Webley and the World Machine by Zachary Chopchinski has just released!

“We aren’t going anywhere with your creepy smiling ass. Thanks for the offer, but we have better things to do. Like fight these crazy mantis things. So, if you don’t mind, step off, or I’ll throw you another beating,” Adal offered as he took a half step ahead of Arija who yanked at his sleeve.
“What the hell are you doing? If I couldn’t take him, you sure as hell can’t! Not in your condition anyway.” Arija slid her hand down Adal’s side to where his empty holster sat on his hip. “Where’s your gun?” she mumbled out of the side of her mouth.
“I don’t know. It went flying when I did. I’m going to make my move. You make yours!”
Adal mumbled back, keeping his eyes trained on his opponent. With his little finger, Adal motioned to the two knives on the platform.
“So, what’s the plan, shiny? We gonna do this, or are you going to just stand there and look at me? I mean, I know I’m pretty, but damn,” Adal said, the humor gone from his voice.
The Dweller’s grin faded and his mouth thinned. He closed his robotic hands into fists and lowered his head to his shoulders.
“If you think it’s in your best interest, Topsider, please feel free to try your odds. I will greatly enjoy peeling back your skin and seeing what your wet insides look like. When I’m done with you, your mate is next!” he said, flicking his gaze toward Arija.
Arija flinched at the word “mate.” She wasn’t even Adal’s girlfriend, for reasons she didn’t exactly understand, and the word brought a sudden embarrassment to her cheeks.
Adal’s upper lip twitched as he watched him eye Arija like she was a prize at the fair. His face burned, and his palms got sweaty at the thought of this man with Arija, torturing her or. . .  whatever else he had in mind. Adal was ready to put his fist down this asshole’s throat.
Without another word, Adal lunged. He swung his right arm at the Cog look-a- like, his fist colliding with his face. A loud, metallic clang was followed by a searing pain rushing through Adal’s hand and up into his arm. He could swear that under the ringing of the collision, he heard the small bones in his hand break.
Adal looked from his throbbing hand back to the metal man who stood before him with a bored look on his face. Adal froze as that same, familiar grin returned.
“Thank you for going first. I wouldn’t want this to be over too quickly. My turn?”
Before Adal could react, he was grabbed by the collar and hoisted into the air. Adal gripped at the hands around his neck, doing his best to support his own weight. He flailed his legs, trying and failing to kick hard enough to be released.
Using this as a distraction, Arija slid across the floor to the knives. Grabbing the weapons, she pushed herself to her feet. The glint of the blades caught the light and Adal’s attacker shot a furious look in her direction. He threw Adal, and the two collided just as she was preparing herself for the attack, causing her to drop the weapons as she slid across the copper platform.
“Clever, Topsider!” he said, walking over to his knives. “I guess taking you alive won’t be a possibility. It isn’t that I cannot, rather I’m tired of dealing with you and do not wish to face the hassle.” The dark Dweller collected his daggers and rolled them around in his hands. He admired the sleek blades of his knives like an artist admiring a finished canvas. Adal tried to stand, but the pain in his ribs was unbearable.

Zachary Paul Chopchinski is a bow tie wearing, formal vest rocking, pocket watch using, sarcastic monster of a writer. Currently residing in Orlando, Florida, he spends his days working, writing and procrastinating. 

Coupled with being an award winning author of young adult fiction, Zach spends his days trying not to kill himself with lethal levels of caffeine.
 
Zach is the author of the Gabrielle series, a young adult fantasy with a paranormal-historical-time traveling twist (try saying that five times fast) and Webley and The World Machine, a steampunk adventure with snarky yet lovable characters.

You can find Zach on Goodreads, Bookbub, Facebook and Twitter or his own website.

