Xavier Leret's Blog: Writer. Believes too many of his own dreams., page 3

Heave Sent Is *Free* One Day Only

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 FE63J

#Sample Sunday – Extract Heaven Sent

To make his point Carlo took Daizee to the top of the red-bricked Cabot Tower.

Bristol was laid out before them. To the left the Georgian buildings stood four stories tall and blended with the gray and straw rectangle cut outs of the twentieth century. Ahead of them the park gave way to the docks and the pristine business park with a paving courtyard and glass tall buildings which mirrored the hill and the bright sun in the sky and beyond that stood old converted warehouses and beyond that the city stretched out before a clear line divided it from the countryside beyond.

Bet dat's a long wey, she said, nodding to the arrow that said it knew where Australia was.

Where?

Ozstrailia.

Other side of the world, he said.

Ow long dew reckons et takes ta get thur?

I don't know.

You nose everfing, Carlo.

I think it takes 24 hours, on a plane, he said, all day and all night.

Fer real?

Yeah.

Fuck.

Yeah.

I'm gonna get thur, she said.

Yeah?

Yeh, totallee. Get the fuck owt o dis place.

They're making a plane, he said, that will do it in two hours. It will fly up, outside the atmosphere and just wait for the earth to turn. And then it will come down.

The wurl be smawl from up thur, she said. I can seez et now, like I've bin thur afore. Like I've bin beamed ere from the footure, from up thur. I got me memoree of et Carlo. A real one. Fucken seen eh?

She radiated, her hair was ablaze, her eyes were wide.

Daizee Byatt ya fucken ore betch, said a voice behind them.

Carlo watched the colour fall out of Daizee's face. He turned to see a sixteen-year-old boy in a green combat jacket with rabbit fur around the rim of its hood. He had blonde hair, hazel eyes and a narrow face. In his right hand he held a knife. A big knife that had once been mated to a gun.

Stanton, she said, wot the fuck you's doen ere?

Stanton came right back at her, wot the fuck you's doen ere?

Put ya fucken shank away, ya cunt, she said.

Oo the fuck is he? said Stanton bearing his teeth and pointing at Carlo.

Fuck off, Stanton, she said.

Carlo stepped between Daizee and Stanton. Who are you? he asked.

Oo am I? Oo am I? I'm Stanton Fucken Parks, he said. Wot the fuck you's doen wiv my bit o gash?

Why dohn't you's leave I the fuck alone, she screamed.

I got a fucken taste fer you's my cunt, and he flicked his tongue in the air like a snake.

Daizee? Said Carlo and the sun beamed razor blades into his eyes as he switched his gaze from Stanton to her and back again.

Therez nowt tween im an I. Not a fucken fing, she pleaded.

Dis ere ez a second world war Nartsee bayonet, said Stanton. Et blonged to a secun world war German infantreeman. A fucken SS fucken sooper trooper.

Stanton sliced the air with contorted joy in his limbs as if he was sketching the damage he would do to her body.

Carlo felt a hand on his shoulder smooth him forcibly out of the way into the door to the passageway down. When he turned he saw that the green pool of Daizee's eyes had become cool and inviting but they weren't inviting for him, she was looking directly at Stanton. Behind Stanton and Daizee the green horizon white noised into the sky. Daizee bit her bottom lip. Carlo had never seen this look on her face before, she was looking at Stanton like she wanted him and every time she breathed in it was as if her lungs were filling with a pleasure he'd only seen in pornography, it muxed her face into soft focus and every now and then she let out a soft ooo and sometimes she sucked the air through her teeth as if she was coaxing Stanton into orgasm. Carlo's feet were rooted to the spot. He wanted his body to be supple but he felt brittle and the doorway contracted onto him to hold him where he stood.

Dew wonts to touch I, Stanton, she said calmly gently hissing her breath in. Ez dat wot you wonts? and she moaned a little for him.

I'm gonna do more an dat, he said, yer nose wot they'ms did to I in secure?

Dew wonts to do dat to I? said Daizee in a cheeky sex toy taunt. She looked calm, almost serene. OK.

Carlo saw that Stanton was confused.

Daizee took her coat off, held it out and let it drop to the floor.

Wot you's doen? said Stanton.

Wot dew fink?

Stanton's look flicked to Carlo. The look made Carlo flinch. He panged up with something like guilt for what he was seeing of Daizee and what it was doing to Stanton.

Dohn't worrees non my sweet, said Daizee to Stanton, thurs onlee one fing dis cunt wonts. Ee wonts to wotch us. Fucken filfee taint et? Dew wonts im ta wotch us? Ee likes to wotch, dohn't you's, ur lover? She said casting an eye Carlo. You can fucks I, Stanton, an ee can wotch. Gurt lush or wot?

Stanton showed Carlo his top teeth. Carlo looked at Daizee but she didn't return his gaze, at least when she did look at him it was not as the Daizee he knew, or had come to know, she had no expression on her face for him, not even the curse she had set upon him the first time he had crashed into her. There was nothing. Not one acknowledgement. She was entirely in the moment with Stanton; she was not Carlo's any more.

Daizee slowly began to take her t-shirt off. Carlo wanted to rush forward to stop her but he had no movement in his body. He was watching her like he was caught in the web of a deep sin. It had wrapped itself around him and was absorbing any impulse to run. He watched her as she lifted her t-shirt over her head, to reveal a red bra. She held the t-shirt out and dropped it to the floor and it fell at Stanton's feet. A slight breeze blew through her hair as she put her hand on her left breast and began to massage it, pinching the nipple. The expression on her face had hardened. Carlo wanted to cry.

Doesum wonts us to take ur troozers off? cooed Daizee.

Carlo looked at Stanton who was staring at Daizee and began to say silent prayers to himself.

Doesum likes that? said Daizee

Stanton began to blush.

Doesum wonts ta put dat shank on ur skin?

Stanton's jaw quivered.

Good, I wonts you's to.

She unbuttoned her jeans, slid them off, revealing a black thong. The front had a little red bow on it and it was cut low. The cotton cloth was thin and tight and clefted with the soft indent of the dimple between her legs. Carlo was shocked at how comfortable she was in her nakedness. Daizee, what are you doing? he asked almost in a panic.

Shu up, she said. She was looking at Stanton. Doesum likes the wey I spoke to im?

