Imagine waking up one day unable to recall who you are or where you came from – only to find you are serving a sentence as a convict conscript for crimes you have no memory of ever committing…

“Can I have access to the data you recorded in the interview? If I could have first hand information…”
Without a word Var Tyran unclipped the wrist unit from her arm. Only a dedicated professional would choose to be wired directly to technology. Vane was dedicated, but conservative. Coming from a wealthy family in Central, the highest level of health and longevity oriented bio-technology money could buy had been invested in editing his genes. He always felt that was more than enough, no need for direct wiring to interface with the tech his work required him to use. He remote-mounted the unit she gave him to an external screen and offered Var Tyran a seat whilst he ran the data stream from the recording.
Vane found it fascinating to match the reactions to the stages of the interview, and something of a revelation to see that, far from being impassive, any number of emotions were being triggered in the brain of the soldier during the questioning. He supposed it was not surprising Revid showed so little externally. In the Legion, any display of emotion would be regarded as an exploitable weakness by those around him. In those conditions, survival meant learning to conceal how anything made you feel.
But, as Var Tyran had assured him, he could find no evidence of duplicity or deliberate lying. His own original assessment of naivety seemed closest to the truth. Revid wanted to be a civilian and was probably intelligent enough to know what it meant – even to appreciate the depth of his ignorance and the insurmountable barriers in his way to achieve his ambition. But if someone was willing to guide him through, perhaps, just perhaps, it could be done. Vane sat for a few moments after the stream finished and wondered if this offered enough. Then he accessed his own log whilst unclipping the unit and returning it to Var Tyran, who was sitting quietly opposite him, her gaze intense, waiting on his decision.
“I think I was wrong about our soldier being a danger to the community,” he said at last, “in fact it seems to me he is the one more at risk.”
She nodded in agreement.
“That was our assessment too, Commodore – and one reason he will be kept under surveillance at all times if discharged. In fact, our neurocologists’ profiling suggest he will find it impossible to adjust to civilian life and within a very short time he will be seeking to return to the security of the known – the military.”
“What if he decided to do so by reoffending? From what you say the ‘no danger to the community’ is in question at that point.”
She did not dismiss the idea.
“It is an extreme outside possibility. Our experts have assured us it is more probable he would simply re-enlist through regular channels. But, either way, it won’t be an issue as he will not be left alone,” Var Tyran said. She sounded confident. “And as soon as he shows any desire to return to the only life he knows, we will pick him up and offer him a way back. He won’t ever get to feel cornered or isolated to the point where reoffending seems to be an option. He will have all the support he needs.”
“Ah yes. Of course, his friend, Jazatar Baldrik. A good man, you will no doubt brief him.” Vane wondered how far he might be able to push here, to find out why the Coalition Security Force was so determined to have Revid released. “And I am sure it will work with whatever plans you may have for him too.”
“There are no grand plans, Commodore, I am afraid it is all a bit more prosaic than you might think.” Var Tyran, it seemed, recognised a fishing expedition when she saw one. “It is simply that this is Avilon Revid we are talking about, a name which still has incredibly high public recognition thanks to his terrorist career which, you will recall, lasted well over a decade before his arrest. So this is a very high-profile case, but it is also his right. His legal team are already screaming foul to the Criminal Rehabilitation Department for us holding him well past the five year limit whilst we’ve run the checks. If we refuse him, then all this will splash the media instead of staying a low-key, business-as-usual event. None of us want that.”

From Trust A Few – book one in Haruspex, the second Fortune’s Fools trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook – which is only 0.99 to buy for a limited period.

It was a life between two lives.
Marjeka walked, carrying her infant as she had every day since he was born three weeks before.
The border to the next kingdom lay many days walk ahead. The border to her homeland, now a place of violence and terror, lay many days walk behind.
She walked the sand that lay between the mountains and the sea, her footprints a temporary mark of her passing.
One day, she knew, she would reach her destination, but until then she was trapped between the past she wanted to forget and the future she dreamed about.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Twilight at Noon is the apocalyptic new book from Greg Krojack.