 

1. What is the best thing about the world you live in?

Adal: I mean to be completely honest what’s not to like about it? This place is rad! It’s
like some kind of sci-fi movie…but real life. I’ve got this sweet ass bionic arm now and I
can pretty much punch through anything…so…that’s cool.
Arija: Yeah, Adal maybe if you paid more attention in wrestling instead of staring at
yourself in the mirror maybe you wouldn’t need that arm.
Adal: You’re just mad because you didn’t get this sweet upgrade. Don’t be hatin!
Anyway, the Machine is a pretty dope place. I’ve got a bunch of kick ass toys so I can
basically just destroy shit all day. OH, and I get to fly these sweet ass machines…these
flying sacs or whatever the hell their called.
Arija: HA! Right! As long as you’re not peeing yourself and crying for your mommy as
you plummet 50 stories! Listen, the Machine is awesome! The Dwellers there, well they
aren’t really human. They’re mechanical, but sentient. I could just sit on the docs or in
the city of Aparat all day and just draw! In fact you can see some of my art in the book!
Oh and let me tell you about all the scientific discoveries they’ve made! If I could bring
back some of this knowledge to the Topside, we could really solve a lot of humanities
problems!

2. There are two of you, so who is the leader?

Adal: Me.
Arija: I am.
*Both stare at each other neither backing down*
Arija: I’m definitely the leader. I’ve got the brains and the shotgun.
Adal: No, I’m the leader. Who saved your ass when that Geartha was about to slice your
head off?
Arija: Oh, you’re bringing that up again? Listen, you got one lucky shot. How many times
a day do I save your ass?
Adal: And what a sweet ass it is.
Arija: *rolls eyes* we can maybe discuss that “sweet ass” at another time…if you admit
I’m the—
Adal: *eyes wide* you’re the leader!
Arija: See? What’d I tell you. I’m the leader.

3. If you could do something else other than saving the world, what would it be?

Adal: Rockstar, no actor, no rockstar. No but seriously, I haven’t thought about it too
much because my old man has always been up my ass about education and a career. To
be honest, if I wasn’t saving the Machine, I’d still want to be here. What would I be
doing? What wouldn’t I be doing? *nudges Arija*
Arija: *rolls eyes* If I wasn’t saving the world, I’d probably be an artist. Maybe
somewhere like Paris or Rome. Maybe I would go back to Israel and draw the places mymother grew up. As long as I could come down to the Machine every now and then to
keep this one in line *points thumb at Adal* I don’t even want to think about the havoc
he’d wreck if it weren’t for me.

You can meet Adal and Arija in a fantabulous steampunk odyssey which has just been released - Webley and the World Machine by Zachary Chopchinski.

There really is something for everyone here. Four fabulous books from two great authors Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook. Four different genres, FREE for five whole days!.

Space Opera: Trust a Few 

You’ve been gone a long time Jaz, and word is you’ve come back – changed.”

After five years of brutal convict military service, Jaz just wants to rebuild his shattered life. But the past is hard to escape. The ‘City has always been a dangerous place to live: now it’s lethal. Not only are the crime lords exploiting its lawless streets, it is also the unwitting test bed for a sinister corporate technology. As Jaz tries to find an old friend who needs him, can a new ally help? Can he even be trusted?

‘Trust A Few’ won gold and bronze awards in two science fiction categories at the Virtual Fantasy Con Awards 2017. It is the first book in ‘Haruspex’, a tense new, sci-fi trilogy from Fortune’s Fools.

‘…a gripping tale of friendship and loyalty set against a backdrop of gritty violence and interstellar intrigue.’

5 Stars – Amazon Review

Alternative History: Dying to be Roman

In the run-up to The Games, elite athletes are being murdered. But when a Roman dies the authorities take notice and it falls to our heroes to discover why and by whom, before the killer strikes again…

Imagine a Britain where Rome never left and a reformed Empire has ruled for two millennia. Technology is a bit more advanced in the present day – and a bit different – but people are the much the same.

 ‘..a cleverly-written, mash-up whodunnit with plenty to think about, laughs a minute, gore galore, two engaging lovers and a permanent sense of déjà vu all over again will adore this book.’

