Xavier Leret's Blog: Writer. Believes too many of his own dreams., page 2

ZED

Zed follows C to the park. When C sits on a bench, in front of a manmade lake, Zed perches three benches down. Each day Zed changes the way he looks, being careful not put on clothes that would seem out of place, overly ostentatious or headline grabbing. Today he is wearing jogging trousers, and a plain white t-shirt with a sports logo over his heart. He only half watches C who sits quietly eating a home made sandwich of white bread, cheese, tomato and lettuce. Zed observes that the cheese is cheddar. Watching C Zed wonders whether C has prepared the food himself or his wife has done so. Zed suspects that it was the wife, though he has no evidence upon which to level his suspicions. Each morning of that week C has left his house at seven in the morning. Never has his wife come to the door to wave him off or suddenly call him back to remind him that he has forgotten his lunch or to kiss him or to mention that she loves him. There is no display of romance, no love note included with is repast.

That morning C left his home in a rush, his body slightly curled, his face tucked into his jacket, either bracing himself for the day or trying to obscure his face from view. Zed tapped a note into his phone, which synced with the office. The note said, he has something to hide. Within seconds C was in his car. From front door to car took four seconds. The day before yesterday C fumbled his keys, dropping them to the floor. More haste, less speed was the aphorism that sprung to Zed’s mind. Interestingly C never broke the speed limit when he drove.

 

Now C is sitting looking at the man-made lake on which resides a population of water fowl, some of which has relocated to C’s feet, waiting patiently for C to offer up some of his lunch, which he neglects to do, lost as he is to the view ahead of him. Zed is less impressed by the lake which is bordered by a straggle of dirty bushes and trees, toying instead with the idea of sidling up to C to engage him in conversation.

 

There are many things that Zed knows about C. For example he knows that C is moonlighting, that far from being unemployed he is, this week at least, gainfully employed. Neither is this his first period of illegal industry, since putting in his claim for financial assistance. There has been two other occasions that Zed’s employers are aware of. Zed also knows that C is an educated man with a degree in Paranormal Activity which he received by correspondence from the Metaphysics College of Washington DC. Zed would like to discuss a number of subjects to do with existentialism and ontology with C. As a sceptic he is only marginally interested in paranormal activity though he would, if the conversation drifted that way, be happy to discuss this subject too. Inevitably, because C is under investigation, Zed would enjoy an ethically ring fenced debate about the rights and wrongs of engaging in fraudulent activity against the State and what ramifications, if any, were inflicted upon the individual. Zed would start with, I understand that you are something of an expert in all things living and dead.

 

C is still looking ahead. Zed, careful not to arouse any suspicions pretends to be looking beyond C to the children’s play area and beyond that the housing estate which is red and symmetrical. The birds, having realised that C has failed to notice them, have migrated back to the lake, the surface of which is covered in a greenish film. Zed can’t help but wonder what C is thinking. The man’s stillness suggests to Zed a degree of melancholy, that perhaps he might have argued with his wife that morning, or it might be that they continuously argued because C had failed to find regular paid work. Judging from the expression on C’s face it seemed to Zed that he lacked a purpose in life, this same lack of purpose or reason to exist would no doubt descend on Zed should his covert activities be terminated and his career be assigned to the scrap heap. He had witnessed this decline in others and heard the arguments that resulted between spouses, the women declaring the man not a man but a half man, or an imp, or something incomplete.

 

C stands suddenly and begins walking towards Zed. Zed nonchalantly glances out into the lake and watches a duck descend into a slide of white foam and a furious flap of wings. As C strides by Zed looks up to see a face which seems to him to be wrestling with a deep ontology. It could be that he was reading too much into it, but Zed didn’t think so. Once again Zed feels a desire to stop C and question him but his commitment to the task at hand prevents him. Instead he waits for C to travel some fifty yards before he too stands and begins to follow him, keeping to the bushes and trees that litter the ground ahead, unafraid of loosing sight of him because he knows exactly where he is heading.

 

C passed houses and shops, not stopping to see what might have been available to purchase, keeping his eye ahead at all times and walking at a pace that was more akin to a jog. Zed enjoys the chase, revels in his sense of mastery over C who has failed to notice him almost catch up and touch him on the shoulder. Nothing gives Zed more pleasure than a sense of his athletic prowess over another man. Especially as C has no idea that he is there at all.

 

When finally C does reach his destination, a small terraced two up, two down he disappears inside.

 

Zed crosses to the other side of the street, a door opens to the house directly opposite to the one that C has entered. Zed enters. Inside the front room are sat two men in front of a camera that is looking over the road to where C is working. One of these men has hair whereas the other does not. The man with hair is shorter than the man without and heavier looking. Zed nods to them both and they nod back.

 

Another man walks into the room, nods to Zed before he sits down at the desk, which is piled high with audio equipment, and puts on a pair of headphones. Zed sits down on a chair which is placed with its back to the wall, beside which a small tablet computer lies on the floor. Zed picks up the computer, logs into the office and summons C’s file to the screen.