Glenn, a regular guy addicted to watching YouTube videos, Catarina, a Brazilian on vacation in the UK, and Princess, a disabled stray dog chance upon each other after a nuclear attack and travel west to Land’s End, in an attempt to get as far away as possible from the site of the nuclear explosion. With no national infrastructure left, it’s every man and woman for themselves. Vehicles have been disabled by an electro-magnetic pulse as a result of the explosion, so their only choice is to make their journey on foot.
With a journey of almost three hundred miles ahead of them, a journey that’s fraught with danger – not only from brutal invaders but also from other citizens who, in their desperation to survive, resort to theft and murder. The odds of survival are stacked against them.
In this excerpt from Twilight At Noon we find Glenn looking for a place to shelter from the radioactive fallout from a nuclear attack. He knows from watching YouTube videos that he has fifteen minutes to find a concrete building to hide in. An entertainment complex that was constructed in the 1960s and is now scheduled for demolition is in front of him…

Glenn sprints towards the building.
Something he sees out of the corner of his eye stops him in his tracks. A young woman is walking around in a circle, muttering to herself, her face devoid of expression.
For a split second he feels an urge to ignore her and get himself to safety but he isn’t the type of guy to leave a fellow human being in danger – especially if he can do something about it. He knows he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he leaves her outside to die.
He races towards her, calling out as he runs.
“Hey. Are you alright? We need to get undercover.”
The woman doesn’t see him, although her eyes look straight at him.
Maybe she’s deaf. Perhaps the explosion’s damaged her hearing.
He points to the building. He accentuates the movement of his lips, in case she can lip-read.
“We have to go in there. To be safe.”
The girl’s empty eyes blink.
“Pelo amor de Deus. O que é isso? Me salva Senhor.”
At least now he knows she isn’t deaf. He doesn’t recognise the language but maybe she knows a few words of English. Many foreigners do.
The girl stops asking God to save her and looks at Glenn. He smiles, hoping that she might feel more at ease.
“Do you speak English?”
She shakes her head.
“Não. Nada. Brasileira. Falo português.”
“Brazil? Portuguese?”
He only knows four words of Portuguese. That had been all he’d needed when he spent a week in The Algarve. Por favor, cerveja, obrigado, and banheiro. Those four words – please, beer, thank you, and bathroom encapsulate his entire Portuguese repertoire. They were the only words he’d needed at the time. He’d muddled through all other situations with a few gestures and Google Translate on his phone.
He goes to take her hand. She snatches hers away. He points at the drab building before them.
“Come with me.”
The young woman shakes her head.
“Tenho que voltar pra hôtel.”
A word Glenn recognises, hotel.
He points at the complex again.
“No. Not hotel. We have to go there.”
“Minha amiga. Tá me esperando.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand a word you’re saying. But we need to get inside that building.”
He’s desperate to make her understand.
“Now! Please! Otherwise we’ll both die.”
The girl looks at the building, and then at Glenn. She can see that he seems genuinely worried for her.
“Okay.”
The couple hurry to the entrance of their sanctuary.
Lady Luck is looking down on them favourably – the door’s unlocked. Glenn pushes the door open and ducks inside, pulling his new friend behind him, not worrying whether she wants to follow or not.
The darkness inside the building is a complete contrast to the brilliance of the light outside. Glenn turns on the torch app on his phone, which was in his pocket when the electro-magnetic pulse hit and fried anything connected to the national electric grid. The light from the phone casts a shadowy light over what had once been the foyer of a multiplex cinema. He gestures towards a wide central staircase.
“We need to go downstairs. There used to be a nightclub downstairs. We’ll be safe down there.”
The young woman looks at the staircase.
“Descer?”
“Yes. Descer. Go downstairs.”
Normally, the young woman wouldn’t have trusted a total stranger so easily but he seems to know what he’s doing. She’s a stranger in a strange land, a proverbial fish out of water. She has no choice but to trust Glenn, who seems intent on saving her life. That can only be a good thing. Teaming up with him is probably her best chance of survival.
As they make their way downstairs, Glenn stops suddenly and points to a sign above a blue double door. The Armitage Theatre. He pulls open the doors.
“In here.”

A Bite Of… Greg Krojac

Do you believe in your characters? And is such a belief necessary to make readers believe in them too?

I think the author needs to believe in their characters. We know they’re not real people but they do need to have authenticity. If we don’t create authentic characters then – unless they’re extraordinarily bizarre and fantastical – how can we expect readers to identify with them and care about them? If the reader doesn’t care about what happens to characters, even if it’s an unlikable villain and their caring is demonstrated by wanting to witness the downfall of the antagonist, why should the reader continue reading? 