5 Stars – Amazon Review

 

Epic Fantasy: The Long Game

In a world where politics and violence are almost synonymous, some people will stop at nothing to remain at the top of the food chain. When the Emperor decides to take a hand, it results in the murder of the entire Imperial family, which, in turn, sets off a chain reaction which will imperil the whole of humanity…

‘Gripping good read,well written and different.’

5 Stars – Amazon UK Review

Dystopian: The Barefoot Runners

The world’s women are being rendered infertile in the name of profit. When two young female slaves escape from the clutches of the baby farmers they begin a series of events that has repercussions across civilisation. It will take all their courage to save themselves and the people they come to love.

‘Very good read, right to the last page.’

5 Stars – Amazon UK Review

And BONUS – if you enjoy humorous sci-fi, check out the books of Zachry Wheeler  –  Max and the Multiverse, Max and the Snoodlecock and which are also available free for the weekend!

Take your pick or grab them all - 11 - 16 January. Oh, and tell your friends too!

 

I am old and it needs to be said
There are no monsters under my bed
That I’ve learned how to play
To be happy each day
Coz my friend you’re a darned long time dead

© jane jago 2017

I am not the Siapheg! The realization was like a drink of the finest wine, and she blinked away a tear, so overtly thankful that she did not possess such evil inside of her. The only problem, she now realized, was that she must now discover who the dark one is so she can put a halt to the suffering it may bring. The tingling eased off, and she sat on the edge of her father’s bed completely transformed.

“Why, I’m no larger than a house cat. How strange.”

“Not so strange, young Teselym.”

“Huh?” Wylie jumped up, alarmed by the sound of another’s voice. She promptly lost her balance, and tumbled off the bed. She hit the floor with a solid thunk.

“Don’t worry Teselym; your body is capable of many beautiful and magnificent things. Your size will adapt to your circumstances once you leave this room. You can also make yourself smaller if you wish. Anything you desire, you need only state it. The magic that lies within you will do the rest. Consider it compensation from the gods.”

Her white scaled head turned this way and that, as she searched for the owner of the voice, but there was no one to be seen. “Who is that?”

“Must I answer that, if you can’t even find me?” Wylie huffed in response, “I need to be larger.” Instantly she began to grow, and shortly she was roughly the size of a large dog. The mattress was now at eye level, and she looked around for the Dracosinum, wondering where it had gone.

“You may call it you know.”

“Call what?” Wylie asked, agitated that she had not found the source of the voice.

“The Dracosinum, it is yours… all you have to do is call it, and it will come to you. Do you think you found its hiding place by yourself? Not hardly m’dear.”

“Dracosinum, come to me,” Wylie commanded firmly. The circular device lifted itself from her human form, which lay still on the bed, and hovered in midair before her. Wylie reached for it, agitated that it was so much harder to grab with dragon claws than human fingers. The seemingly simple action, now required much more effort.

The moment she held it, the blasted thing opened of its own accord and the clear crystal that protected the tiny beast inside flipped open, revealing its tiny tenant sitting happily in the center, with an impudent grin on his face.

“There, now… was that so hard?” The tiny dragon spoke.

She almost dropped the Dracosinum, but quickly gathered her senses. “Oops, sorry about that?” she said by way of apology.

“Another little trick, so you don’t have to go through that again, every time you become the Teselym, your Dracosinum will be attached to you. Without it, you don’t have me, and without me, you are vulnerable and naïve.”

“I beg your pardon? Just who are you?” She lifted the Dracosinum closer to her face, to see the vexatious little bugger better.

“Well, it’s all a bit tricky to understand. I mean, I don’t presume the human part of you would be able comprehend. “He said matter-of-factly.

“Why you insolent, insulting little beastie!””

“I guarantee you my dear Wylie that is not my intention at all. To answer your question, and quell any further questions you may have, I am a god, or at least, the essence of a god. My sole purpose is to help you reach your full potential as the Earth’s one and only Teselym. You are the only thing standing between mankind and complete and utter evil,” he nodded his head knowingly, sitting back on his haunches, short scaly arms crossed over his chest like an indignant child.