Stanton's eyes flicked to Carlo and then back to her.

Daizee ran her index finger of her right hand from her chest, down her stomach to the front edge of her thong. As her finger dropped Carlo saw cigarette burn scars on her belly. These hadn't been light daubs but deep and torturous. Some were pinker than others and could not be that old, but what disturbed Carlo more, were the ones that were set white like old solidified glue, burnt when she was small, when his own mother was planting kisses to flower him into childhood.

Daizee toyed with the small bow on the front of her pants before slipping her fingers into them.

Stanton's tongue was on his lips.

Wot a puppee dawg look, she said. Et were a shame you's got kicked owt o Travis Ouse, weez cud ave ad a right fucken dirtee time. Fucken Soshal Servisez.

Watching Stanton, Carlo began to feel the back of his scalp begin to burn and his breathing grew in depth and speed, not with fear but anger. Anger and hurt. Stanton no longer saw him. He was just looking at Daizee. Carlo wanted him to stop, he wanted him to stop turning Daizee into this creature he did not recognise, the filthy object of Stanton's desire. Daizee began to lower her thong, gently moving her buttocks to music that only Stanton could hear. Carlo was not in on the tune, he could only tell that it was being played by the look on Stanton's face.

Carlo blinked and the knife was gone. There was no puff of smoke. Daizee had reached forward and taken it. Stanton looked shocked. Daizee said, dew sillee cunt.

Stanton Parks made one swipe with his fist, Daizee ducked. Carlo lunged forward with his eyes closed like a little boy in his first scrap and deflected Stanton over the barrier wall. Carlo opened his eyes to see Stanton fall silently the one hundred feet to the ground below. His head cracked as it hit the concrete.

Will

Will was alone, his ear to the door, the pain beyond it near splitting the wood. He heard the doctor issue orders and pushed himself away from the door as the Nurse, whose face and hands were covered in blood, dashed out of the bedroom to call for hot water. The sight of the blood made him shudder. Through the door he could see his wife lying pale and exhausted on the bed. The doctor was by her side talking, though she was barely able to listen. The whites of her eyes showed, her face contorted and then her whole body buckled in agony. Her scream wrenched the nurse back.

Will snatched the large black kettle from the hearth, dashed down the two flights of stairs to the pump which stood in the courtyard behind the tenement, thrashed it until he had filled the kettle with water, ran back up.

There was no wood or coal with which to build a fire to heat the water – nothing but two chairs and their table, at which they had imagined themselves to be King and Queen. Her screams were coming quicker. He put the kettle down, seized his small axe, and began to hack at the furniture in an unsentimental frenzy that reduced it to a dismembered heap.

Other than her bible, there was no paper with which to set the kindling he had split from the table. The book had survived three generations and contained the names of her father, mother, grandfather, grandmother and her great grandfather. He ripped pages from the middle, crushed them into balls, placed them in the grate, built up the fire with the kindling he had split from the furniture and topped it with the thick mutilated legs of the table.

Reaching from the hearth to the sideboard he retrieved a box of matches from a drawer, fumbled it and the entire contents scattered across the floor, forcing him to scramble on his hands and knees. He snatched up a match, struck it too hard. It exploded uselessly in an arc to the floor. He picked a second and forcing himself to be more gentle it flared alight. He put the match to the paper in the fireplace. The flame caught. It flicked and fought as though it would drown if it could not keep its hold. He began to blow to help it on. His first breath was too strong and he nearly put it out. With the second and then the third breath the wood began to crackle and spit as the flame grew. He grabbed the kettle and hung it on its hook above the fire, reached for another piece of wood, but stopped. For a moment he listened. Beyond the sound of his breathing and that of the fire there was nothing. Not one sound.

Into the silence the child cried.

He stood and turned to face the door. There was a flicker of movement in his hand. His chest rose and fell and he waited. After a while the child's crying subsided. He heard whispering and the shuffling of feet before the door opened slowly to reveal the Nurse standing there, blood smearing the edge of her hairline. In her arms she held his babe, wrapped in the swaddling that his wife had so lovingly prepared.

It's a boy, the Nurse said quietly, he's a beauty.

He crossed over to her, his feet creaking on the floorboards. She held the bundle out and he reached awkwardly to take his son.

The boy felt fragile in his arms, his limbs soft and weak. His hands were out of proportion to the rest of him, the palms etched with delicately sugared lines. He watched in wonder as the little body began to move, flickering recitations of labour, his legs winding and weaving muscle together, his face and eyes in shuddery action.

Will lifted him to his lips and kissed his face, careful not to rub the boy's new skin with the coarseness of his unshaven jaw. He felt the child's hand run along his cheek, his long thin fingers hooking into his bottom lip, the tips touching his tongue before searching up, poking into his nose and then journeying to his eyes. The boy's face was wrinkled and wise, and what the father saw was the mirror of himself and her, not at the beginning of life, but at the end, when all that is to be learnt is past and done.

Finally, he looked up, turned his head and saw his wife, lying still on their bed. Her face was ashen. The edges of her eyes were red and her lips were a pale bisque yellow with pink rims, deflated by the exhaustion of the end.

 

…..

 

I don't want no pauper's grave for her, Will said. His voice was gravelled in the back of his throat.

It'll be no pauper's grave, Will, said the Priest. He had comfortable furrows in his forehead.

I don't want her lying on someone else, said Will, or someone pressing down on her, cause there's no where else, because I can't pay premium.

What else are you going to do with her man?

Will looked from the Priest, to the boy's cot by the fireplace. He shook his head. His body trembled.

She needs a proper burial, lad, said the Priest. It's what she would have wanted.

To live, that's what she would have wanted.

I can understand your anger, Will-

I'm not angry, he said, looking directly at the Priest. I am broken hearted. His jaw was clenched. His short cropped hair was spiked. His eyes were wide and streaked red with grief. His big hands were fists by his side.

The Priest looked Will directly in the eyes. I don't want to fight with you, Will, he said.

Will sniffed and shuffled on his feet. Then let me be.