If you could ask your literary hero one question, what would it be?

If we’re talking about an author, I would ask Bernard Cornwell if he has always had a passion for historical novels and what are his favourite novels and recommendations in that genre.
If we’re talking about a character, I would ask Richard Sharpe (from Bernard Cornwell’s Sharpe series of books) what drives him when he is going into battle – is it the desire to beat the enemy, the will to survive, a sense of honour, or the responsibility to his men?

Favourite snack? And do you eat it often?

Before I was diagnosed with Type 2 Diabetes, the answer would definitely have been chocolate. But now, I like to indulge myself in a bowl of acaí at least twice a week, Acaí bowls are essentially thick smoothies made of pulped and flash-frozen acaí berries that are pureed with other frozen fruit and then served in a bowl with various toppings. I eat mine with sliced banana and powdered milk sprinkled on top. Plus, it’s a healthy snack too.

A late starter to creative writing, Greg Krojac published his first novel in 2016, at the age of 59. Now, just five years later, he’s written and published several novels, novellas and short stories.
He likes to move between the sub-genres of science fiction, writing stories about dystopic worlds, post-apocalyptic survival, comedy-horror, YA fantasy, time travel, space exploration, and others.
​An English teacher, born and bred in England, he’s lived in Brazil since 2007 and shares his life with Eliene (a successful amateur distance runner), their cat, Tabitha, and their dogs Sophie and Simba (soon to be joined by Patch, their son).
You can find him on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and his own website.

“Listen here, bonehead. They are talking about castration if you don’t stop.”
Scraps pawed his phone and the screen flashed up a message.
“Stop what?”
“Stop harassing bitches and offering violence to random males. It’s taking up too much of their time.”
He licked his scrotum meditatively, but the message must have got through, because he was much more careful about his phone use thereafter.
So careful that it wasn’t him hailed off to the veterinarian in a dog van.
No. It was his arch enemy Jaws whose testicles were removed.
Learning to hack enemy phones had been worth it.

©Jane Jago

A brutal fantasy tale of piracy, friendship, romance and revenge on the high seas…

“Well now,” Jack said mildly. “That proves the theory.”
Gobshite appeared at his elbow. “What theory Cap’n Jack?”
“The one that says you can’t get a big fat galleon through the same gap as a slim fast clipper.”
Gobshite spat into the water. “We gonna scoop up the survivors?”
“Nah. Let ‘em swim. The sharks are the other side of the reef.” Then he looked at the face of the rat beside him and shrugged. “Well. Most of ‘em anyway. Drop anchor and put a couple of longboats in the water.”
Jack turned away from the rat and looked towards Hell’s Maw, where the Pink Pig was just inching out of concealment. Mary waved one arm and he waved back before searching the waves for the dark head of his avowed enemy. There was no sign in the lagoon, or, as far as he could see, on the broken hull of the ship. Which meant that the hidalgo was probably in the waves outside the reef. Well, Mary was on her way and, if the sharks didn’t get him first, she’d drag him aboard the Pig and bring him to face his nemesis.
Those few swimmers who made it to the beach were pounced on by Jack’s crew and tied hand and foot. Jack himself remained on the Runner, paying little attention to what was going on in the lagoon, instead, he watched Mary’s ship making its cautious way towards the stricken Spanish galleon. Her girls had pulled two sailors out of the waves, before Jack spied the Don himself with his long black hair streaming out behind him as he swam strongly towards the Pig.
“Careful Mary,” he murmured. “Be careful of him. He isn’t sane. I can smell it from here.”
He watched intently as the swimmer reached his goal. Mary herself stretched out an arm and the man grabbed for her hand. She grasped his wrist and began to pull him aboard. Jack had a very bad feeling, and wished he was closer. The hidalgo was halfway onto the deck when Mary cold cocked him with her free hand. He appeared to go limp in her grasp and she dragged him onto the deck. Jack breathed easier.
Dragging his attention back to the goings in inside the reef he saw that half of his crew were on the beach dealing with Spanish sailors and mercenaries. Most of the other half were quietly busy making the Runner fast. The next job would be to clear the reef so that Mary could bring her ship and its cargo into the lagoon. He was about to give the order when he noticed that Gobshite, and six brawny sailors, had dropped a third longboat into the water and were pulling strongly for the breach in the reef. Jack beckoned his boatswain, Os.
“Who’s idea was that? And don’t be telling me it was Gobby. He doesn’t have ideas.”
“No sir, cap’n. I thought that there gap wants clearing so the mistress can come through.”
Although more than two feet taller than his captain the beefy boatswain looked uncomfortable and a little worried. Jack punched him in a congratulatory manner.
“Good thinking Os. But. How do you reckon six men and a maniac are going to do the trick?”
“I been having a good look, and the ship ain’t stuck that fast. She broke herself pretty good because she hit so fast, but I reckon that if they chop through two sets of ribs each side they can push her free.” He counted on a set of fingers that were as thick and red as raw sausages. “That’s two big sailors with axes. Four to guard their backs. And a maniac. Just because he was getting on my tits.”
“Fair enough.”
The longboat reached the wreck and was immediately mobbed by those Spaniards who had no desire for a swim. Gobshite stood in the bow of the boat with a thick cudgel in his claw and systematically beat back anyone foolish enough to come within his not inconsiderable reach.
“There now,” Os said with some satisfaction, “I knew there was a reason I sent the mad bugger with the boat.”
Leaving Gobby on guard the six brawny sailors leapt ashore. Two began chopping away at the wreckage while the other four threw anyone who objected into the water on the seaward side of the reef – where black triangular fins were beginning to appear in the water. This tactic nipped the idea of interference firmly in the bud, and the Spaniards remaining in the ankle-deep water atop the reef retreated to a safe distance and waited quietly. Of course there was one more attempt to appropriate the longboat, but even a dozen Spanish mercenaries were no match for an undead rat in a mood.