“Most curious,” Wylie said.

“Indeed,” he replied.

“The name Dracosinum, what does it stand for?”

“Well, it’s Latin… Draco… meaning dragon, of course. Sinum meaning pocket.”

Wylie giggled,

“So you’re literally a pocket dragon?” The idea hit her in the funny bone and she guffawed loudly, while he stared back at her, unamused.

The Dragon Lady is the first book in the steampunk series The Dracosinum Tales by Angelique Anderson.

A bonus feature with Angelique Anderson author of the wonderful steampunk series Dracosinum Tales amongst other gripping titles.

Q1: Who is your favourite fictional dragon and why?

Well, that’s easy. Quincy from The Dracosinum series, and the reason why is because he was such a fun character to write. He is wise and cares about Wylie deeply, but he has so much attitude and smart mouth you can’t help but laugh at his antics and interactions with Wylie throughout the books.

Q2: Corseted dress or jeans and T-shirt and why?

If I had it my way? Corseted dress every day. I love the elegance and the shape they give to my chunky body! LOL. Plus, Every woman looks classy in a corset! 😀

Q3: If you had to choose a pen name what would it be and why?

would probably go with something extravagant because I love things that sparkle and bling, and my pen name would have to be nothing short of that. Like, Evangeline Marqui De’lacroix. Is that blingy enough? Ha ha ha.

Angelique S. Anderson is an award-winning author of sci-fi and fantasy, an avid adventurer and chaser of dreams. Singer and songwriter in hobby, she is the mother to four precocious little ones and lover of all animals. She hopes to encourage others with her journey and passion for life. You can follow her on Facebook, Twitter and her website.

 

Winter was the bejewelling of Temsevar, its crystalline magnificence turning even the most sordid and mean peasant’s wooden hovel into a glittering palace of diamond. The snows softened the harshness, smoothing all into a glorious billowed largesse of white. From every branch and twig, every roof and casement, every eave and doorway, came the glitter of silver icicles, their growth arrested every night and scarcely allowed under the scant warmth of the red sun each narrow day.

Every ugliness was made mild by the glory of a shimmering white crown, every roughness made smooth and the uneven made plain. The winter was levelling, but it levelled in a way that paid vast tribute to the might of the elements. Rich and poor alike were equal before the onslaught, for both could share in the splendour which outshone the most regal opulence of the greatest noble. To watch the sunrise, blood red over the virgin white and silver landscape, washing it with a mystical ruby glow, was to be awed and left with wonder. To trace the pearlescent shimmer of the twin moons over the snow, where the whiteness caught and reflected back to the darkened sky the moist brilliance, until even the night might seem to dazzle, was to feel one had walked, waking, in a dreamscape or broken through to some celestial realm of deity.

But the beauty, if free, was also lethal. The cold wore down the resistance of the weak and made them prey to illness or starvation and the frozen ground would not open to bury the dead, who were burned in high pyres on the ice, in batches like cakes.

Here the rich and the poor parted company, for the wealthy had portals against death in the cold. They had piles of wood to burn, stores of bottled, dried and salted food, they had flour to bake with and flesh to cook. Not for them the privations of starvation in the snow-stricken land. A house could be counted wealthy by the fire that burned in its hearth, driving back the demons of cold and darkness. Even the meanest hovel that could light a fire all day was accounted rich when the chilling shroud of snow and ice descended.

It was in the winter that those who were free-born and poverty-stricken would envy the enslaved. For, worth money and offering labour, even the most meanly treated slave could expect to be kept warm and fed through the White Moons, where their free-born cousins could hope no more than that this winter might be light and their meagre stores of food and fuel might not be gone before the thaw. What value was freedom when the cost was one’s life or the lives of one’s children?

So winter was the glory of Temsevar and its greatest influence. Without it, perhaps the slave economy might have evolved and changed, but with it – and the utter dependence it brought of the weak upon the strong – the frozen arms of ice which embraced Temsevar for two-thirds of the year, also embraced the culture and values of its people, freezing them into patterns as cold and merciless as the brutal winter itself.