 

Zed wonders if there is anything about C that he has missed. C the son of a migrant who had married a native was born and bred locally. For a long time his migrant father had himself been unemployed, though there was nothing to say that C’s penchant for moonlighting was in any way influenced by his father’s behaviour. Zed thought it wrong to make the connection. Each man is an island. Throughout his childhood C was assimilated into his surroundings without ever standing out. He scored well in his exams and secured himself a place at a good university but he failed to complete his first year. This did not surprise Zed as C’s choice of Economics as his subject was entirely inconsistent with his later focus on paranormal activity. Not long after dropping out of university C met his wife at a conference exploring the schism between modernity and spirituality, suggesting that the foundations of the current C were laid in and around that time, and that his wife was somehow intrinsically linked to his present manifestation.

 

Zed looked up from his computer at the fireplace opposite, in which an electric heater has replaced the coal fire hearth.

 

The involvement of the wife changes Zed’s understanding of C. This man is not a single cell entity. He is at very least an example of dualism.

 

Zed looks down at the tablet sitting on his lap in order to continue reading but finds himself unable to go on because it occurs to him that C’s enthusiasm in the paranormal might also explain his current behaviour. To be sure of any resulting analysis Zed seeks a definition of the word paranormal from an online dictionary.

 

par-a-nor-mal [par-uh-nawr-muhl]

adjective

of or pertaining to the claimed occurrence of an event or perception without scientific explanation, as psychokinesis, extrasensory perception, or other purportedly supernatural phenomena.

 

So there it is. C exists outside the acknowledged laws of behaviour and physics, his allegiance captivated by that which abides beyond the boundaries of documented experience. That was it in a nutshell. That was C’s predicament. To C the impossible was possible. No doubt C could recount numerous instances, and examples, all of which were beyond scientific explanation. It was a rebellion of nature. A dangerous state to be in, and one that was, if not contained, highly contagious.

 

Zed himself had to resist the urge to delve deeper. Up until that point he had simply regarded such exploration as the activity of cranks and conspiracy theorists. This was not such activity. It was a mark of rebellion, an attempt to break free, loosen the chains. C was a danger to those around him, and not simply to those in his immediate orbit, the effect of both his activity and philosophy was like a tsunami ripple on the surface of the world’s oceans.

 

Zed typed, the threat must be contained. No sooner had the words materialised onto his screen than Zed synced them with the office. They were now in the system. It was now up to someone else. All Zed could do now was continue as he had been doing, visualise the steady line between right and wrong, and traverse it.

 

The man with hair caught Zed’s eye and indicated his watch. It was time. Zed cleared the page on the tablet, reset the history in the browser, placed the tablet back on the floor, stood, left the building, taking a left out of the front door and walked up to a car that was parked fifty yards ahead and got in.

 

Twenty minutes later C emerged, his clothes covered in fresh paint and climbed into a beaten up looking two door hatchback that was parked directly outside the building in which he had been working. Zed started the engine to his car, watched C pull out, drive to end of the street and take a left. The moment C’s car disappeared from view Zed casually manoeuvred his own car into the street, drove to the junction, where he too turned left.

 

C had stopped behind a small surge in traffic, all looking to turn right, a little further along the narrow street which was sandwiched by cars on either side. Zed had no alternative but to take his place in the queue directly behind C. C might have glanced into his rear view mirror, or he might not have done, Zed was not entirely sure, or if he did he missed it. This was usual. C would not have registered anything unusual about Zed’s presence, he would simply have noticed him without registering any particular details, or if he did notice the colour of the car, the model, it’s age and condition the significance of it would have escaped him. Being entirely unaware that he was being followed would mean that his guard was lowered. Zed knew this, he understood basic psychology. There was no need for him to hide, people, on the whole are not suspicious. Further more his car was a popular white. Zed rested his head on his hand, blending in perfectly with the montage of moods within each of the patiently waiting cars.

 

The car in front of C pulled away quickly with C hot on its heels. Zed remained calm. He too could have made a dash into the brief hole in the traffic, deciding instead to sit back and absorb a slower pace to the day, he was in no rush. In any case C was a man of habit. Zed knew exactly where C was heading and that he would not deviate from his usual route or veer to a new location. After a brief wait Zed was able to take his turn. By now C had vanished from view. Zed looked out of the window at the people in the street and noted them. There were two young women pushing young children in their chairs. The children were asleep, the women did not talk. Behind them a young man, perhaps nineteen years of age, walked with his head down and his hands in his pockets.

 

#

 

Zed woke. His neck was crook, dribble had dried out of the corner of his mouth, his forehead felt cold where it had been resting on the car window. For a moment he was dis-orientated, not even recognising the car in which he sat. As he blinked and focused he looked down the street, the occasional car, the long terraced block of short, stubby, red bricked workers cottages, some with boarded up windows. Wiped his mouth, reach for the vacuum cup, took a sip of cold and bitter coffee. The clock on the dashboard said six am.