Jane Jago

There will be more from Bony Mary and her crew next week…

The pictures never tell the story
You can’t picture lies
They can show you in your glory
Not behind your eyes
I’ll burn your image in the fire
Burn your letters too
Though that won’t cure me of desire
Nor get me over you

©Jane Jago

As was expected of him, the president’s son returned to the States for a month in the summer, electing to leave his household up and running with Bella at the helm, rather than mothballing the house and deactivating the droids as his compatriots did. When he returned on a rainy August afternoon, he found the house clean and welcoming, and if he hadn’t known full well what Bella was he would have sworn she was pleased to see him.

Later that night, having reacquainted himself with the delights of her splendid body, he lay back against a bank of pillows and grinned.
“Did you miss me?”
She frowned at him.
“I’m a construct honey. I’m not capable of emotion.”
“That wasn’t what I asked you.’
“Then I don’t know the answer. I do know that my circuitry runs smoother when you’re about. And I also know that it shouldn’t be the case. Will that do?”
Sensing that somehow he was causing actual distress to a creature that should be unable to feel distress, Earl backed off.
“Sorry honey. Just joking about. Because I missed you.”
“Aww.”
He grinned and drifted into sleep, leaving his mechanical lover to stare into the darkness and wonder why her logic circuits were malfunctioning.

Bella became such an integral part of Earl’s life that there were times when he wondered how he was going to manage when his life in England was over. On his second summer vacation he broached the subject with his grandmother, who looked at him fondly.
“You can keep her boy. In fact I’d advise you so to do. I’ve seen the cold fish your grandfather has chosen for you to marry.”
“It doesn’t seem right to me…”
His grandmother shrugged. “You are an idealist like my own grandpapa. Just don’t let your father or grandfather notice that.”
He grinned wryly and took the tiny indomitable woman in his arms.
“I know Grandmama, believe me, I do know.”

It was while he was away that a very well-manicured gentleman in a Crombie and a pork-pie hat accosted Bella in the park as she walked a neighbour’s poodle.
“I am here,” he said threateningly, “to remind you that you have just one purpose, and that you can be broken down into your component parts quite quickly should you prove a failure.”
Bella stopped walking and turned a pair of cold blue orbs on the red-faced blusterer.
“A clean sweep is required,” she said in a voice wholly devoid of inflection,” and the place and time have been selected”.
He backed away from the emptiness he saw in her eyes and all but ran from her presence. She carried on walking as if nothing had happened.

That night, as she sat knitting a jumper for Earl, Bella thought about her creators and what they had made her for. She wondered at the obsessive hatred that drove some humans, and something solidified inside her breast. Her hands fell still as she began to make her own plan for the time when she was taken to the States to join her owner’s family.

