The Awakening (Eve of Redemption Book 8) is the eighth instalment in the Eve of Redemption series by Joe Jackson, introduces a new cast of characters. It focuses on a massive undead uprising and the band of strangers who come together to combat it, and how the companions become swept up in a conflict that spans multiple worlds.

Audrei straightened up. “Wait, that smell…” 

Max whirled around suddenly. “Dragon!” 

There was a deep intake of breath in the darkness, and the friends scattered every which way they could as a blast of fire came from what proved to be the center of the chamber. A gate fell shut behind them, sealing off the way they had come. Though the dragon’s breath didn’t hit any of the companions, it set the door aglow with the intensity of its heat. Then the creature, still barely visible in that dim light, reared up and let forth a roaring laugh. 

“Welcome to my humble lair, mortals!” it boomed. “Know that you will never leave.”

Yiilu gestured toward the glowing metal door and called out a prayer to the Earth Mother to give them light. The glow faded from the metal bars but formed into a ball that shot to the top of the cavernous chamber as though fired from a bow.  There it perched and grew in intensity, until it had formed a miniature sun that shed light on the entire room.

Leighandra froze for a moment. Though not as impressive in stature as Hastucilliara, the green dragon was still titanic in size. It spread its wings out in the openness of the chamber, which served to underscore just how large a cavern it had carved or otherwise created. It begged the question of how the dragon had gotten in here; was there truth to the tales that some of them could take the forms of men?

The dragon’s bright red eyes inspected each of the men and women before it, and then it laughed again. “I must say, I am going to eat better tonight than I have in years! And I suspect with a fair deal less dirt and poison mixed in – the fur notwithstanding.”

“Who are you?” Audrei asked, no doubt hoping diplomacy might settle the creature down the way it had with Fireblade. “What is your name, mighty dragon?”

The beast grumbled and swept Starlenia and Delkantar in front of it with its wings.  “If you must know, my name is Cetudolinashu, the Heart of the Viridian Splendor, the Dryads’ Nightmare, the Lord of the Emerald Flame. Do not bother telling me your names, mortals. I do not care. You will not live long enough for them to be of any importance.”

“Wait!” Max cried. “We are not here to fight you. We have come for the seal only.”

It was of no use. The dragon took in a deep breath, and the companions scattered as much as they could again. Max stood firm and actually advanced at it, and Leighandra wasn’t sure if she screamed at him or not. The dragon’s fiery breath engulfed him, and Audrei shrieked in terror even as she skidded across the floor. It was as if time stood still after that, Leighandra’s heart stuck between beats as the dragon completed its exhale and the world stopped spinning in the wake of their loss.

A bite of... Joe Jackson

Q1: How much of you is in your characters?

Most of my characters have a bit of me in them, but none really have a lot.  My MC has a little in common with me, but even some of the things we have in common are not exactly the same.  I think when I began writing her, I was more concerned with her having one major thing in common with me: the ability to grow and change.  I think it’s one of the most important characteristics of an MC.  

The married couple in The Awakening does resemble my wife and me in many ways, but they’re not meant to be representative of us.

As for the villains, well, I can be an ass at times.  We have that in common.

Q2: Facing your demons? How much of what you write could be classified as therapy?

Quite a bit.  My MC suffered abuse as a child, and even thirty years later she still has an occasional moment of panic or weakness where the wounded side of her responds rather than the strong side.  Readers who’ve had an abusive past may find strength and inspiration in the way Kari grows throughout the books, but it’s not an instantaneous thing.

The amusing thing is she’s a demon hunter, but the worst demons she faces are often internal.

Q3: How much of your writing is autobiographical?

Going back to the answer to the first question, I guess I write from experience fairly often.  But again, none of my characters are “me” inserted into the story.  None of the events of the book are meant to chronicle or parallel my life.  I think there are a lot of things people have in common that they don’t ever really think (or want to think) about, and it’s no different with our characters.