 

Even though the sun was up and promising a warm day, it was cold in the car. Zed’s limbs ached. Ahead of him a door to one of the terraces opened, C emerged in paint splattered clothes, slipped into faded car, with rust around the wheel rims, the engine stared and he pulled away. Quickly Zed started his own engine, pulled out, squeezed his car through the monotony of terraces, the constant red, the narrow streets. The red broke into grey as the two cars crossed a concrete roundabout, through the debris of an industrial building site, long wide languid roads, turning left, heaving right, sleeping cranes like petrified trees bald of branches, before a roundabout heaped up with rocks, peaked by an artist’s plaque. It became red again, boarded windows, broken glass on the pavement, a pack of dogs laid out like junkies. A tree appeared, then another, the windows contained glass, the doors became painted, the terraces appreciated, the streets contracted by increasing numbers of cars on either side of the street. C pulled up ahead, and began to parallel park into a space. Zed drove by and looked at C. C had lit up a cigarette and was staring ahead of himself looking like he was in a daze. Zed drove to the top of the road where he parked his car on the other side of the street, from where he watched C exit his car, cross to Zed’s side of the street to let himself into one of the terraces.

 

Zed got out of his car, had a quick stretch. The air was brisk and he shivered, before walking down to the house to have a quick peak through a window into an empty front room with bare floorboards. Through the open door he could see C staring at the opposite wall, a pot of paint at his feet, paint brush in hand. After what seemed to Zed to be a tired inhale before a melancholic out-breath C bent, picked the pot of paint from the floor, dipped his brush and proceeded to paint the top edge.

 

Zed went back to his car, sat in his drivers seat, took his phone of his pocket, recalled a number, hit dial. After several rings the phone was picked up. He’s there, said Zed… yeah I know you know, put the kettle on and make sure the showers free. Zed crossed to the opposite side of the street to a house with French curtains in the window. The door open and Zed went inside.

 

The man who let him in said, there’s a coffee in the kitchen. Zed went through to the kitchen which contain a table, chairs and little else. There pizza boxes piled up on one of the surfaces, a half filled coffee percolator and little else. Damp in the corner of the ceilings, ripped Lino on the floor, an old table with three chairs. Zed took a cup from the sink, swilled it out with water, poured himself a coffee which he took into the lounge at the front of the house. With the curtains drawn the atmosphere was tight and stifled. On a table sat a monitor, in which C could be seen painting. At the desk the man who let him was hunched over with head phones on, he turned to Zed and said, how was your night? Zed grunted, but said nothing.

 

Two other men in the room were sat by the window behind the camera. The one with hair said, he’s a scum-bag.

 

Zed shrugged his shoulders, said, I’m going to get a shower and a bit of sleep. The two men nodded.

 

Lukewarm water drizzled down on him, Zed stood with his eyes closed until the water turned ice cold. Naked he walked through to the grimy bedroom with a stained mattress on the floor, a duvet abandoned on top of it. Zed fell on the sheet-less bed, pulled the duvet over him and fell instantly to sleep.

 

#

 

He was awoken by the man without hair shaking him awake. They’ve taken C, said the man. We can go home.

 

Zed didn’t say anything as he stood up, went through to the bathroom where his clothes were piled up in the corner, started to dress. There were voices downstairs and laughter. When Zed went downstairs the equipment had been packed away into boxes that were placed in the centre of the room. Police men in uniform were stood around chatting.

How did it go? said Zed.

Fine, answered one of the officers, he came quietly.

Right, said, Zed, job done. Where is he?

In the kitchen.

Zed nodded and went into the kitchen. C was sat at the table, a uniformed officer was sat beside him. C looked at Zed and Zed looked at C. Neither of them said anything. It seemed to Zed that C had been crying. Zed poured himself a coffee, went out of the house, crossed the street, to the other house, the one that C had been decorating. The man who had hair was talking to the man who had been wearing the headphones, in front of a freshly painted wall. They nodded as Zed entered.

He doesn’t seem too happy, said Zed, referring to C.

He’s going to loose all his state hand outs, said the man without hair. Hardly worth it for the amount of money he must be earning for doing this.

Some people, said Zed.

 

They kicked some words around before Zed said that he was off, if they needed anything just call, they said that it was all OK and see you around sometime and they all shook hands.

 

Zed got a lift to the train station in a marked car. An hour later he was staring out of the window at the rolling landscape flashing by in a blur. His conscience clear. His mind empty. He had forgotten about all things paranormal. None of it was real anyway.

 

 

Check out this recording of me at The Writers Hub

reading my story Turn The Porn On which has just been published in MIR8.

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Got me a publisher!

I've been quiet for a while because I have had to get my head down. I have a publisher for Heaven Sent so I am currently deep in the middle of the re-writes that they have requested. Who are they? Dedalus Books! Right back to work. Oh, the old draft is no longer available, so don't click on the links. Back to work, over and out.

#SampleSunday – Extract Heaven Sent – Carlo’s Dream

Carlo closed his eyes and when he opened them there was a stunned silence. He was standing in a courtroom dock. It seemed to him that the place was built of cardboard. He looked out at the crowd sitting in the public galleries to either side and they looked back up at him.