The third year of Earl’s course passed as swiftly as the blink of an eye, and before he knew it the young American obtained his degree. Nobody from America was either interested in, or permitted to attend, graduation so he dressed Bella in a conservative grey suit and had her along to watch him receive his scroll. In a funny sort of a way it felt right to him that the one entity who had nurtured him and watched over him as he learned and grew up should be there, smiling with apparent pride, as he was named Bachelor of Arts.

Packing up the household was accomplished with minimal fuss, and most of the droids were deactivated and boxed for transportation. When Bella would have arranged a crate for herself, Earl put his foot down.
“No. I need you beside me to organise a smooth journey. Besides which I find I dislike the idea of you in a wooden box.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he silenced her with a finger across her lips.
“We’re flying in Air Force One so there are no practical problems. You travel as my secretary. And that’s my last word.”
She shrugged, attempting, he thought, to distract him with the unrestrained movement of her magnificent chest, but he was not to be deflected from his purpose.
“I’ll have your word, miss.”
She sighed.
“I promise.”

And that is how a being conceived and constructed in the USA, and shipped out of the country in tiny pieces, returned to the land of her ‘birth’ on an executive jet dressed in expensively modest clothing, and in sole charge of the disposition of the belongings of the only male child of the First Family. You can be sure that the irony was not lost on certain people who observed her from afar.

An apartment had been set aside in the White House, and Bella set about putting it to rights, while Earl visited with his mother. He returned in a very disturbed state of mind.
“It seems” he said thinly “that I am to meet my intended bride tonight. And, by all accounts, I’m not going to much like her.”
Bella eyed him narrowly.
“Were you expecting to?”
“Well….. No.”
“So man up and smile. If she’s truly impossible we’ll find a way out for you.”
He grinned at her.
“I love you Bella” he said facetiously and ambled off to get his shower.

She stood for a very long time gazing sightlessly at her own hands before making a tiny sound as if something inside her broke.

That evening, as Earl was being scrupulously courteous and charming to the plain, lumpy daughter of one of the richest men in the world, Bella sat at her desk and wrote a long letter explaining her own genesis and the purpose behind her very existence. When she was done, she sealed the letter with a wax wafer and slumped in her chair. For the first time since the day she was activated, she wished she could cry, but of course she couldn’t. Instead she felt the weight of dull misery pressing against her chest as a physical pain.
It was only with a great effort that she could greet her returning owner with tolerable composure. Fortunately, he had so much to share with her that he didn’t notice how unusually quiet she was.
“The girl is plain and overweight, and it was obvious that all the men in the room, except me, held her in contempt for her lack of physical attractiveness. Even my mother and grandmother looked down their patrician noses at her, and the poor thing seemed almost pathetically grateful that I treated her with civility.”
“Poor thing indeed. But not as bad as you feared.”
“No. Not bad at all. Just a bit pathetic. And reminding me just what my family is like.” He shuddered.
Bella petted his head and he turned into her embrace.

The next morning Earl went to meet with his bankers and trustees to hear an accounting of their stewardship of his personal billions. Bella watched him go, then straightened her shoulders, dressed with careful modesty, and trod the corridors of number 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue to the door of the Presidential office. She was admitted immediately and the old man behind the desk actually stood up to greet her.
“I have come to report on your grandson’s time in England.”
“Good. I’ll have his father brought here. Unless there is anything he should not hear.”
“No. His life was pretty well exemplary.”
“Good. But we’ll have a report anyway.”

In a very short time, the big thickset bully who had fathered Earl strode into the office.
“Yes” he snapped, and his own father just stared at him. For a moment he met the old man’s icy gaze with his hot brown orbs, then he bunched his shoulders and looked down.
“Better. You are here to listen to an accounting of your son’s time in England. Speak robot.”
Bella spoke for some minutes before reaching into the folder she carried.
“Here is a list of the Master’s social contacts.” She put the paper down on the desk and both men leaned over it. Closing her eyes, Bella put a finger into her mouth and pressed one tooth very hard.

The explosion was surprisingly muted, but it had the desired effect. Two headless things and a bundle of wires and components were all that met the eyes of the security guards who ran into the room with their guns at the ready.
“Oh fuck” the oldest guard said as the other two looked grey-faced at the carnage in the Oval Office.