There are no words of comfort that I can offer you, Will, said the Priest softly. I can only imagine your pain and that is enough to make it unbearable to me. I would be angry. I would be distraught if I were in your shoes. We are but men and we feel as men do. Sometimes I just want to scream at the sky. At him. God. My God. And I do. I walk out into the hills and I scream and shout. It might get it off my chest but does it do any good in the wider scheme of things? No. Does it rest my soul? No. We are small and insignificant to his will. And he tests us. When that test comes, we must rise to it, even if we know not why. There is more at stake than the everyday trials that we endure. There is more to life. There is reason even if that hidden will of God remains a mystery to us until the hour of hour of our death, it is there and we cannot run from it.

Will looked at the Priest. His gaze fell to the floor. She won't be coming back, he said. That I know. What you speak of, I don't know. The sun rises in the morning, that I know. It sets at night too. And here is something else that I know. She is lost to me. She is lost to the son that she suffered to create.

 

…..

 

Will sat in the bare room in the cold half dark, with the boy in his arms. The apartment was pungent with the mildew of decay. Getting onto his knees he placed the boy in his cot, moved to the fire, reached for the cloth that sat on the mantelpiece, put it under the hot handle of the kettle and poured the hot water into the bucket. He crossed to the sideboard and rummaged in a drawer until he found a sharp knife which he took, with the bucket, into the bedroom.

His hand hesitated before pulling back the sheet that covered her body. Her night gown was stained with blood. Using the knife to cut her out of her night clothes he revealed her body, naked, her arms coyly over her breasts, like a virgin, her body frigid in the shame of death.

From the bucket, he scooped up some water and began to wash her tenderly, his hands stroking her, tracing the contours of her features, passing down to her thighs, her legs, reclaiming her body for himself. Kneeling he rested his head on her belly and closed his eyes. For a few seconds.

He stood, brushed his hand through her hair, bent, kissed her softly on the lips and put his arms around her; not so much in an embrace but so that he could remove the soiled linen from the bed, which he did as gently as he could.

Stored in an old chest at the foot of the bed he found a clean and embroidered sheet, the one that had greeted them on their wedding night. This he unfolded and passed under her body before cocooning her in the cloth.

Once her chrysalis was complete he stood over her breathing quietly before he walked out of the bedroom to the cot, knelt and picked the boy up. The child was light and seemed to float in his arms. He carried his son out of the room across the hall to the door of his neighbour and knocked.

 

…..

 

He carried her body into the street, laying her on the bedroom door that he had already placed there and then wrapping the rope in a lattice pattern to secure her. The tenement families were watching him from their windows as he reached for the tools, the pick axe and spade that he had borrowed from a neighbour and tied them to the side of the door, mindful that they should not touch her. He took a piece of rope and threaded it through two holes that he had gouged in the top of the door, tied it into a circle, slung it over his shoulder and took up the slack.

He heaved his way by the figures who appeared in doorways, men removed their caps and bowed their heads; the Autumn wind ran like banshees though the windows and alleys in gusts that swirled around them stinging their ears. Will's pace was heavy and slow. The tenements gave way to terraces which stood hunched up together, their inhabitants lining the streets, some with candles in their hands, others with flowers which they silently placed in the rope work as he passed.

…..

 

The night was mizzled and curtained in damp. The weight that he dragged dug into his shoulders. The wood of the door chafed the road, bouncing on the uneven surface, snapping the rope like reins and a whip. The boscage, the bosket and the brier cracked under the black mass of the night, the stars hidden behind a thick moss canopy of sweating clouds. His breath, which was frosted and sharp, vanished into the gloom that enclosed him. The tools clunked on the side of the door, their vibration jolting him.

Half a mile out of the town he turned left off the road to mount the hill, his feet slipping under the grass, the door tugging. The firm ground became soft steeped mud and sucked his feet down, forcing him to fight for each step. His thighs were aching, his hands numb, his damp hair flat to his scalp, the sweat under his coat cold and making for his bones. He struggled on in stubborn concentration, his head rolling from one side to the other. He fell, his hands sinking into the freezing clay. His trousers were soaked, the course serge a cold skin against his legs. He stumbled, dropped, stood, fell, fought, gasping, his lungs filling with the clag of the land. He stopped for breath resting his hands on his knees. And then on again, up into the hill where the sludge transformed to rock, sodded by bristled tufts of bracken. Thorns snagged and tore into his flesh, caught on her corpse, the devil's claws trying to claim her for his own.

His feet struggled for grip with the elevation of the climb; his hands grabbing clumps of grass which came away. Feet scrambling and then his hands grasping, this time the grass holding. He lifted himself onwards, foot after foot.

The ground became earthen once more, firmer under his feet and more even. The clouds began to pull aside like curtains revealing veiled head dress of the moon. The walking was easier now and the sheer struggle gave way to relief and collapse as he arrived at their retreat. There, he had smiled and they had kissed and passed many a day there.

He unhitched himself from his load, removed his coat, took the pickaxe and began to hack at the ground. The earth loosened. He swapped the axe for the shovel, cleared the mud and gravelled rock, then once more took up the pick. He worked through the depth of the night. Dawn came and went, the sun rose. By the early afternoon he was finished and for a moment he rested.

Hoisting himself out exhausted and caked in mud, he crawled over to her, dragged her to the edge of the pit and loosened the ropes which held her to the door.

He unravelled the cloth from her face and looked upon her for the very last time. He lent forward, kissed her forehead, then her lips and pressed his cheek to hers. He was still for a long while. With a final kiss he closed up her shroud.

He eased himself back into the grave, took her into his arms, held her and then lowered her gently down so that she lay at his feet. He uttered no words.

He reached up for the pile of earth to the side of the pit and began to bury her slowly, never letting the rock or sediment fall heavily upon her. He buried her as if he was burying his most precious treasure.

When he felt his work could not damage her, he climbed out, shovelled the remaining earth to close up her grave.

Turning to look at their view stretching into the distance, he sat on the damp grass as a breeze blew through his hair and billowed beneath his shirt, chilling the sweat on his skin. Below the rocks, the land was shaded musty lemon, lime, harrowed greens, the slow animation of autumnal browns, sun shot reds, dry hay yellows, amber, cinnamon, deep mahogany, blushing auburn as wild moor blurred to dark ploughed land.

He thought about her in the landscape, her smile, her nose, her hair, her eyebrows – her intelligent eyebrows, which were pointed instead of curved when she listened or spoke.