Carlo did not know exactly why but it was clear to him that the entire room was waiting for the appearance of God. The all powerful. The almighty. The one and only. Who would take his seat which would creak more than any other in the room because it was made of leather and also because he was large, as only God could be. Once sat God would observe Carlo with a suspicious eye.

There would be no angels to fanfare God in because he was not really God, Carlo could sense that too. The Judge would be a representation of God. God was the word and the word is law. This is how the prophet Moses related him to the Israelites. This is how he was manifest. God was structure, the staples by which all is held together. The rulebook. The automaton by which the universe exists. The construct by which a peace can be observed and co-existence achieved. By its nature it presumes punishment as a final solution and punishment is defined as… punitive care.

Daizee materialised. She too was in the dock, but was separated from Carlo by a clear glass screen, which had been erected especially to prevent them from touching each other. Daizee turned to Carlo and smiled and put her hand up to the glass divide and placed her palm there and he did the same.

In the empty jury gallery, to the right of him, stood twelve silent blue chairs waiting heavy for their charges. In the central playing area the barristers made themselves ready, shuffling papers, in their black gowns and white wigs, their assistants talking quietly together. In front of them piles of paper work, a foot thick, held together with heavy duty thick elastic bands.

The Court Registrar haunted the place, a spectre of a man with a limp and a cane with perdition shadows under his eyes, hobbling up and down on his walking stick and chatting freely with crowd.

Carlo’s parents sat quietly to the left of the dock. His mother was steely. Not cold – petrified. His father looked hollowed, gaunt. Famined.

Carlo turned to Daizee who was waving to crowd and they waved back to her. Someone, called out that she looked beautiful, another voice called out, God Bless you Carlo and another, whatever happens Daizee, we love you. The, we love you, echoed around the room and was followed by a round of applause. The Registrar hissed for quiet, whilst pounding his walking stick on the floor, like some mad crippled herald, his hair flapping wildly on his forehead. There was a moment of silence and then The Registrar called, all rise, and all and everyone within the court room rose.

He appeared looking content and full, in the air of his own farts, remarking that he had a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon. Only a representative of God, thought Carlo, can smell so harshly as only God can smell so harshly. It is the reek of retribution, the muster of redemption.

The Judge sat down. He had red veins in his fat cheeks. He seemed genuinely satisfied with himself under his white wig that sat small on the top of his large bald head. He looked out over the throng that had gathered and frowned. He picked up the hammer and tapped the bevel. The Registrar called that the court was now in session.

For a while The Judge said nothing, he looked from the crowd to the barristers, to Carlo and finally to Daizee. Daizee looked straight back at him. Carlo saw that The Judge was surrounded by the colours of anger which were underworld red and orange and frenzied spectrums of yellow. Carlo understood that that was how The Judge perceived himself. Carlo was not scared. He said to himself there is no such end, there is only the solace of the void, in which we cease. All else is an act, a fancy, a means to instil fear and enforce control.

And then Carlo saw that The Judge was transfixed by Daizee. Carlo could see images of foreplay and female sexual organs began to play on The Judge’s mind. He was imagining Daizee appearing before him naked. The colour flushed from his face as his blood was pumped elsewhere. It was at this point that The Registrar collapsed. The Judge was pulled back out of Daizee. There was a small hullabaloo in which The Registrar declared that he was fine, he suffered from lapses on account of a bomb disarming incident. The Judge applauded him. The Registrar responded with a flamboyant bow. With that the Jury was asked to enter.

The court was silent as the jurors appeared. The Registrar lead them out in dutiful solemnisation, his head bowed, his little limp in a skip. All faces were craned forward to see who it was that had been press-ganged to deliver a verdict, when that verdict was due. The collective concentration of all those present in that court room brought the jurors out in a blush as they shuffled forward like fresh naked slaves into a market, which in a way they were, for these were the slaves of heavenly justice.

The Judge eyed them as they sat nervously and the registrar produced a black bible from the inside of his jacket, retrieved a card from within its pages, which he handed to them one by one, in succession, so that they could read the oath. They each read quietly stumbling over the words. The Judge grumbled that he couldn’t hear a word. A woman in her fifties had particular difficulty because she had forgotten her reading glasses. She read with the card as close to her eyes as she could – but this did not work, so she held it further away and then further still until The Registrar took it off her and held it a satisfactory distance for her to read. When she stumbled over words he loudly corrected her, which made her tremble.

The Judge looked on the proceedings impatiently until they were done. Finally he addressed them. Your duty, he informed them, is to arrive at a judgement based on the evidence produced in this court. My job is to rule on fair play throughout these proceedings. You must not speak to anyone about this case or to anyone outside of the jury. You can only only discuss this case in the jury room. Do not research your own sources. Do not read the daily newspapers. Please do not reach a conclusion until you have heard all the evidence. Please watch all the witnesses and observe their demeanour – dishonesty, he said grandly, disguises itself well, so take note. Right, he said switching his gaze from the slaves to the barristers, to the accused, to the audience of the world that had gathered, let us begin.

#SampleSunday – Extract Heaven Sent – Carlo's Dream

Carlo closed his eyes and when he opened them there was a stunned silence. He was standing in a courtroom dock. It seemed to him that the place was built of cardboard. He looked out at the crowd sitting in the public galleries to either side and they looked back up at him.