***** ***** *****

It was very much later that same day when the twenty-two-year-old who was now the most powerful man in the western world firmly waved his entourage away and strode into his bedchamber.
On his pillow there was a folded sheet of paper sealed with gold wax. He picked it up and looked at the elegant calligraphy, recognising the work of the wide-nibbed pen he had bought on a whim at Waterstones in Oxford and presented to Bella. He turned the paper over and over in suddenly shaking hands, before breaking the seal and looking at the words.
‘My dear and only love,’ he read, ‘I will dare to call you that just once in this world before I leave you…’

© jane jago

It isn’t as if
We can wish things away
If we could
We all would be
Kings for a day

We’d wish for an end
To plague, famine and war
And that’s just
A start of what
We would wish for

We’d wish to bring down
All corruption and greed
Injustice
And tyranny
That we don’t need

We’d wish to see Hate
And his brother Despair
Far banished
And replaced by
Their sibling Care.

And what is so strange
When you think of this right
Is we all
Wish these things – so
Why must we divide?

E.M. Swift-Hook

Prunella teaches you how to cook like a toff!

It’s not bit of good you groaning like that – little Parasol (or whatever outlandish moniker you have decided to burden the fruit of your loins with) will have been invited to, and attended, parties for every other little monster in their group at school. Ergo, when the anniversary of their own birth comes along it is incumbent on you to do the decent thing.
I have suffered through several of these occasions, before Rodney Junior and Caroline reached the age where they would sooner have their eyeballs plucked out than have a party anywhere near their aged parents, and I am feeling magnanimous enough to share what I have learned.
First. The invitations. It is neither cute nor funny to write the things yourself – most particularly if you elect to do pretend child writing. No. Get your local speedy print, or the geeky nephew of your daily woman, to make them and then all you need to do is pen the name of a child on the envelope.
Next. The entertainment. A conjurer no longer answers the trick (even if you can find one without a police record). No. A discotheque is the thing. For preference in one of the outbuildings and with a sensible mummy tasked to keep and eye on the deejay.
The Food. Ask yourself what children actually eat and prepare accordingly. Do. Not. Be. Fooled. By. Any. Popular. Cookery. Expert. Children really won’t eat couscous, raw vegetables with dips, hummus, homity pie, cupcakes (they eat the icing and attempt to murder each other with the rest), jelly, or any trendy little number whose texture resembles cold porridge. What they will eat is chips (fries if you are of colonial descent), burgers, sausages, chicken dippers, crisps (chips to colonials), chocolate buttons and ice cream. Therefore the plan goes as follows. The day before, assemble the actual burgers. They should be small, flattish and consist solely of minced steak (with a little breadcrumb and egg to bind). Place same in the refrigerator overnight. If you are lucky enough to be in possession of a large enough refrigerator, the burgers can be placed on lightly greased oven trays before refrigeration – thereby making it the work of but a moment to shove them in a hot oven. Purchase sufficient small bread buns in which to shove said burgers when cooked. The addition of a slice of revolting processed cheese will serve to convince the bloody little heathens they are eating ‘proper’ burgers and not pale home-made imitations.
On the day, place packets of crisps and ‘fun sized’ packs of chocolate buttons on a table and let the little darlings help themselves.
At the appropriate time shove the burgers in the oven alongside trays of ‘American fries’ (very thin chips) serve in cardboard boxes with paper napkins.
On No Account let the brats have salt, vinegar or ketchup. It is not worth the tantrums.
When the main course has been eaten/stamped into the floor/thrown up save the day with ice cream cones. Don’t be cozened into buying the expensive stuff from the local artisan place, or offering choice of flavour. You want soft scoop vanilla.

On the other hand you could make the Hon. Rodney put his big fat fingers in his wallet. (He was there at the conception (probably) and has had little to do with the brats since.) Take the tribe to the cinema where they can sit through whatever Disney has on offer, and then troop them all across the road to the golden arches where they can stamp their food into somebody else’s floor.
Note: this also has the advantage of you not having to provide gin and canapés for their dreadful mothers.

Look out for more tips on how to cook like a toff next week!

He had carried the thing from Syracuse to the shores of the salty sea where he fell in with a band of travellers. It was a relief to ride the tail of one of their carts and exchange a word or two with the toothless old woman whose family plotted his end.

The gilt metal box on his back grew hotly heavy as they drew near to  their night stop, but he ate his drugged stew without complaint, even when he felt it rob his limbs of strength.

His last thought as a slim blade slipped between his ribs was that someone else could carry the evil now.

©Jane Jago