He thought about the last times he had spent with her.

He thought about her pregnant, her full belly that never seemed to weigh her down or distemper her in any fashion, her smile as she stroked the bump, the distant look in her eyes as she felt their child move.

He remembered too her temper, that once she had thrown her wedding ring at him. He couldn't recall why, or how the argument had finished, just remembered that she had.

Mostly, though, he remembered how she felt at night with her head on his chest, the conversation petered out. As her breathing became heavy, her body would twitch with the last flickerings of the day and always before him, she settled still to sleep.

Will – A Story

Will was alone, his ear to the door, the pain beyond it near splitting the wood. He heard the doctor issue orders and pushed himself away from the door as the Nurse, whose face and hands were covered in blood, dashed out of the bedroom to call for hot water. The sight of the blood made him shudder. Through the door he could see his wife lying pale and exhausted on the bed. The doctor was by her side talking, though she was barely able to listen. The whites of her eyes showed, her face contorted and then her whole body buckled in agony. Her scream wrenched the nurse back.

Will snatched the large black kettle from the hearth, dashed down the two flights of stairs to the pump which stood in the courtyard behind the tenement, thrashed it until he had filled the kettle with water, ran back up.

There was no wood or coal with which to build a fire to heat the water – nothing but two chairs and their table, at which they had imagined themselves to be King and Queen. Her screams were coming quicker. He put the kettle down, seized his small axe, and began to hack at the furniture in an unsentimental frenzy that reduced it to a dismembered heap.

Other than her bible, there was no paper with which to set the kindling he had split from the table. The book had survived three generations and contained the names of her father, mother, grandfather, grandmother and her great grandfather. He ripped pages from the middle, crushed them into balls, placed them in the grate, built up the fire with the kindling he had split from the furniture and topped it with the thick mutilated legs of the table.

Reaching from the hearth to the sideboard he retrieved a box of matches from a drawer, fumbled it and the entire contents scattered across the floor, forcing him to scramble on his hands and knees. He snatched up a match, struck it too hard. It exploded uselessly in an arc to the floor. He picked a second and forcing himself to be more gentle it flared alight. He put the match to the paper in the fireplace. The flame caught. It flicked and fought as though it would drown if it could not keep its hold. He began to blow to help it on. His first breath was too strong and he nearly put it out. With the second and then the third breath the wood began to crackle and spit as the flame grew. He grabbed the kettle and hung it on its hook above the fire, reached for another piece of wood, but stopped. For a moment he listened. Beyond the sound of his breathing and that of the fire there was nothing. Not one sound.

Into the silence the child cried.

He stood and turned to face the door. There was a flicker of movement in his hand. His chest rose and fell and he waited. After a while the child's crying subsided. He heard whispering and the shuffling of feet before the door opened slowly to reveal the Nurse standing there, blood smearing the edge of her hairline. In her arms she held his babe, wrapped in the swaddling that his wife had so lovingly prepared.

It's a boy, the Nurse said quietly, he's a beauty.

He crossed over to her, his feet creaking on the floorboards. She held the bundle out and he reached awkwardly to take his son.

The boy felt fragile in his arms, his limbs soft and weak. His hands were out of proportion to the rest of him, the palms etched with delicately sugared lines. He watched in wonder as the little body began to move, flickering recitations of labour, his legs winding and weaving muscle together, his face and eyes in shuddery action.

Will lifted him to his lips and kissed his face, careful not to rub the boy's new skin with the coarseness of his unshaven jaw. He felt the child's hand run along his cheek, his long thin fingers hooking into his bottom lip, the tips touching his tongue before searching up, poking into his nose and then journeying to his eyes. The boy's face was wrinkled and wise, and what the father saw was the mirror of himself and her, not at the beginning of life, but at the end, when all that is to be learnt is past and done.

Finally, he looked up, turned his head and saw his wife, lying still on their bed. Her face was ashen. The edges of her eyes were red and her lips were a pale bisque yellow with pink rims, deflated by the exhaustion of the end.

 

…..

 

I don't want no pauper's grave for her, Will said. His voice was gravelled in the back of his throat.

It'll be no pauper's grave, Will, said the Priest. He had comfortable furrows in his forehead.

I don't want her lying on someone else, said Will, or someone pressing down on her, cause there's no where else, because I can't pay premium.

What else are you going to do with her man?

Will looked from the Priest, to the boy's cot by the fireplace. He shook his head. His body trembled.

She needs a proper burial, lad, said the Priest. It's what she would have wanted.

To live, that's what she would have wanted.

I can understand your anger, Will-

I'm not angry, he said, looking directly at the Priest. I am broken hearted. His jaw was clenched. His short cropped hair was spiked. His eyes were wide and streaked red with grief. His big hands were fists by his side.

The Priest looked Will directly in the eyes. I don't want to fight with you, Will, he said.

Will sniffed and shuffled on his feet. Then let me be.

There are no words of comfort that I can offer you, Will, said the Priest softly. I can only imagine your pain and that is enough to make it unbearable to me. I would be angry. I would be distraught if I were in your shoes. We are but men and we feel as men do. Sometimes I just want to scream at the sky. At him. God. My God. And I do. I walk out into the hills and I scream and shout. It might get it off my chest but does it do any good in the wider scheme of things? No. Does it rest my soul? No. We are small and insignificant to his will. And he tests us. When that test comes, we must rise to it, even if we know not why. There is more at stake than the everyday trials that we endure. There is more to life. There is reason even if that hidden will of God remains a mystery to us until the hour of hour of our death, it is there and we cannot run from it.

Will looked at the Priest. His gaze fell to the floor. She won't be coming back, he said. That I know. What you speak of, I don't know. The sun rises in the morning, that I know. It sets at night too. And here is something else that I know. She is lost to me. She is lost to the son that she suffered to create.

 

…..

 

Will sat in the bare room in the cold half dark, with the boy in his arms. The apartment was pungent with the mildew of decay. Getting onto his knees he placed the boy in his cot, moved to the fire, reached for the cloth that sat on the mantelpiece, put it under the hot handle of the kettle and poured the hot water into the bucket. He crossed to the sideboard and rummaged in a drawer until he found a sharp knife which he took, with the bucket, into the bedroom.