Joe Jackson in his own words:

I’m an accountant by trade, writer by night or when I have down time at work.  I live in Rhode Island with my wife and two daughters.  I just recently passed the CPA exam, so now things are really going to get interesting.

I’ve been writing little scifi/fantasy stories since I was in fifth grade.  I wrote my first novel in 2009 but didn’t release it until 2015.

You can find Joe Jackson on Twitter and Goodreads and his own blog.

Sunday morning arrived too quickly for Sam. He was rousted out of bed at eight o’clock.
“Up you get sleepyhead. Grab a shower. I’ve had mine. I’ll wake the mad fishermen and go make bacon sandwiches.”
Sam sat up and shook his head.
“OK,” he said around a furry tongue. “Too much wine last night. After breakfast I need a walk.”
But he was talking to thin air. Anna had already whisked out of the room, and he could vaguely hear cursing as he woke Danny and Paul.

Twenty minutes later, he was in the kitchen eating a huge sandwich of bacon and portobello mushroom. Danny and Paul weren’t far behind him.
“Okay. Would somebody mind telling me why I have been unceremoniously ousted from my bed at sparrow-fart on a Sunday morning?”
“We have visitors arriving at eleven, and stuff to do before they get here,” Anna said firmly.
“Who?” Danny looked vaguely interested.
“Rod and Jim.’
“Oh well. Good. I think. Does this mean you will be back in touch with Patsy?”
“Yes. I can handle her now.”
“You sure?”
“Yup.”
“Then it is good. I was sorry to think you weren’t talking, although I understood why. We telling them about the wedding?”
“No, but we’ll invite them to the ‘birthday party’. All of them.”
Paul sighed theatrically.
“And for this she hauls me out of bed…”
But once Anna put doorstep sandwiches and bucket-sized cups of tea beside them, he even grinned.
“We forgive you,” he said magnanimously, then groaned with delight as he took his first mouthful.
“What beats me,” Danny said meditatively, “is where he puts it.  My beloved eats like a horse and never puts on an ounce. If I didn’t love him so much it would piss me off deeply.”
“Yeah,” Sam agreed with some feeling. “Anna’s the same, although in her case we do know why. But that ain’t much consolation when I’m slogging away in the gym. And don’t say I could diet. I defy any red-blooded human to do that when Anna is cooking.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Paul said happily. “Anna’s food is probably the only thing in the world worth being straight for. And I don’t even have to do that – being attached to her favourite brother.”
Anna patted his head.
“Berk. Now. Do you want to hit Waitrose with me? If so we leave here at nine-fifteen sharp. I wanna be there when they open the doors at half nine. And at the checkout when it opens at ten.”
“Yeah. Sounds like a plan. I need to stock the camper. But what will the fat boys be doing?”
“Walking Bonnie.”
“Fair enough. Now don’t anybody talk to me until I have finished this sandwich. It’s far too good to mess up with conversation…”

Anna aimed a blow at his head, and poured about half a stone of potatoes into the utility sink. Sam, who had finished his sandwich, got up.
“You want help with peeling?”
“Yes please love.”
He grinned.
“Whyn’t you let me peel the spuds. I’m sure there’s more technical stuff requiring your attention. And I’m quite good with a knife.”
Which proved to be more than an idle boast, as the potatoes were peeled at top speed, but also with extreme neatness. Danny patted Sam’s shoulder.
“C’mon you. We’re supposed to be walking Bon Bon. Leave the kitchen to the girls.”
He wasn’t quite fast enough to duck the very wet dishcloth his sister threw at his head. Sam dragged him out of the room before he could get himself into any more trouble.
“Get your boots on Marshall. Let’s give Bonnie a good walk.”