Carlo did not know exactly why but it was clear to him that the entire room was waiting for the appearance of God. The all powerful. The almighty. The one and only. Who would take his seat which would creak more than any other in the room because it was made of leather and also because he was large, as only God could be. Once sat God would observe Carlo with a suspicious eye.

There would be no angels to fanfare God in because he was not really God, Carlo could sense that too. The Judge would be a representation of God. God was the word and the word is law. This is how the prophet Moses related him to the Israelites. This is how he was manifest. God was structure, the staples by which all is held together. The rulebook. The automaton by which the universe exists. The construct by which a peace can be observed and co-existence achieved. By its nature it presumes punishment as a final solution and punishment is defined as… punitive care.

Daizee materialised. She too was in the dock, but was separated from Carlo by a clear glass screen, which had been erected especially to prevent them from touching each other. Daizee turned to Carlo and smiled and put her hand up to the glass divide and placed her palm there and he did the same.

In the empty jury gallery, to the right of him, stood twelve silent blue chairs waiting heavy for their charges. In the central playing area the barristers made themselves ready, shuffling papers, in their black gowns and white wigs, their assistants talking quietly together. In front of them piles of paper work, a foot thick, held together with heavy duty thick elastic bands.

The Court Registrar haunted the place, a spectre of a man with a limp and a cane with perdition shadows under his eyes, hobbling up and down on his walking stick and chatting freely with crowd.

Carlo's parents sat quietly to the left of the dock. His mother was steely. Not cold – petrified. His father looked hollowed, gaunt. Famined.

Carlo turned to Daizee who was waving to crowd and they waved back to her. Someone, called out that she looked beautiful, another voice called out, God Bless you Carlo and another, whatever happens Daizee, we love you. The, we love you, echoed around the room and was followed by a round of applause. The Registrar hissed for quiet, whilst pounding his walking stick on the floor, like some mad crippled herald, his hair flapping wildly on his forehead. There was a moment of silence and then The Registrar called, all rise, and all and everyone within the court room rose.

He appeared looking content and full, in the air of his own farts, remarking that he had a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon. Only a representative of God, thought Carlo, can smell so harshly as only God can smell so harshly. It is the reek of retribution, the muster of redemption.

The Judge sat down. He had red veins in his fat cheeks. He seemed genuinely satisfied with himself under his white wig that sat small on the top of his large bald head. He looked out over the throng that had gathered and frowned. He picked up the hammer and tapped the bevel. The Registrar called that the court was now in session.

For a while The Judge said nothing, he looked from the crowd to the barristers, to Carlo and finally to Daizee. Daizee looked straight back at him. Carlo saw that The Judge was surrounded by the colours of anger which were underworld red and orange and frenzied spectrums of yellow. Carlo understood that that was how The Judge perceived himself. Carlo was not scared. He said to himself there is no such end, there is only the solace of the void, in which we cease. All else is an act, a fancy, a means to instil fear and enforce control.

And then Carlo saw that The Judge was transfixed by Daizee. Carlo could see images of foreplay and female sexual organs began to play on The Judge's mind. He was imagining Daizee appearing before him naked. The colour flushed from his face as his blood was pumped elsewhere. It was at this point that The Registrar collapsed. The Judge was pulled back out of Daizee. There was a small hullabaloo in which The Registrar declared that he was fine, he suffered from lapses on account of a bomb disarming incident. The Judge applauded him. The Registrar responded with a flamboyant bow. With that the Jury was asked to enter.

The court was silent as the jurors appeared. The Registrar lead them out in dutiful solemnisation, his head bowed, his little limp in a skip. All faces were craned forward to see who it was that had been press-ganged to deliver a verdict, when that verdict was due. The collective concentration of all those present in that court room brought the jurors out in a blush as they shuffled forward like fresh naked slaves into a market, which in a way they were, for these were the slaves of heavenly justice.

The Judge eyed them as they sat nervously and the registrar produced a black bible from the inside of his jacket, retrieved a card from within its pages, which he handed to them one by one, in succession, so that they could read the oath. They each read quietly stumbling over the words. The Judge grumbled that he couldn't hear a word. A woman in her fifties had particular difficulty because she had forgotten her reading glasses. She read with the card as close to her eyes as she could – but this did not work, so she held it further away and then further still until The Registrar took it off her and held it a satisfactory distance for her to read. When she stumbled over words he loudly corrected her, which made her tremble.

The Judge looked on the proceedings impatiently until they were done. Finally he addressed them. Your duty, he informed them, is to arrive at a judgement based on the evidence produced in this court. My job is to rule on fair play throughout these proceedings. You must not speak to anyone about this case or to anyone outside of the jury. You can only only discuss this case in the jury room. Do not research your own sources. Do not read the daily newspapers. Please do not reach a conclusion until you have heard all the evidence. Please watch all the witnesses and observe their demeanour – dishonesty, he said grandly, disguises itself well, so take note. Right, he said switching his gaze from the slaves to the barristers, to the accused, to the audience of the world that had gathered, let us begin.