His hand hesitated before pulling back the sheet that covered her body. Her night gown was stained with blood. Using the knife to cut her out of her night clothes he revealed her body, naked, her arms coyly over her breasts, like a virgin, her body frigid in the shame of death.

From the bucket, he scooped up some water and began to wash her tenderly, his hands stroking her, tracing the contours of her features, passing down to her thighs, her legs, reclaiming her body for himself. Kneeling he rested his head on her belly and closed his eyes. For a few seconds.

He stood, brushed his hand through her hair, bent, kissed her softly on the lips and put his arms around her; not so much in an embrace but so that he could remove the soiled linen from the bed, which he did as gently as he could.

Stored in an old chest at the foot of the bed he found a clean and embroidered sheet, the one that had greeted them on their wedding night. This he unfolded and passed under her body before cocooning her in the cloth.

Once her chrysalis was complete he stood over her breathing quietly before he walked out of the bedroom to the cot, knelt and picked the boy up. The child was light and seemed to float in his arms. He carried his son out of the room across the hall to the door of his neighbour and knocked.

 

…..

 

He carried her body into the street, laying her on the bedroom door that he had already placed there and then wrapping the rope in a lattice pattern to secure her. The tenement families were watching him from their windows as he reached for the tools, the pick axe and spade that he had borrowed from a neighbour and tied them to the side of the door, mindful that they should not touch her. He took a piece of rope and threaded it through two holes that he had gouged in the top of the door, tied it into a circle, slung it over his shoulder and took up the slack.

He heaved his way by the figures who appeared in doorways, men removed their caps and bowed their heads; the Autumn wind ran like banshees though the windows and alleys in gusts that swirled around them stinging their ears. Will's pace was heavy and slow. The tenements gave way to terraces which stood hunched up together, their inhabitants lining the streets, some with candles in their hands, others with flowers which they silently placed in the rope work as he passed.

…..

 

The night was mizzled and curtained in damp. The weight that he dragged dug into his shoulders. The wood of the door chafed the road, bouncing on the uneven surface, snapping the rope like reins and a whip. The boscage, the bosket and the brier cracked under the black mass of the night, the stars hidden behind a thick moss canopy of sweating clouds. His breath, which was frosted and sharp, vanished into the gloom that enclosed him. The tools clunked on the side of the door, their vibration jolting him.

Half a mile out of the town he turned left off the road to mount the hill, his feet slipping under the grass, the door tugging. The firm ground became soft steeped mud and sucked his feet down, forcing him to fight for each step. His thighs were aching, his hands numb, his damp hair flat to his scalp, the sweat under his coat cold and making for his bones. He struggled on in stubborn concentration, his head rolling from one side to the other. He fell, his hands sinking into the freezing clay. His trousers were soaked, the course serge a cold skin against his legs. He stumbled, dropped, stood, fell, fought, gasping, his lungs filling with the clag of the land. He stopped for breath resting his hands on his knees. And then on again, up into the hill where the sludge transformed to rock, sodded by bristled tufts of bracken. Thorns snagged and tore into his flesh, caught on her corpse, the devil's claws trying to claim her for his own.

His feet struggled for grip with the elevation of the climb; his hands grabbing clumps of grass which came away. Feet scrambling and then his hands grasping, this time the grass holding. He lifted himself onwards, foot after foot.

The ground became earthen once more, firmer under his feet and more even. The clouds began to pull aside like curtains revealing veiled head dress of the moon. The walking was easier now and the sheer struggle gave way to relief and collapse as he arrived at their retreat. There, he had smiled and they had kissed and passed many a day there.

He unhitched himself from his load, removed his coat, took the pickaxe and began to hack at the ground. The earth loosened. He swapped the axe for the shovel, cleared the mud and gravelled rock, then once more took up the pick. He worked through the depth of the night. Dawn came and went, the sun rose. By the early afternoon he was finished and for a moment he rested.

Hoisting himself out exhausted and caked in mud, he crawled over to her, dragged her to the edge of the pit and loosened the ropes which held her to the door.

He unravelled the cloth from her face and looked upon her for the very last time. He lent forward, kissed her forehead, then her lips and pressed his cheek to hers. He was still for a long while. With a final kiss he closed up her shroud.

He eased himself back into the grave, took her into his arms, held her and then lowered her gently down so that she lay at his feet. He uttered no words.

He reached up for the pile of earth to the side of the pit and began to bury her slowly, never letting the rock or sediment fall heavily upon her. He buried her as if he was burying his most precious treasure.

When he felt his work could not damage her, he climbed out, shovelled the remaining earth to close up her grave.

Turning to look at their view stretching into the distance, he sat on the damp grass as a breeze blew through his hair and billowed beneath his shirt, chilling the sweat on his skin. Below the rocks, the land was shaded musty lemon, lime, harrowed greens, the slow animation of autumnal browns, sun shot reds, dry hay yellows, amber, cinnamon, deep mahogany, blushing auburn as wild moor blurred to dark ploughed land.

He thought about her in the landscape, her smile, her nose, her hair, her eyebrows – her intelligent eyebrows, which were pointed instead of curved when she listened or spoke.

He thought about the last times he had spent with her.

He thought about her pregnant, her full belly that never seemed to weigh her down or distemper her in any fashion, her smile as she stroked the bump, the distant look in her eyes as she felt their child move.

He remembered too her temper, that once she had thrown her wedding ring at him. He couldn't recall why, or how the argument had finished, just remembered that she had.

Mostly, though, he remembered how she felt at night with her head on his chest, the conversation petered out. As her breathing became heavy, her body would twitch with the last flickerings of the day and always before him, she settled still to sleep.

#SampleSunday – Heaven Sent – Extract

I was on my phone to my Toots, when this body splat and cracked on the floor beside me. Fuck I, it made me jump and I dropped my phone. It chipped the plastic a bit, but the screen was fine and Toots was still there. I said, Fuck.

What? Toots said.

Like totally fucking dead.

Who is?

Fuck I.

What?

I looked up at the sky. He like must have, I said. Fuck me.

What?

He must have. He must have. Fuck it, got to go.

Rufus, talk to me.

Got to go, Toots.

I hung up, looked at the dead kid. There was blood and brains oozing out of a crack in his head. And I thought, oh fuck it, switched the phone into camera mode, and started snapping away. I got down onto my knees to get close ups. I had to lie down to get the pics of his face, what was left of it.