The ice cracked the marrow from the bone of the planet, riving rock and stripping life from the land, animal and vegetable. The rivers froze solid and the seas slowed as if sleeping and then surrendered to the embrace of ice. Only the hardiest in nature could survive and most of the larger animals only lived by entering the deep sleep of hibernation through the worst of the cold moons. You would not see tizarts playing in the snow or find therloons leaving ice-tracks under the twin moons.

Most people dreaded the onset of winter as much as they dreaded the onset of old age. For the annual revisiting of the Great White was a similar experience – the pace of life became slow and painful, cold and bleak. In the great Halls, poets would pass the wine, mulled with the herbs and berries of the autumn and sing with lysigal of the great deeds that had been done that summer and would be contemplated the next. But elsewhere, it was as though the planet slept and its people dreamed beneath the alluring counterpane of snow, fringed with its tassels of ice and embroidered with frost.

Transgressor Trilogy   E.M. Swift-Hook

 

 

 

Rubaiyat Sonnet

Alas the Muse must vanish with the light
And close the manuscript of youthful fire
Why must I have so many thoughts in flight?
Why will not my Muse simply me inspire?

For every night a glass I have turned down
On this inverted bowl I call my desk
And bent my head for the laureates crown
To birth another written arabesque.

But whence the bird forth from the branch hath flown?
How is’t Her brightness hence from me doth go?
Now here, abandoned, weeping, I do groan,
To ask why my Muse doth despise me so?

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group.

The big bay window was Victoria’s only eye on the world. For as long as she could remember, she had been considered delicate and very rarely permitted to leave her rooms. She was a small, pale, lonely girl, whose sharp little features looked as if they may have been made of old ivory. Her life was both tedious and burdensome, but she was wise enough to know that any attempt on her part to change her lot would very possibly result in the rules constraining her becoming more rather than less stringent. So she sat on her sofa and watched the world through her window.

Her lot would have been worse if those who had charge of her were able to look behind her broad smooth brow into her busy and imaginative brain. Nobody knew about her dream life, and the friends who peopled those dreams. Nobody knew how she laughed, and sang, and danced, and ran, as she lay in her high, narrow bed with its overly decorated curtains and flaring patchwork quilt. These nocturnal adventures were, she thought, the only thing that enabled her to face the boredom and loneliness of her days with tolerable equanimity.

And so matters stood until one winter’s day when the snow was falling so hard that her most officious nurse closed the thick red velvet curtains across the window and threw extra logs on the fire. Victoria stared unseeingly at the blue and orange flames, mentally counting the hours until something might happen to decrease the tedium.

A sudden bustle took her very much by surprise, she was all but asleep when two nurses hurried into her sitting room. They pulled her upright, plumped her pillows, smoothed her hair, and generally tidied with ruthless efficiency. She knew better than to grumble or question, even when their rough handling hurt her bones, or when they pulled her hair. She merely set her teeth and endured. The one bright spot was that they opened the curtains behind her sofa and she was able to see the enchanted landscape the snow had created in the square outside her window.

The door opened to admit her lady mother, and a gentleman. Victoria clasped her hands together in her lap and lifted a mildly enquiring face.
“There she is,” Mama said in a tight voice. “There’s the creature who owns this house, and everything in it.”
The gentleman trod his stately way across the carpet and stood staring down at at Victoria with his hands clasped behind his back. He swayed gently forwards and backwards, a movement that made Victoria feel vaguely queasy, while he looked down into her eyes.
“She seems a sickly little thing,” he remarked.
“She is indeed, but that won’t suit my purposes. Her money goes to charity if she dies unwed.”
The gentleman made a strange humming noise in his chest then nodded.
“Very well. The boy is very little use, but controllable. You have a bargain.”
Mama smiled a taut little smile that exposed her rather bad teeth.
“Victoria,” she said firmly, “this is Mister Arkwright. You will be marrying his son, Makepeace, as soon as it can be arranged.”
“Yes Mama.”
Victoria’s visitors swept from the room, leaving her to wonder what manner of a man they would marry her to in order to gain control of her inheritance. She wasn’t left in ignorance for long. Her nurses, as was their habit, talked as if she was deaf or stupid. While they waited for Mama to be far enough away for them to slope off safely, the bitterest of them nudged the fat one with a sharp elbow.
“Well, I never thought I would feel sorry for her ladyship. But that Makepeace is a vicious little bastard. I give her three months.”
Then they took themselves off about whatever ploy was more interesting than taking care of Victoria.