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Why I Write

I have never been able to explain why I write. It is something that I have always done. I'm not sure if I write because I love it, because often the process is torture, not just for me but for those around me. I don't remember choosing to write. I just wrote, not very well I might add. It was also not an easy thing for me to do, but I always approached it with a sense of discipline – actually I'm lying, I have no discipline. When I sit down to work I tend to spend a lot of time not doing anything. I call it hanging around waiting for the muse. I do a lot of hanging around. The worst time is when I've gone to bed on a real high thinking about the next days work and where the story is going. I have amazing conversations with my characters and we drink a lot of wine. We discuss the narrative from all angles, the symbolism, the existential agenda, the resonance of meaning within the action – you name it, we talk about it. But the next morning nothing happens. All those great ideas vanished in the magic hat of my vanity. And then the doubt kicks in. Sometimes the doubt is so bad I leave stories alone for weeks on end. If I look at them – I hate them. I'm inconsolable about my wretched lack of talent, overcome with self loathing. And then somehow I start again. And something amazing happens. I might trash what I wrote before – but this liberating – OK, liberating when one looks back. It took me five or six years to write Heaven Sent, nearly all the work I wrote in the first four years ended on a pyre. That wasn't fun all those false starts and blind alleys, though sometimes it was satisfying to edit in the same way that pulling a scab can feel great.

Although I said that I never chose to be a writer, I always wanted to be a writer. I only ever imagined myself writing. Perhaps I have a limited imagination, life would certainly have been easier if I had imagined myself as a lawyer, or a builder, or, heaven forbid, a banker. But I was incapable of imagining myself doing these things. I did imagine myself as a theatre director and a filmmaker and I have been lucky enough to have written and directed both theatre and film – but always deep down I wanted to be at my desk, writing. I never sit at my desk and wish I was standing behind a camera or trying explain my ideas to an actor. I collaborated for so long and the collaboration made my writing lazy and collaboration wore me down.

For me writing is about discovering life. It is about examining what makes us tick. I know for others writing is about exciting plots, twists and turns, bubble gum hits of entertainment. I've never read work like that, it doesn't interest me. I want to be taken through a story by a writer and shown things, be offered questions about morality, sociology and the human condition. That's not to say I don't want to be entertained, and I would consider myself an entertainer, there is nothing more boring than a mire of formless theories and opaque imagery – but ideas must be present in what I read and necessarily present in what I write. I don't write for a bigger house, or a flash car, or a wide screen telly. I write to understand and to try to express this understanding in as interesting, thought provoking and emotionally engaging way that I can. I consider my time on the earth as precious and limited, I don't want to waste it on trinkets.

My wife however, does remind me that the children need feeding and clothing and that our hideous Tory government has just robbed them of their free university education and they also have their sights on the National Health Service-

"What?"

Oh, my wife says, "fuck the arty farty 'poet in the attic shite', write a thriller, the mortgage needs paying!"

#SampleSunday – Heaven Sent – Chapter 4

Carlo had no idea what the film was about. His attention was captivated by Daizee who was sitting beside him engrossed in the movie, twisting her short hair with her finger and spooning popcorn into her mouth. She hardly noticed him, at least that was what he thought. Every time she laughed it brought a smile to his face.

Wot dew looken a? She said like an apparition popping up to say boo.

Carlo was certain that he lit up bright enough to distract the small audience of the cinema from watching the film.

Wot? she said again.

Nothing.

You's bin wotchen I right throo the flick.

Have I?

You nose et.

Would you mind, said a voice behind them.

Mind wot? she snapped.

This is a cinema.

Fuck I Einstein, I fort et was a fucken beach. She winked at Carlo.

What did you say? said the voice.

Dews right, I'm fucken wiv ya. My sweetheart ere were gonna to tell I dat ee luvs I, weren't ya Carlo?

What? said Carlo feeling himself shrink into his seat.

Well dohn't ya?

Don't I what?

Luvs I.

Please I really am trying to watch the film, hissed the voice behind.

An ee reallee iz tryen to tell I he luvs I, ain't ya?

Carlo felt a rush of emotion run over him.

Cummon Carlo, sey et.

He felt light headed. Yes, said Carlo.

Yes wot?

I love you.

She looked to the seat behind them. See. Awl dun. And she turned back to the film, shoved her hand in the popcorn, took a handful and stuffed it into her mouth. Her eyes were bright and wide and her skin had a moon glow.

Carlo sat back. This is what love feels like, he thought, he had made it. Always he had feared that he would never find love with a girl, assuming that it was beyond his reach, that he would never discover the right person or that he was not man enough, not like the boys at school who carried their conquests around on their mobile phones. In the dark of the cinema with the colours of the moving images flickering on his face he began to imagine that anything was possible. He closed his eyes and projected himself into a future with Daizee, growing up, growing old, living out the everyday. Shopping in Tescos with her, walking around the fruit and veg behind a shopping trolley. Carlo had no idea why he was in Tescos, but it felt right, love is often about the sharing of the mundane, he said to himself, and the potion of love a kind of encompassing haze of serenity. As they walked passed the frozen food section of the shopping hall he felt a chill pass through him. In no time at all he would be saying goodbye to Daizee for the week. He would be ignorant of her whereabouts. She had given him a phone number but his parents forbade him from owning his own phone, and monitored all calls to and from the house landline, leaving him with no means of contacting her across the divide. It never occurred to him to use a call box.