They went, bickering amicably, with Bonnie at their heels. Paul stood in the kitchen doorway and watched them go.
“It’s nice to see Danny so at ease with someone outside our gay circle. But I really, really wish he wouldn’t call me a girl.” Anna grimaced.
“I know. Why’d you think he got the wet  dishcloth? He’s an insensitive bugger at times, ain’t he? But I guess we still love him.”
“We do. Would you be an angel and help me make a list for the camper. You know what space there is.”
“Yeah. Sure…”

By eleven o’clock everyone was back at the house, and Anna had three legs of lamb roasting, plus what seemed to Sam to be enough vegetables to feed a small city. Then he thought about Rod’s appetite, and Paul’s appetite, and…

He crossed the room and put his arms around Anna from behind. She turned in his arms and lifted her face for a kiss.
“What did I do to to deserve that?” she asked happily.
“Nothing. Except be yourself.”
He bent to kiss her again and was interrupted by gagging noises from the doorway.
“Piss off Danny,” he said amiably. “I know you don’t get it with girls, but that don’t give you an excuse to mess it up for those of us who do…”

What Danny would have said in reply was lost in the sound of a very loud set of air horns.
“Rod,” Sam said. “You all stay here, but Bonnie can come to the door with me if she wants.”

She did want. So one man and one dog went out and opened the gates to a brand-new muscle truck – in eye-watering scarlet with black wolves painted along the sides.
“Nice truck,” Sam said, as Rod jumped out to thump him between the shoulder blades. “Did you break the old one?”
“I most certainly did not. I just fancied this one! And since when did you have a dog…”
Jim came out of the passenger seat a bit more decorously. “That’s not ‘a dog’. If I’m not very much mistaken it’s Anna’s Bonnie.”
“So it bloody well is. Hello Bon Bon.”
Rod bent and smoothed the elegant dark head, then smote Sam’s shoulder one more time.
“You crafty little bastard!”
He sprinted into the house.
“C’mere Marshall…”
Sam put his hand on Jim’s bicep and looked him in the eyes.
“I just want you to know that Patsy being kept in the dark is none of my doing.”
Jim grinned.
“No. It wouldn’t be. It’d be Anna. She needed some time outside Patsy’s orbit. They love each other like sisters, and that’s the rub. Like sisters they don’t always agree. Until recently, Anna used to let Pats have her own way all the time. But she’s grown up at last. Pats needs to learn to accept that before they can be close again.”
Sam frowned as he thought that one through.
“Yeah. I kinda get that. Anna’s a bit like me. We don’t like rows.”
“No. I can understand that. Now let me go see Anna. I’ve missed her too.”
Just then, Sam heard Anna squeak.
“I guess Rod just caught up with my intended,” he grinned.
Jim held up a hand. “Listen.”
Rod’s voice was next.
“Ouch. Ouch. I give in!”
“What’s she doing to him?”
“Pinching his ear. She always does. It’s all part of the game.”
“Yeah,” Sam grinned. “Rod’s a big softie when it comes to girls. Shall we go in and rescue him?”

Jane Jago

There are times when old age is the pits
When it totally lacks pleasant bits
It does in your head 
When you roll out of bed
And promptly trip over your tits

©️ jane jago 2018 

Please tell me what jogging achieves
Apart from a pain in the knees
It jiggles your bits
From the bum to the tits
And it makes you go purple and wheeze

©️ jane jago

Here we go again.

Yes, it’s me Jacintha Farquhar, and not – as promised last week – my son, Moons.

I had hoped that I’d not have to come up with another one of these. I was kicking back with a Pernod and Pimms spritzer enjoying the blazing sun in the back garden and admiring the abs on my new next-door neighbour as he was up a ladder fixing something on his roof, topless. But then the peace was broken by a call from that pompous prat I have the misfortune to have to claim as my son. He is back to being his obnoxious self as if nothing had happened to dent his massive ego.

The good news is I am spared his presence for another week, as he has decided to take a short ‘cultural cruise’ of some other Greek islands with someone called Stavros. The bad news is that it means I have to get out my iPad and come up with something vaguely intelligent to say to you lot.

I hope you bloody appreciate it!