“Oh my goodness,” she thought, then, with the full knowledge that there was nothing she could do about her impending marriage she put the fear to the back of her mind, and turned her attention to the snowy scene in the gardens outside. There were children playing in the thick snow. One of them saw her in her window and cheekily threw a snowball. Victoria found herself laughing delightedly. Greatly daring, she waved a hand, and the child waved back, grinning infectiously. It seemed that time rushed by as she watched the children play, and before she knew it dusk was falling and the garden began to empty of children. In the end there was just one figure left in the snow. As the lamplighters went about their business, he looked up to the bright window and Victoria saw his face. She blinked as her eyes took in his square face and his bright blue eyes. She knew that face. It was the one she saw every night in her dreams. It was the face of the boy with whom she danced and ran and laughed. He smiled up at her and gestured for her to come outside.
“How can I go outside?” she thought bitterly. “I am stuck in this room and on this settee. I don’t even have any shoes.”
As if he read her thoughts, the boy held up a hand in which there was a pair of fur-lined boots.

Victoria stood up, shakily because she was unaccustomed to walking, and made her way to the window. She put her hands on the sash and tried to raise it but nothing happened. Then she remembered the latch and reached high above her head to slide it open. Once this was done she could lift the window inch by inch, it was hard work and the frigid air that rushed into the room all but stole her breath. She bit her lower lip and persevered until she had enough of a gap for her to squeeze through. The second she was out on the windowsill, the glass crashed closed behind her.

She jumped, startled by the noise, before looking eagerly down into the garden. There was nobody there. For a moment she knew fear and despondency, but then she told herself not to be silly, whether there was anybody waiting for her or not it was better to be out here than inside that overheated room where everyone either hated her or despised her. It was so cold now that her teeth chattered and her hands were rapidly becoming blue and losing their grip. Just as she was wondering how on earth she could get down from the window ledge, she felt warm breath on her neck and heard delighted laughter in her head.
“Jump, my brave one,” the voice was as familiar as breathing, and Victoria launched herself into the air.

The big front door flew open and Victoria’s nurses flew out onto the frozen pavement. Their charge’s broken body lay in a heap on the already dirty snow.

©️jane jago 2017

CHAPTER FOUR

By late afternoon the campervan and its occupants were still north of Birmingham. The traffic on the M6 had just ground to a halt for about the tenth time.

Rod was driving.

“Can we get around this. Or do we need another overnight?”

Anna stood up and pushed a button on the satnav. A list of traffic reports came up and she scrolled through it.

“Well. We could get around. But wherever we go it looks like there are problems.”

“Overnighter then. Got anywhere up your sleeve Anna?”

“Not offhand. But I’ve got a book. It’s in the glove box in front of Sam. Pass it here and I’ll have a look.”

Sam pulled out Anna’s ‘book’, which was a loose-leaf folder with magazine articles, pages from campsites guides, and various handwritten sheets therein.

“Crikey. This is comprehensive.”

“Yeah. I know. I’m anally retentive. That’s what you get if you go campervanning with an accountant.”

Sam and Rod laughed.

Bill looked up from his computer game. “Uncle Rod. What’s anally retentive? Do it mean keeping things up your bum?”

“No it don’t?” Rod all but yelped. “And where did that little gem come from?”

“Well anal means bum, don’t it? And if you retain stuff you keep it.”

Anna giggled.

