then. I don’t have all day.”
She picked up a handset and dialled three digits with a perfectly manicured finger.
“Customer wants to see the tower at Jackdaw Court. Now.” She put the handset down and only just managed not to sneer.
“He will be right with you.”
A middle-aged gent with a bit of a beer belly came out from the back office and smiled at me.
“Paul Brown” he stuck out a hand.
“Alysson Kowalski” I kept my own hands behind my back and his grin actually broadened.
“I’ll just get my car.”
I looked at him sternly. “You could do with the walk.” He winced then grinned.
“As you say.”
It was all of fifteen minutes, even with me needing to slow down for my new friend, but in that time we had sized each other up well enough for no fencing to be necessary.
“I take it” he said genially “that you have all your finances in position and you are in a position to proceed.”
“Yeah. Course I am. But blondie didn’t think so.”
“No. If she had she would have called on one of the thrusting young men who were also sitting in the back office drinking coffee.”
“How’d anything that stupid get a job?”
He grinned and shrugged.
“Yeah. There’s that” I had to admit. “But how does she keep the job?”
“She probably won’t. Especially if I make a sale this morning.”
“Eh? But don’t you make rather a lot of sales? The harmless duffer pose must be worth more than a few bob to the company.”
He grinned toothily. “It is. And I’m probably the most successful salesman in this branch. But you are not my target market. I’m supposed to deal with older people who would be turned off by Ranjit or Ralph – who are both a bit flashy.”
“Well then. I’d probably have wound up breaking someone’s pinky in a handshake. I don’t much care for flashy young men.”

From Jackdaw Court by Jane Jago.

It takes six men three days to free a caravan whose legs have sunk deeply into summer soft tarmac.
Job done, the digging biggers stood around drinking beer.
“You oughter move it in case it sinks again.”
Big fetched his truck and after a couple of false starts they hitched up.
With the paddock gates propped open Big climbed into the cab and engaged a gear.
The truck inched forward, but then the engine revved wildly while the caravan slewed sideways embedding itself in the paddock fence with a screech of tortured metal.
Hamish grinned. “Bugger my nuts,” he said.

©️jj 2021

… or ‘How To Speak Typo’ by Jane Jago

achnor (noun) – a Caledonian person who says no a lot

brillaint (adjective) – of hair, shined and glued into place with brylcreeem

cramine (noun) – the peculiar colour all the washing turns when you put a red sock in it by mistake 

defetas (adverb) – of speech or singing, loud, flat and with one of those accents that removes two vowel sounds

dilemna (noun) a long-legged coot-like bird characterised by an inability to make up its mind

foor (adjective) – poor in the terms of reference of the very rich in that one’s children have to attend minor public schools and one cannot afford more than one divorce

hosematre (noun) – pedagogue who beats pupils with a hollow length of rubber

jamsine (adjective) – sticky and bright red

jusat (adjective) – smelling vaguely of old socks and Vimto

lineger (noun) – underwear that smells like a chip shop

morgin (adjective) – grumpy and prone to spitting

omouf (adjective) – of lipstick, misapplied so it slips over the edges of the lips

sinnic (noun) – a person with no charm and little intellect 

totamo (noun) – yellow fruit with hard skin that tastes like stew and smells like sick

upsdie (noun) – a dice that only throws sixes

There were no biggers at home when a low-loader deposited a silver caravan on the driveway. The delivery men wound down legs, shoved a fat envelope through the letterbox, and buggered off.
It was a hot day, and the sun on the polished sides was blinding. Numpty made to move closer, but Hamish grabbed his collar.
“Bliddy thing’s moving. Come awa.”
Indeed it was moving, two of the four legs were slowly sinking into the tarmac and the thing was leaning at a crazy angle.
As one gnome they ran, before the biggers’ thing could suck them down too.

©️jj 2021

Offworld items were rarities, rarities, the few imports that arrived on the continent, having been shipped across the Lesser Ocean from the spaceport in Keran were always valuable – even the commonplace ones. His own fine knife blade, stronger than anything that could be made on Temsevar, had cost Caer most of his first season’s bonus to purchase. So if there was anything salvageable left on the mithan, it would truly be as if the skies had opened up and rained money on them. For a moment that thought drove out every other and he had the exhilarating image of himself leading Alexa the Fair’s caravan into the city of Alfor, wagons overflowing with wealthy cargo.
But only for a moment.
The many long days of travel that remained before they could reach Alfor rose up and cut through that image like a row of jagged teeth. This was a small caravan and painfully undermanned with too few Zoukai. For all his own strength and skill, if word got out that they carried any great wealth – if anyone saw them take it or even noticed they had left the road – then they would be lucky to arrive in Alfor alive let alone with their cargo intact. But if – if he could keep it safe, then the end-of-run bonus it could earn him would be enough to make almost all his wildest dreams grow flesh and walk.
Caer became aware that Alexa was still watching him with an almost hungry expression on her beautiful face. Her eyes were glittering with the same visceral excitement he was feeling. It was as if, for that one moment, they were equals.
“Well, Captain?” she asked at last. “Have you nothing to say about it?”
“You will be wealthy, Honoured One, truly wealthy – if we can reach Alfor safely.”
“If,” she agreed and smiled as if pleased that he had grasped the key issue without her having to spell it out. Then the smile was gone and Alexa was the business-like caravansi once more.
“There is still time for you to ride up the mithan before sunset, Captain. I want you to take a few of your best Zoukai and see what is there, then we can make arrangements to bring it down tomorrow.”
It was getting a little late in the day and the wise Caer said he should protest and insist that they leave it for the next day. It was not sensible to take a dangerous path up the side of a mithan on tired ponies and risk having to make the descent in the dark. But the wild impetuous Caer, the Caer that had turned his back on the security of the craftsman’s life his father had planned out for him for the adventure of being Zoukai, the Caer who had defied all Zoukai convention to grasp the chance to be a captain years before he was supposed to – that Caer told him challenging the order would only make him seem a coward.
“Your will, Honoured One.”
Alexa’s hand lifted in dismissal and Caer pressed his forehead to the rug at the foot of her couch. Then he got to his feet in a single movement and was at the entrance of the pavilion before Alexa’s voice stopped him.
“Captain.”
He held the flap of heavy cloth and looked back towards her.
“Captain, if we can get this treasure trove to the Alfor Fair, I promise you that we shall all be rich – you and your Zoukai too.”
“Your will, Caravansi,” Caer responded automatically. It was only as he walked away from the pavilion, it occurred to him to wonder if she spoke from concern in case of an attack on the caravan or fear of his own betrayal – fear that he and the other Zoukai would steal her precious gift from the sky.
He mounted his pony and rubbed its ugly head between the ears. It was true, the thought of so much wealth could certainly turn your mind. But then it could also be that he and the Caravansi were making fine cakes from nothing more than mud and sand. Caer had seen the size of the explosion and he was very aware he might find little on the plateau beyond a few useless scraps of overheated metal and a large crater. He turned his mount and went in search of the men he wanted.

From The Fated Sky the first part of Transgressor Trilogy, and the first book in Fortunes Fools by E.M. Swift-Hook.

Advice on growing old disgracefully from an elderly delinquent with many years of expertise in the art – plus free optional snark…

If you’re old, be a shining example
Of all that in life we should sample
The life of a saint
And total restraint
Not a sex-kitten who’s quite arm full!

E.M. Swift-Hook