Life Lessons for Writers – Three: People

And by ‘people’ I also mean aliens if you write that science fiction stuff Moons is so fond of. They are people too. And so are those elves and dwarves – and vampires. In fact, any character you ever write, even a talking computer, is going to be people. So you might as well listen up as too many of you wannabes don’t have the first idea about any kind of people except those who are exactly like you.

Oh yes, you might write about some poor orphaned starveling who is abused by the world, but does she think and act like someone who’s been through that kind of experience? Or just your weak and idealised imagination of what it might be like? I mean, how many genuinely damaged people do you count in your close circle? If the answer is ‘Well, Olivia’s parents divorced and she had to give up her horse riding lessons which left her traumatised for life’ or something similar, then you need to rethink writing that starveling. You. Have. No. Idea. And if you don’t, then no amount of effing imagination is going to fill in the gaps.

And, no I’m not saying you can only write about your own level of privileged life, I’m saying get out there and meet the kind of people you want to write about. Go to that dive bar, visit that job centre, help out at that homeless shelter, and find out what the people you want to write into your stories are really like. And the same the other way around. You want to know how the better off think, go along to the local posh golf club and listen in on their banter, hear what they really talk about. A useful tip here is go volunteer to visit an old people’s homes – chat with them. You’ll get the full monty on life across the spectrum, I promise you.

Don’t be like my naive and self-righteous prig of a son who firmly believes that he understands all people because he is one.

Oh, if you can’t bring yourself to actually go to those places and interact with real people, then you can at least read about them. That’s what the more precious twonks amongst those who call themselves writers (yes Moons, I’m looking at you) that I know seem to do. Most are too bloody afraid of real people to go out and actually talk to them.

Right. I’m done. If my sodding son is not back by next week I’ll be posting cocktail recipes with naked pictures of me drinking them. You have been warned.

Now bugger off!

Jacintha Farquar, long-suffering mother of Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Adoring Fans can join his Facebook Group but please don’t as it only encourages him.

Even on a crowded beach she brought her bone-chilling solitude with her. It wrapped her in its grey tendrils leaving her unable to feel the sun, or hear the sea or the children’s laughter. Instead, she sat with her thin arms wrapped about her shins and stared into the water. 

It was as if by staring enough into the green depths she might see him laying on the shifting sands with his pockets weighted with lead and his pretty throat slit by the unkindness of a knife.

The weekend went on around her unseeing eyes and unhearing ears, and after a while her abstraction rendered her so insubstantial that the playing children ran over her and through her without either knowing she was there or disturbing her reverie. Day drew into night and still she sat watching as the sun fell and the moon rose, delineating a silver pathway from the breaking waves beside her cold, bare feet. 

Called by some voice from who knew where, the woman rose and walked into the silvered water. It was, she found, surprisingly warm even as it grew deeper and her skirts began to float about her like the petals of a drowned flower.

“Where are you?” she whispered in a voice grown thin and pallid from lack of use.

For a moment, she thought she heard familiar laughter in the salt-laden air,  then she became sure this was just one more illusion. But it didn’t matter anyway. She was too tired for any of it to matter any more. It would, she thought, be a blessing when the waves closed over her head. The madness would pass then, and she might no longer be alone. 

She pushed her face into the water, trying to suck the killing waves into her lungs, but she felt her face lifted by cold rough-skinned hands.

“Be brave,” the voice of her dead love spoke in her ears and that was the last thing she heard before the sea accepted her sacrifice and drew her thin, cold body into its heaving bosom.

And was her love awaiting her in the ever shifting deeps?

Who knows…

©️jane jago 

The call of the wind on the darkest night
The whisper of summer breeze
The sound of a skein of geese in flight
The movement of leaves on a tree
The dance of a barefoot child at play
The tears of the sorrowful and strong
The piper greeting the close of day
Are all notes in my lady’s song
Where hands on strings make music bright
Where nightingales serenade the light
Where unseen orchestras play
Where dancing demons skitter by
Where eagles dip their wings and fly
Where the goddess has feet of clay
The whisper of breath across my cheek
The touch of a sound like a bell
Is my lady strong or is she weak
Is this heaven or is it hell
I no longer know and I no longer care
As the song in the winter wind ruffles my hair
And I follow my lady so bright and so fair
And the sound of her singing strips my soul bare
The call of the wind on the darkest night
The whisper of breeze in July
Her song is why I stand and fight
The reason I live or I die

© Jane Jago 2017

Word had come that day. The truce was to become full peace and the Havuma Clan had agreed the terms.