That's when I heard these two voices, like an echo coming from the other side of the tower. Fuck did I freeze. Only my eyes moved. I only had one chance to get this so quick as you like I was in the bushes and round the other side. And that's when I got them. Arm in arm. The light was just perfect on their faces and where it was shadow it was like deep crushed and black. I'll tell you what for free, that girl is fucking beautiful. I wouldn't think twice about fucking her, even if she did kill that kid.

Anyway's, I stuck hidden as they made their escape, then I checked out mi pics, chose the ones I liked, logged into Facebook and posted the complete works in a folder I called, What The Fuck. Then I called my toots back.

It was Toots who got me to call the cops. And this cop came who said his name was Moses. He made me sit down and then stood over me. His bell was in my face, which weren't non too pretty and the sun shone on his bald head. There was pigs everywhere. Proper CSI. Grisham eat your fucking heart out.

Moses said, you put the images on Facebook?

I nodded.

Can I see them?

Sure. I handed my phone to him.

And then I just carried on looking at that dead kid. I reckons they kept me there to try and freak me out.

You're not troubled by a dead body, said copper Moses, as he flicked through the images on my phone?

It's the first one I've ever seen, I said. And thought this is well wicked man. Look at the cunt, his face looks like an apple that's well passed it's sell by.

Really? He said

Yeah, I said.

And it doesn't bother you?

No.

Moses kept a poker face. He looked up from the phone to me and then looked behind him to the body of Stanton. He took another look at the phone before stepping back to look at the corpse, which was looking well ragged.

You must have lain beside him to take this? He said.

Yeah, I said.

Moses raised his eyebrows.

A copper appeared from behind the tower. We've found a knife sir, he said.

What kind of knife?

A second world war Nazi bayonet.

Nazi?

Yeah.

Where?

Up there, at the top.

Prints?

Two sets, sir. One them are his sir, he said indicating the dead kid.

Moses nodded. He started going through the photos again. He showed the pics of the girl leaving with that other kid. This them?

I must have nodded.

She's very beautiful, he said

She was fucking amazing, I said.

He looked at me. We'll need to have access to your Facebook account.

Why?

Because we need to remove the images you put up.

You can't do that, I said – fuck me coppers are one short of a battery set.

Don't tell me what I can't do, sonny.

No, mate, what I mean is, they're out there.

Come again?

You can't take them down, they've been copied and pasted already. I've had, like, hundreds of comments. Those two, in the picture, I said, they're bill board beautiful. They're like stars already. And that girl, that girl is fucken hot. I mean, I'd fuck her. I wouldn't think twice about it.

Fuck me, cops are thick. Lol.

 

I've just been tinkering with the book description blurb on Amazon and Smashwords so its all down, I'm afraid. Leave a comment with your email and I'll let you know when it is back up and running. Alternatively you can check em yourself when you have mo. Here they be Amazon and Smashwords

#SampleSunday – Heaven Sent 3

During the week he could think of nothing else but her black eye. Had it happened in that car she had climbed out of? He had only seen the shadow of the driver, was this the villain? Or had she wandered into some dark place like some caped crusader and dished out as much as she had received, leaving her attacker broken on the floor, exiting the scene as police sirens howled warning of their coming? It was not long before he too had been there, in the scene, and, once the blow had been planted on her, he shot into action and broke the hand of her assailant before splintering his legs to leave him begging for mercy, which he was not prepared to give, and it was she who stopped him from landing the killer blow for she was a creature of clemency.

At church on Sunday, he projected an image of her wracked up on the magazine stand, in a room with peeling wall paper and a soiled mattress on the floor with just an old blanket to cover her at night. He watched himself search the city for her, at first on his bike and then his bike was stolen, so he continued on foot, searching the run down tower blocks, creeping in behind boarded up shop fronts, or sealed old houses awaiting demolition, until he found her, lying desperate from her injuries and carried her to safety.

Daizee's poverty haunted him for three nights and her pain consumed him during the day. He needed to do something to help reverse it and help stand her on her own two feet.

On that Wednesday night he crept into his father's study and searched the desk drawers and then the filing cabinet for his Post Office account book, determined to draw out what money he had to give to her, with the condition that he might save her and deliver her from the torment of her life, that she might come and live with him until he was old enough to leave home and set up on his own. Living together in palatable poverty he would teach her all that she needed in order to equal him in study and join him at university, when he went, and from university they would travel the world. But the account book was not there, or more to the point, he had no idea what it looked like and, for fear his parents might wake, he worked in near darkness, with only the miserly glow of a desk lamp, the flex of which would not stretch to reach the filing cabinet. The next morning he questioned his father, asking, where is my Post Office book?

His father had no idea, and any way he doubted very much if there was anything in it at all.

Even so, said Carlo, I would like it, I have no need of the money, so I was thinking of giving it to charity.

I do hope you mean Oxfam, his mother said.

Yes, he answered, knowing how to play her, I will stay within the church.

I shall see if I can find it, she answered proudly, looking at him before glancing at her husband, whose nose was stuck deep into St Thomas Aquinas, over which only the shine of his bald scalp glistened. And, sure enough, when he returned from school, there it was sitting beside his supper plate. At lunchtime, the following day, he snuck out of school and headed for the local Post Office, where he withdrew the sum his Grandmother had left him before she died, a whole fifty pounds and fifty pence. The money was in his hand, new crisp notes that reminded him of the touch of the cloth of Daizee's coat on her shoulder where he held her the week before. As he fondled the cash he imagined that he was toying with the lobe of her ear, or smoothing her cheek, or better still erasing the black eye with a soft rub of his thumb.

That Friday afternoon, in class, he turned the money over in his pocket as he watched the hands of the clock slowly turn till the final bell of the day and he was on his feet and out in a dash, running the corridors, to the doors, to the gates, to the street, dodging the cars as he crossed the road. The sun was shining as he pounded passed the packed tower blocks, that dwarfed the three story high Victorian houses with green and blue berry stained glass above the front doors, through a network of red bricked, flat pack houses, down the hill into the royal barracked territory of private schooling, with palace walls and church sprawl, and cadets parading sea blue uniforms and die young greens.