Something flicked against his face. He was back in the cinema. It flicked again. Turning to face her a piece of popcorn flicked off his cheek. There was a big broad grin on her face. Dumbstruck he smiled back at her. It was then that she kissed him on the cheek with a quick peck, followed up the kiss with a wink before she reached out and popped a piece of popcorn into his mouth. Carlo had never been kissed by a girl before.

Later, outside the cinema he tried to give her the money his Grandmother had left him.

Why dew do dat?

I spent all week saving it up, he said.

Why?

Because I was thinking about you.

Ez dat ow you's finks on I?

I just think about you, Daizee.

Wot the fuck you's tawken abowt?

I don't understand, I thought you needed it.

Dat's not wot I need.

Her stellar brilliance had hardened into meteorite ice. Well tell me what you want, said Carlo, and I'll do what I can.

You's dohn't get et, do ya?

Don't get what?

She looked at him. I dohn't wont yer cash.

What do you want?

She was shaking her head in disbelief at him.

What, Daizee? he said.

Dohn't you nose?

Behind her, the road was busy. Cars were queued behind a learner driver that coughed itself forward before stalling. Daizee was staring him full in the face. He was lost for words.

Her phone began to sing. She took it out of her pocket and looked at it. Carlo heard the chorus,

Get up, get up, get up, get up,

Let's make love tonight.

I gotta get go, she said.

OK, he said.

Daizee looked away, watched the street, contorted her face in thought and turned back to him. Lissen, she said, I'm a bit short for a bus.

Nodding, he fished inside his pocket and took out the fifty pounds.

Dat's too much, she said.

Take it. Please. I don't need it.

Scowling she glanced down the street.

Buy me something with it, he said quickly.

She turned back to him, stared for a second and then said, OK.

So I'll see you next week?

Shure.

Great. Listen, why don't you choose what we do? You could take me somewhere.

Na, she said and began to walk off.

Where shall I meet you? he called after her.

Ere, she said over her shoulder.

Daizee, he called.

Without answering or looking back she just waved her hand. A bus crossed his field of vision. And Daizee was gone.

Carlo's youth fell off him. He limped home heavy on melancholy that he made worse by telling himself that that was the last time he would see her. Playing that final moment over and over again, wishing that he could zip round to the front of her to see if her own face betrayed the exact same feelings of sadness that he felt now, rather than that look of hurt she had thrown him when he tried to give her the money. For a moment he was angry because he hadn't told her that he took his role of bread winner seriously. He wasn't like the other boys he knew at school who simply boasted of their conquests each and every week. That was not Carlo. Commitment flowed through him. It was in his blood. His mind was jittery with pain and anger. Anger that she had hurt him and anger at himself for not arguing his own case. How stupid could he be. He might have lost her. Inebriated on his tragedy Carlo zombied down the wide streets of the affluent bricked buildings with large windows, mowed lawns and spring laden fauna. The pavement was caked in fallen blossom but to Carlo it was crematorium ash.

#SampleSunday – GiveAway

A FREE Ebook copy Of HEAVEN SENT is YOURS. See End Of Sample

 

Heaven Sent – Chapter 4

Carlo had no idea what the film was about. His attention was captivated by Daizee who was sitting beside him engrossed in the movie, twisting her short hair with her finger and spooning popcorn into her mouth. She hardly noticed him, at least that was what he thought. Every time she laughed it brought a smile to his face.



Wot dew looken a? She said like an apparition popping up to say boo.

Carlo was certain that he lit up bright enough to distract the small audience of the cinema from watching the film.

Wot? she said again.

Nothing.

You's bin wotchen I right throo the flick.

Have I?

You nose et.

Would you mind, said a voice behind them.

Mind wot? she snapped.

This is a cinema.

Fuck I Einstein, I fort et was a fucken beach. She winked at Carlo.

What did you say? said the voice.

Dews right, I'm fucken wiv ya. My sweetheart ere were gonna to tell I dat ee luvs I, weren't ya Carlo?

What? said Carlo feeling himself shrink into his seat.

Well dohn't ya?

Don't I what?

Luvs I.

Please I really am trying to watch the film, hissed the voice behind.

An ee reallee iz tryen to tell I he luvs I, ain't ya?

Carlo felt a rush of emotion run over him.

Cummon Carlo, sey et.

He felt light headed. Yes, said Carlo.

Yes wot?

I love you.

She looked to the seat behind them. See. Awl dun. And she turned back to the film, shoved her hand in the popcorn, took a handful and stuffed it into her mouth. Her eyes were bright and wide and her skin had a moon glow.