There was not enough time to make the preparations, but when Snooji made her way to the door of the set, she realised that no preparations would have helped her anyway. The warrior guarding the door let her pass and then she stood with her Captain to meet the delegation.

The Lord of the Havuma’s was young – as young as herself, but then this war had taken many of the older warriors. His fur was sleek and his face striped with a beautiful symmetrical white.

“I, Jooku, Lord of the Havuma, come to fulfil the honour of my Clan and to bind the peace by marriage.”

Snooji stepped forward and held out her paws in the traditional gesture of peace and welcome, then moved them to her heart as the same tradition required.

“I, Snooji, Lady of the Yaruplo welcome you as my third husband.”

It was a slow way to expand her Empire, but it was proving remarkably effective.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Art by Robert Lee Beers

An extract from Searching for Gertrude by D.E. Haggerty

Growing up in Germany in the 1930s, Rudolf falls in love with the girl next door. He doesn’t care what religion Gertrude practices but the Nazis do. 

Gertrude continued to cry and hiccup in his arms. With his right hand, he smoothed her blonde curls while shushing her and murmuring nonsensical words into her ear. When her breaths became less erratic, he loosened his arms from around her before grabbing her hand and tugging her towards her parents. Avi and Rosa Liebster stood at the top of the stairs leading into their townhouse and watched them approach. 

Rudolf didn’t bother greeting them. “What’s going on?” 

Avi Liebster turned sad eyes on him. “Rudolf, my son, we can’t stay. You know this. Deep in your heart, you know this.” 

Words escaped him. He couldn’t lie to the man who he had always known would be his father-in-law. There wasn’t a moment of his life in which he didn’t know Gertrude would be his wife. Until now. Now, she was leaving. Without him. No, not without him. “I’ll come with you.” He turned to rush down the stairs intent on packing up his life. A hand on his shoulder stopped him. 

“You know that’s not possible.” The hand on his shoulder squeezed before dropping away. “Stay. Get an education. Become the man you are meant to become. You and Gertrude have time. When the time is right, you can join us.”

“Gertrude can stay with my family until …” His words petered out. Avi shook his head. He tried to implore Rosa with his eyes, but she turned away. “We can get married. She’ll be safe with me.” His desperate plea was met with silence.   

“Rudolf!” The sound of his father’s voice startled him.  

“Go,” Avi whispered. 

He turned to Gertrude. “I…” Words failed him. What could he possibly say to make things better? His eyes stung, and he took a deep breath before trying again. “I’ll come for you.” He leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers. “No matter what. I’ll find you, and we’ll be reunited.” 

She flung herself at him, and he caught her in his arms. Sobs wracked her body with such force, he could barely hold on. He tightened his arms around her and leaned against the wrought iron handrail of the stairs to steady himself. He took a deep breath and brought her honeysuckle smell into his lungs. 

“Rudolf.” His father’s voice came to him from one step below him. He turned to his father and watched as he nodded to the man standing behind him. 

“It’s time,” Avi Liebster whispered the words before gently untangling his daughter from Rudolf’s arms. His arms felt empty as Gertrude was pulled from him. Would they ever feel anything but empty from this moment forward?