Expecting that she would be late he was surprised to find her standing there, alone, smoking a cigarette, and behind her the temple facade of the city museum. Daizee was wearing a pair of tight blue jeans, a tight black t-shirt and on her shoulder a golden sunburst had tattooed itself. When she saw him she stubbed out her cigarette. His hand was inside his pocket to ensure that her money was still there, clasped it, and would have handed it to her first thing but she put her arm through his and said, why the fuck dew bring I ere?

What's wrong? he asked.

She said, I don't like et.

Why?

I jus don't. Taint my sort a place.

Why not?

Jus taint.

I come here all the time, he said. I love it.

Ets fucken ded.

Behind the green sparkle of her eyes he sensed a deep anxiety.

Come with me, he said. I want to show you something.

Wot?

Something that puts the fear of God in me.

Wot ez et?

You'll see.

I needz a piss furst, she said.

OK. There are toilets inside.

Entering through the sombre doors they heard stiletto footsteps echo round the gothic hall and rubber soles squeak on the old white marble floor. Daizee disappeared inside the toilet. When she came back out she was sniffing.

Carlo led her across the hall, through a narrow corridor past a dark tomb of a room in which lay the bones of a man that was once a hunter, his bones caked in black tar scabs and the remnants of rotten rags. As they crossed a second hall, from the ceiling of which was suspended a full size replica of the Wright Flyer lurching towards a crash, Carlo said it makes me shiver, just walking this way. Daizee failed to answer. When they turned the corner, at the top of the grand marble staircase, Carlo's eyes were closed.

Ha ha ha.

What's funny?

Ets the skel'ton of a deer.

It's a giant deer.

Et fucken ate grass, Carlo.

It used to give me nightmares.

Ha ha ha.

I still don't like coming in here.

Ha ha ha.

Stop it.

Fuck off.

No you, fuck off, he said.

Dohn't tell I to fuck off, she said. Dew fucken cunten et abowt, scar'd of a ded fucken deer. Her eyes were solid, cold jewels. She turned and abandoned him.

He caught up with her outside. She was half way down the hill of clothes shops and cafes, heading towards the old docks and the centre of the city.

He said, Stop. Daizee. Stop.

He put his hand out and grabbed her arm.

Daizee, please. I'm sorry.

The sun was burning in her eyes. Dohn't worree bowt it. Taint you.

What is it then?

She produced a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket, took one out, lit it, blew out the smoke quickly, took another drag and blew that out. I've bin thur bifor, she said and then she bit her lip, her hand was shaking slightly. Wiv Cristol.

Who's Cristol? he asked.

Ur muh. Err took I. I woz a litlun, like four maybe, summut like dat. Err was wiv summun, I don't know oo. Et weren't dat cunt, JG. Err seen lots o men. Ee whir tending et whir a famlay day owt. They'ms did fuck off sumwhirs. I don't know whir. A fucken room. Who fucken knows. They'm left I, looken at some ded cunt. Awl dat whir left o im whir fucken bones an black pox. An then thur whir shouten an screamen. Et whir Cristol, ur muh, screamen like a fucken banshee. They'ms was throwen her owt. Who knows wot err bin up to. They'ms was twozen et up, I shudunt wonder. An I wet miself cos I whir thur o mi tod, wiv em bones, standen in a pool of mi own piss. Dat's wot appened thur.

She looked at the floor and took quick drags of her cigarette.

Carlo watched her. Her head was bowed and her jaw was tight. Her eyes were moving up and down, to the pavement, to Carlo, to the feet of walking shoppers that surrounded them. She smoked fast. Her eyes were red.

Come on, he said, and took her hand. He led her into a crowded cafe, where he bought her a coke. They sat in the back at a small wooden table that had once been a sewing machine. She looked at her glass for a while, circling the edge of it with her finger.

Are you feeling better? he asked.

With her shoulders shrugged she stared ahead before hunching over her elbows, then she sat back and turned to Carlo. Why's you scared o the skel'ton of a deer?

I don't know, he said. I just am, I guess. I came across it by accident when I was little and it took me by surprise.

Wot dew got to be scared of, she asked, whir you's on yer tod?

No. I was with my mum. I ran off. Ahead. Turned a corner and there it was. When mum caught up with me I was standing there frozen to the spot.

Wot err do? Laff?

Mum? No. She picked me up and gave me a kiss. He looked at the counter and the queue of people, the bank of cakes and sandwiches. Funny, he said, I'd forgotten all about that.

Wot?

That my mum was there.

Et mus be nice, she said, to ave yer muh do dat.

Do what?

Not leave you standen en yer own piss.

She wouldn't do that, he said. Suddenly aware that the cafe was crowded he lowered his voice and added, it's not all good.

She nodded but her eyes flicked away.

They're mad. My parents.

So?

Everyone else's parents are normal and mine are weird.

Wot's weird bowt em?

He shuffled in his seat.

Yer blushen, she said.

Am I?

Yeh, she chuckled, tell I. She was looking from outside of his spaceship again.

He looked down at the table. They're religious.

Wot like happee clappee?

No. They're Catholic.

Right, she said, not really understanding.

Carlo breathed out.

Dew might need to get over et.

What?

Yer folks. They'ms thur. Even if ets a li'ul fucked up, taint nastee fucked up.

You'd understand if you met them, he said.

I wohn't be meeten em, she half laughed.

Why not?

I jus wohn't, she said, turning away. Her expression had turned cold. When she turned back to him, she said, dat's timez up, I gotta get go.

He nodded.

She got up. Looked down on him. I'll sees ya next week. And bent down and gave him a kiss on the cheek. OK?

Yeah, he said softly. Oh, listen, I've got a bit more money for you this week.

She smiled. Almost stuck her hand out for it and then said, dohn't worree bowt et.

That next week they stood on Clifton Suspension Bridge. They were looking down at the oil slick of the River Avon on which a grey ship taxied like a hearse in procession, mournful to Avonmouth, on its way to the sea.

Ur real dad were a sailor, said Daizee.

Carlo turned to face her and smiled.

Yeh, so Cristol sed. Err met im one night down the docks. Err whir wurken thur, ya see, an iz ship were in port.

What work did your mum do? he asked.