Carlo sat back. This is what love feels like, he thought, he had made it. Always he had feared that he would never find love with a girl, assuming that it was beyond his reach, that he would never discover the right person or that he was not man enough, not like the boys at school who carried their conquests around on their mobile phones. In the dark of the cinema with the colours of the moving images flickering on his face he began to imagine that anything was possible. He closed his eyes and projected himself into a future with Daizee, growing up, growing old, living out the everyday. Shopping in Tescos with her, walking around the fruit and veg behind a shopping trolley. Carlo had no idea why he was in Tescos, but it felt right, love is often about the sharing of the mundane, he said to himself, and the potion of love a kind of encompassing haze of serenity. As they walked passed the frozen food section of the shopping hall he felt a chill pass through him. In no time at all he would be saying goodbye to Daizee for the week. He would be ignorant of her whereabouts. She had given him a phone number but his parents forbade him from owning his own phone, and monitored all calls to and from the house landline, leaving him with no means of contacting her across the divide. It never occurred to him to use a call box.

Something flicked against his face. He was back in the cinema. It flicked again. Turning to face her a piece of popcorn flicked off his cheek. There was a big broad grin on her face. Dumbstruck he smiled back at her. It was then that she kissed him on the cheek with a quick peck, followed up the kiss with a wink before she reached out and popped a piece of popcorn into his mouth. Carlo had never been kissed by a girl before.

Later, outside the cinema he tried to give her the money his Grandmother had left him.

Why dew do dat?

I spent all week saving it up, he said.

Why?

Because I was thinking about you.

Ez dat ow you's finks on I?

I just think about you, Daizee.

Wot the fuck you's tawken abowt?

I don't understand, I thought you needed it.

Dat's not wot I need.

Her stellar brilliance had hardened into meteorite ice. Well tell me what you want, said Carlo, and I'll do what I can.

You's dohn't get et, do ya?

Don't get what?

She looked at him. I dohn't wont yer cash.

What do you want?

She was shaking her head in disbelief at him.

What, Daizee? he said.

Dohn't you nose?

Behind her, the road was busy. Cars were queued behind a learner driver that coughed itself forward before stalling. Daizee was staring him full in the face. He was lost for words.

Her phone began to sing. She took it out of her pocket and looked at it. Carlo heard the chorus,

Get up, get up, get up, get up,

Let's make love tonight.

I gotta get go, she said.

OK, he said.

Daizee looked away, watched the street, contorted her face in thought and turned back to him. Lissen, she said, I'm a bit short for a bus.

Nodding, he fished inside his pocket and took out the fifty pounds.

Dat's too much, she said.

Take it. Please. I don't need it.

Scowling she glanced down the street.

Buy me something with it, he said quickly.

She turned back to him, stared for a second and then said, OK.

So I'll see you next week?

Shure.

Great. Listen, why don't you choose what we do? You could take me somewhere.

Na, she said and began to walk off.

Where shall I meet you? he called after her.

Ere, she said over her shoulder.

Daizee, he called.

Without answering or looking back she just waved her hand. A bus crossed his field of vision. And Daizee was gone.

Carlo's youth fell off him. He limped home heavy on melancholy that he made worse by telling himself that that was the last time he would see her. Playing that final moment over and over again, wishing that he could zip round to the front of her to see if her own face betrayed the exact same feelings of sadness that he felt now, rather than that look of hurt she had thrown him when he tried to give her the money. For a moment he was angry because he hadn't told her that he took his role of bread winner seriously. He wasn't like the other boys he knew at school who simply boasted of their conquests each and every week. That was not Carlo. Commitment flowed through him. It was in his blood. His mind was jittery with pain and anger. Anger that she had hurt him and anger at himself for not arguing his own case. How stupid could he be. He might have lost her. Inebriated on his tragedy Carlo zombied down the wide streets of the affluent bricked buildings with large windows, mowed lawns and spring laden fauna. The pavement was caked in fallen blossom but to Carlo it was crematorium ash.

 

#SAMPLESUNDAY GIVEAWAY – download Heaven Sent *FREE* from Smashwords. Use coupon code KE49Q – Offer closes June 28

Heaven Sent – Extended Giveaway – Last Day

It went so well yesterday that I'm giving the novel away again. But only for one more day.

Just visit the link below quote the code and it is yours – and if you like it, please, just pass it on, its DRM free. And even if its not your cup of tea perhaps you might know someone who would appreciate it.

HEAVEN SENT by Xavier Leret

Mix together Romeo and Juliet with Bonnie and Clyde, then sprinkle it with Catcher In The Rye and you have Heaven Sent.

"an explosive, brilliant and breath taking novel"

"like Romeo and Juliet turned inside out."

When Daizee crashes into the life of sixteen year old Carlo he veers off the good Catholic path his parents have carved for him and finds himself fighting to save a girl the rest of the world has both abandoned and abused. Caught between wreckage or redemption, Carlo soon realizes the world may not be as straight forward as he was taught and that real love takes more than a leap of faith.

"A wonderful coming-of-age story."

"poetic, tragic, contemporary, riveting"

"a work of genius."

Go to Smashwords & use code YN84H

p.s. Tis dark, bring a torch.