D.E. Haggerty in her own words

I grew-up reading everything I could get my grubby hands on, from my mom’s Harlequin romances, to Nancy Drew, to Little Women. When I wasn’t flipping pages in a library book, I was penning horrendous poems, writing songs no one should ever sing, or drafting stories which have thankfully been destroyed. College and a stint in the U.S. Army came along, robbing me of free time to write and read, although on the odd occasion I did manage to sneak a book into my rucksack between rolled up socks, MRIs, t-shirts, and cold weather gear. After surviving the army experience, I went back to school and got my law degree. I jumped ship and joined the hubby in the Netherlands before the graduation ceremony could even begin. A few years into my legal career, I was exhausted, fed up, and just plain done. I quit my job and sat down to write a manuscript, which I promptly hid in the attic after returning to the law. But being a lawyer really wasn’t my thing, so I quit (again!) and went off to Germany to start a B&B. Turns out being a B&B owner wasn’t my thing either. I polished off that manuscript languishing in the attic before following the husband to Istanbul where I decided to give the whole writer-thing a go. But ten years was too many to stay away from my adopted home. I packed up again and moved to The Hague where I’m currently working on my next book. I hope I’ll always be working on my next book. 

Searching for Gertrude is my twelfth book

A Bite of... D.E. Haggerty

Question 1: Sweet or savoury? When you are heading for that midnight snack are you looking for cake or cheese? Tell us your secret craving

Oh gosh, can I choose both? I love a glass of wine with some cheese (the Netherlands, where I live, makes awesome cheese), but I also won’t pass up chocolate. Covered milk chocolate Oreos and peanut butter cups won’t survive more than seconds on the shelves in my pantry. 

Question 2: If you had to choose the three people whose influence on your life and writing was greatest, who would they be? One author. One inspirational person. One person who just loves the heck out of you.

Author: Janet Evanovich is my choice for writer who had the greatest influence on my writing. I write funny murder mysteries (amongst other things), and her writing is just fun as all get out, but there’s mystery and suspense as well. She combines the three with perfection. I’m still striving for just okay (and not trite!) when mixing the three.  

Inspirational person: Ruth Bader Ginsburg. The Supreme Court justice is my legal hero. Every time she writes a dissenting opinion, I’m inspired by her strength to do the right thing despite political pressure or the pressure to conform. She’s my hero! 

One person who loves the heck out of me: This is an easy one – my husband. He is super supportive of my writing to the point that he told me to quit working and just write full-time. Gotta love that! He’s also a beta reader and cover designer as well as shoulder to cry on when nasty reviews come in. I love the heck out of him, too!

Question 3: What achievement are you most proud of? And what makes you cringe just thinking about it?

Every time I’ve finished writing a novel, I’ve been amazingly proud. It may not seem like much of an achievement, but I’m terrified each time I begin a new novel – convinced I won’t be able to finish it or the plot holes will be the size of a planet or the characters will refuse to talk to me.   

I cringe when I think of the first novel I published. I haven’t looked at it for a while, but the writing is pretty cringe-worthy. I keep claiming I’m going to take it off the shelves – maybe it’s time I do. 

You can find D.E. Haggerty on Goodreads and Twitter. 'Searching For Gertrude' and her other books can be found on Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes and Noble and Kobo.

The meal was excellent, and everyone ate rather too much. When they were sitting with coffee in front of them, Anna smiled at her brother.
“Happy Danny Boy?”
“Oh yeah. Happy little sis?”
“Double yeah.”
Sam got up and stretched.
“I’ll clear up here.”
“Thanks babe.'”
Sam began clearing the table. When Paul would have got up to help he waved him back down.
“Sit. I’ve got this. It’s not like there’s a lot to do.”

Anna took her shopping list and headed for the larder, by the time she got back the dishwasher was loaded and working, and Sam was just wiping down the work tops.
“Where’s Bonnie?” she said a bit fretfully.
Sam pointed to the big basket in front of the Aga, where Bonnie was fast asleep with all four feet in the air.
“She’s fine love. Must have sneaked in while we were eating. I think she’s had such an exciting day she’s knackered.”
“Yes. You are right. She’s just exhausted.”
As if she knew they were talking about her, the dog rolled over in her basket and wagged her tail before going back to sleep.
“See love. She’s fine. Did I see you making yet another shopping list?”
“Yes. This morning, I only got enough stuff for today. And Paul eats as much as a Cracksman. So I’ll need to hit Waitrose as soon as it opens its doors in the morning. Now I think we need to take Danny and Paul on at poker. They owe me a million quid from last time.”
“Umm. Anna. I’m crap at poker.”
“Never mind love. I’m good enough for both of us.”