“That’s you told, Rod. My fault. I should have remembered how good Bill is at listening.”

Then she turned to the small person sitting next to her.

“Billy, anally retentive means obsessed with detail. And before you say it, I know that don’t make sense. But it’s the straight up truth.”

“Okay. If you say so.” Bill went back to killing aliens, and the three adults stifled giggles.

 

Anna frowned at her book. “Nothing. But wait. I do have one idea. Some friends of my brother own a pub and it’s actually only about twenty minutes from the next junction. It ain’t really a campsite. But. Lemme give them a call.”

She got her phone down from its shelf.

“Bill,” she said, “I need a number from my iPad. It’s in contacts. Belle and Chris. Would you be so kind?’

Bill fiddled expertly with the tablet and reeled off a string of numbers before resuming his game.

“Belle. This is Anna Marshall. Yeah, good to speak to you too. Got room on your car park for a camper tonight? A table for four for supper? Ditto breakfast? Me, two men and a small boy. No. Neither. I’ll explain when I see you. Promise. We just have to get off the motorway. Byeee.”

She grinned at the phone.

“All arranged. Although I’ll certainly get the third degree about turning up with three men in tow.”

She handed Sam a business card from her file.

“Stick this postcode in the sitnag please?”

He obliged and handed the card back.

 

Bill finished his game.

“iPad needs charging” he announced.

“Give it here and I’ll plug it in.”

Anna stood up and put the pad into a cupboard where she plugged it into a socket. Bill looked at her.

“Anna. How come you got electric while we are moving?’

‘It’s battery power.’

‘But you didn’t plug your iPad into a battery socket. Them are round. That was a house plug.”

“Many points for observation. I have a thing called an inverter. It changes battery power to ordinary power. And before you ask. No. I don’t know how it does it.”

“Me neither,” Rod grinned.

“Nor me,” Sam’s voice was rueful.

“I should have paid more attention to physics lessons at school.”

Bill smiled seraphically at them.

“That’s all right. I’ll ask Daddy. I could ask him now if I was allowed to call him…”

“Okay. You can.” Anna laughed. “You can also tell him that the traffic is so snarled up we are having to make another overnight stop.”

 

Bill held out his hand for the phone and called his father. They had rather a long conversation, in which Jim seemed to do most of the talking. After a good twenty minutes, Bill handed the phone to Sam.

“Daddy wants to talk to whichever man isn’t driving.”

“I guess that’s me. Sam here.”

Then he listened for quite a few minutes.

“Yes. We saw the equipment. No we haven’t. Not even Anna. Okay. I will. Hang on I’ll ask them.”

He muted the phone.

“Bill and Rod, would you be happy for Charlie to come to the northern isles with you?”

Rod nodded.

“But it’s up to Bill. It’s his treat.”

“Bill?’

“Oh. I’d really like that. Charlie is my best friend. Next to Uncle Rod.”

Sam went back to his conversation with Jim.

“Trip’s fine. I’ll manage the rest. Sorry we can’t get back today. Yeah. Traffic is a fucker. Regards to your wife.”

He handed the phone back to Bill.

“Mummy wants a word.”

 

By the time Bill’s protracted call had finished they were off the motorway and bowling down a green-lined country road.

“It’s like the lane to Granny and Gramp’s house,” Bill declared. “What is the pub like?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been. They only moved here last year and I haven’t gotten round to calling in.”

Bill frowned at her.

“It’s not nice not to visit friends. Tell us about them please.”

“Okay. They are two ladies in their fifties. Used to be diplomats. Which is how Danny met them. They own the Rose and Crown. They are nice and funny. You will like them.”

“Why is a lady called Chris?”

“Because she don’t like Christabel, which is her given name.”

“Okay. I don’t much like William. So I get that. And Charlie hates Charlemagne. Are your two ladies special friends like Danny and Paul?”

“Yes.”

“Are they as funny as Paul?”

“No. Nobody is. And now, if the satnav is telling the truth we are nearly there.”

Jane Jago