She glanced out to the forest cresting the gorge top. Ah, it dohn't matter non, she said sadly. Anyweys, ee smuggled err on board iz boat an dat's ow I whir got. Den summun found em, together like, an ur muh whir kicked off. Err whir right cut up speshlee az they'm was like found in the throws of… oh dew nose, twozen et up. They'ms dint av no chance ta swap addresses. Err ung to iz memree mind. Err did dat. Used to sey dat ever time err looked a I et made err fink on im. I ust to like dat. Ur muh ust to sey dat ee was the onlee bloke err ever got on wiv the best, an dat sex in a ammock were a right giggle, speshlee when yer tryen to keep the noise down an not let on dat yer thur atawl. Et were like totallee tragic dat ems lost contact. Err sed ee would cum bak one day. Err ne'er gave up on im. Sillee cunt.

Carlo said, life is about hope.

Daizee said, no, ets a fing you's livez throo.

 

Heaven Sent is available from Amazon and Smashwords Currently only 99c!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Heaven Sent For Less Than A Buck

It is my pleasure to announce that Heaven Sent has entered 'book for less than buck' history.

Yes, you heard it right, for a limited period only, Heaven Sent will be available at all outlets for 99c – that's 70p British people.

Heaven Sent twists and turns, it shocks and awes, it bullets straight for the heart and lifts you from the gutter on wings of lyricism.

It will take you on a journey into the dark unlike any other literary experience you will have encountered and find you a light for your lost soul.

For less than a buck. Redemption is cheap! Go Get Here.

***** "Mix together Romeo and Juliette with Bonnie and Clyde and throw them into J.D Salinger's Catcher in the Rye and you'll get an explosive, brilliant and breath taking novel: Heaven Sent, by debut author Xavier Leret." evie-bookish

*****"A wonderful coming-of-age story meshing dark experience with the dictates of religious rules and heavenly mercy, this is a book to savor and remember long after reading." Sheila Deeth

*****"A novel with a lasting effect…highly recommended!" Rachel.Amazon.com

*****"A heartbreaking, beautiful, romantic story, if you ever find the same love that these main characters have keep it!" Book Girl Addict

*****"Leret displays a deftness with language and dialect that leaves the reader feeling eerily connected with the teenaged protagonists, who feel severed from the society in which they live." Marjorie. GoodReads

*****"a work of genius." Steve Emmett

Be tempted. Buy here.

 

I’m Appearing On The GZone Radio Show

I am appearing on the GZone Radio show on Tuesday 24th 9am EST. Do not fear if you miss it as you will be able to download the podcast – well forever. You got it a digital copy will be available in perpetuity! Ah the joys of technology, what did humanity do without it? You will be able to find this and all the past shows here. Do check it out.

 

I'm Appearing On The GZone Radio Show

I am appearing on the GZone Radio show on Tuesday 24th 9am EST. Do not fear if you miss it as you will be able to download the podcast – well forever. You got it a digital copy will be available in perpetuity! Ah the joys of technology, what did humanity do without it? You will be able to find this and all the past shows here. Do check it out.

 

Abort

It was the Royal Free Hospital. Down in the bowels, past the AIDS test room. My wife and I walked past a couple awaiting results. They were chatting quite pleasantly. I don't suppose there is anything else to do there. It was a small cut out square in the corridor. There were no windows just a lot of yellow ill air.

Before I go on, we were walking towards the abortion room. It's tucked away in a place without light. I kid you not.

So how do I justify or really do I need to? My wife was nearly killed by the birth of our daughter. We ain't kids anymore, my wife's over forty so the prospect of a disabled child is higher. It wasn't planned. But mostly my wife was nearly killed.

It was past the AIDS smell of the hospital, under the spider's lid, the flap that takes you down as prey.

In a small room we sat cramped with other couples. There are magazines in the corridor, a library of affairs underneath posters advertising the morning after pill. So far it was easy. Natural. It was just an appointment.

In ancient days unwanted children were put inside pots and placed on hillsides. In China they leave them to die outside the train station, or at least they did. Now they have abortion gangs. They kidnap mothers and force them to give birth to still borns. There is no reason to attach anymore.

I'm not sure if human life is sacred. How can I be? There is flagrant abuse of it. Orders can be given which wipe out small handfuls in an instant, whilst a family elsewhere sues for a woman, who cannot breath on her own, hasn't spoken or communicated in years. A president can join in this fist fight as he opens his bowels on another country. No, life is not sacred. It is rather some thing that we vitally cling on to, and because it is our only one we attribute it a sense of importance that it doesn't deserve. By me stating that I believe that life is sacred, including yours, then perhaps you might not try and put an end to mine? We are not sacred. There is nothing sacred.

I was sitting there next to my wife. We were both quiet. I had taken the day off work. And there I was ready to flush a new life away. It is not yet human. I am unable to qualify what I mean by this term. What is human? Is it a thing with legs and hands, a head and a heart? Does it mean we are metaphysically significant? Are we an idea or a being?

My wife was examined. It was all fine. The foetus about six weeks old, except it was not a foetus, it was not a baby but a handful of cells. The doctor was humourless and tried to palm us off with contraception. We were made to feel sufficiently stupid. Sufficiently. And then sent off for a scan, to determine the age of this collection of dividing cells, this Petri dish of life.

The day was punctuated by waiting. Each second meant that the cells had been added to. Each long wait was an extra moment of its existence, more potential memories of future things popping into being. However as yet it is was not cognitive. Any form of personality would be an invention. Any qualities that we would attribute to it would be a fabrication. It would be our fantasy as parents, fantasies we were purposely nipping in the bud.

Again what is a human being? Is it defined by physicality, or action? Often, as a species, we act inhumanely but what does this mean? How can I be a human and act inhumanely? I can only be human.

When did I become human?

In the waiting room for the scan we were taken care of by an 82 year old man who was in great shape and good humour. When someone commented that he was in great nick he replied that he keeps the wife happy. We all laughed at this old man. Perhaps he was an accident too.

They made us watch the scan. It was like watching a radar of a hurricane storm and there in the middle a heart beat, like a solitary ship at sea fighting the storm that would eventually sink it.

Well it has been done. On Monday. It was done and we went home and we took our daughter into our arms and hugged her. Hugged her hard, as if to mould the dead one into her, like a piece of clay that had fallen off her beautiful sculpted body.