And she was, even with Sam’s absolute ineptitude they won so much pretend money that by bedtime Danny was threatening to sell Paul to the white slavers.
“Why is it you selling me?”
“Because you are much prettier than me.”
“True. I sometimes wonder how I fell for such a ugly bugger. But I did, so that’s how it is. Now let’s hit the hay. Goodnight Anna. Goodnight Sam.”

They left the room hand in hand and Anna got up from her chair. Sam grasped her wrist gently and pulled her onto his lap. He kissed the end of her nose. Relaxing against his hard chest Anna gave vent to a tiny sigh.
“Out with it, love.”
“It’s silly…”
“Silly or not. Tell me.”
“I’ve been so happy all evening. But just now I came out in gooseflesh all over. In her better moments, my mother would have told me someone was walking over my grave.”
“Not silly. Just one of those things. I sometimes get it with patients. Then, deep inside me I know they aren’t going to make it. I still give them the best there is. But I know. It’s one of those things that defies explanation, although most doctors have a whiff of it.”
“Oh Sam. That must be weird. And frightening.”
“Weird, yes. Frightening, no. You learn to deal. Now stop worrying. Agreed?”
She rubbed her face in his shirt.
“Agreed. And I’ll admit to feeling a lot better because you didn’t pooh pooh my attack of the weirds. Thanks love. Now I reckon it’s time Bonnie went out for her wee.”
“It is. Come on Bon Bon. Let’s go look for some cats.”

Bonnie got up and followed Sam into the garden where she did a quick check for intruders before retiring to her chosen toilet spot in the middle of the shrubbery. When they got back into the kitchen, Anna had finished clearing up from the card party so they ascended the stairs together. Just as they got into their bedroom, Sam’s phone bleeped.

“Shit. I hope that isn’t work. I’ve had just about a skinful. Oh. It’s a text from Rod. He and Jim have been at a clay pigeon shoot somewhere in the Cotswolds. They want to come see me on their way home tomorrow. Suggest a pub lunch.”
Anna laughed.
“Now there’s a coincidence. Say that’ll be fine, and let them be surprised to find me here. I’ll cook a big roast dinner and we can invite them to your ‘birthday’ party while they are here.”
Sam’s face crinkled into his happiest grin.
“What an excellent notion. I shall send a mildly pissed text now.”
He busied himself for a few minutes then grinned again.
“How’s this sound. Good. Fine. CU morning. Not before 11. Am pissed. Will sleep late”‘
Anna chuckled. “Unexceptionable, I’m sure. And so welcoming…”
Sam sent the message and gave his intended a pained look.
“Anna we’re blokes. We don’t do ‘gosh I can’t wait to see you’ messages. Rod will understand exactly what I want him to understand.”
His phone beeped again.
“There,” he said, “CU 11. Alkie bastard.”
Anna laughed out loud.
“Okay. I know when I’m beaten. Man love is beyond me.”
“So I would hope. And it ain’t man love – that’s currently residing in the green bedroom. It’s man friendship. Now I need to sleep.”
Anna dropped a kiss on his head.
“Me too.”
“Talking of man love, where will the boys go in the camper?” Sam asked idly as he sat on the edge of the bed removing his socks.
“Scotland. Specifically Speyside. Salmon fishing. Up to their knackers in freezing water. Some friends of theirs own a pub with fishing rights. They’ll be able to park the camper in the pub car park, and they’ll have a wonderful time.”
Naked by this time, Sam climbed into bed and held the duvet up for Anna to crawl in next to him.
“Mad,” he said. “I promise you nice and warm for our honeymoon.”
“Good. I might have had to kill you if you made me leave Bonnie for anything less.”

Jane Jago