Phil Martin's Blog, page 6

BOOK: The Attached-chapter 2

The Attached-chapter 2
2.  
The casino was busy for a Tuesday night.   Navenka Banovic slinked between the crowds at the blackjack tables and headed back towards the bar.   Even with her three inch heels on she still towered above most of the clientele but she didn't feel self-conscious.   Not even the shortness of her gold, cocktail waitress uniform could knock her off her stride.   For the first time since she'd arrived in England she felt like she belonged.   London had been a disaster but Manchester looked like it might heal her pain.   The stretch of her smile sent out the right signals anyway. "You look radiant tonight, Navenka," the bar man said before taking her order. She thanked him for the compliment and smiled to herself as he fetched the drinks.   Looking good was one thing, feeling it was even better and she felt better than she had in a long time.   Maybe things were going to be alright after all.   She had prayed that her air fare to England would be her golden ticket; her new start in life but she knew there would be no guarantees.  The barman winked as he placed the last of her order onto her tray.  "Make sure you're polite on blackjack table five," he instructed.   "Second from the right, he's a regular but comes with a reputation." "Every man has reputation," Navenka said smiling.   "Some just decide not to publish it." She slinked back over to the tables and began handing out her drinks, each one with a smile.   The wage was basic but the tips made the job worthwhile.   She was earning more here than what she could earn with a proper profession even in Belgrade. She made sure she smiled as she handed out the whisky and coke to the man second from the right on blackjack table number five.   Without averting his stare from the table he inexplicably grabbed Navenka by the wrist as she placed his drink in front of him. "I said light on the ice," he said in nasal Mancunian.   "Four cubes of ice isn't light." He turned to face the cocktail waitress.   His head was large; his neck thick.   He had the same build as the bouncers on the door downstairs.   He stared angrily into her eyes.   Navenka stared back unsure as to how to handle the complaint but he didn't intimidate her and she knew her smile could defuse most men's anger. "Sorry for misunderstanding," she said coyly.   "On training day they tell me standard number of ice cubes is six.   Perhaps if you have won six chips at blackjack and dealer give you four you complain about...being light." The man's brow furrowed as he digested the words but then he nodded with a smile that said he was impressed by her comeback.   Navenka knew she had that effect on people.   She could win most people over just by looking into their eyes"Somewhere underneath that tight dress, you've got a massive pair of balls," he said relinquishing his grip.  "I like that.  .  .  in a manner of speaking." He stuck on sixteen and turned to face the girl. "Are you from Poland?" he asked. "Serbia," she corrected.   "But is common mistake." "Do you like your job?"Navenka thought for a second and then nodded. "What do they pay you here then? What's your take home?" the man asked. Navenka shrugged demurely.  "I don't think I tell you that," she said. "Go on don't be shy, hit me with the digits.   I'm sure I can make it worth you while." He slipped a fifty pound note out of his pocket. "You can keep the change from the drink if you tell me what you earn," he added. The generous tip wasn't an altogether rare occurrence and her pay wasn't exactly a big secret. "I am on minimum wage," Navenka said unashamedly.   "Five pounds eighty per hour." "And is that enough?""It is never enough." The man smiled at the beauty in front of him. "When's your next break?" he asked directly.   "I might just have a proposition for you." "I am not afraid to not be that sort of girl," she struggled.   "I meant a job offer," the man informed, "and not a one nighter; a real job.   Forget all that per hour bullshit they're giving you here.   If you pass the interview I'll put you on thirty grand; a proper annual wage.   Do you know what that means? Thirty grand?"Navenka knew all too well what that meant.   Her eyes instantly lit up and her eyebrows rose on the proposition presenting itself. "Let me level with you.   I run an estate agents," the man said.   "Lettings, rentals, you know.   We're getting a lot of Eastern Europeans coming over and I think you'd be perfect at dealing with them.   What do you think?""Maybe," Navenka replied.   "But I have no experience in selling house and I need to see business first." "Now that's hardly selling yourself," the man said feigning his disappointment. Navenka giggled, aware she was even flirting slightly.   Thirty grand was a lot of money. "You do interview now?" she asked waiting for a response that didn't come. "Okay, well I am person, person, my English is so so but I learn quickly and I like very much these houses you sell.   Will that do?"She signed her impromptu job application with another smile.    Her full lips stretched open to reveal her perfectly white teeth. "Congratulations, you passed the first interview," the man replied whilst flicking her a business card.   Manchester Lettings, it read. "Give me a call," he added as he got up to leave the blackjack table.   "I think we'd be good together." He flicked a chip towards the dealer and walked over to the cash desk to cash his chips. Navenka's heart pounded as she ran the conversation through her head and imagined life in a two-piece suit, showing people around new build houses and maybe even working in an office.   Working in an English office; it was what she'd always dreamed of.   Maybe this was the break that she'd been dreaming of too. ***Declan couldn't get the image of the girl's forlorn cry for help out of his mind.   It had seemed so real.   Her panicked pleading had kept him awake all night.   The look on her face, the trauma, her desperate situation; it all combined to torture his thoughts. Throughout a three hour meeting with a property developer all he could think about was the fear on her face as she rubbed away her makeshift message and the dark shadow loomed.  His brother had carried the whole meeting whilst he ran the Cheshire address through his mind. "You're such a fucking lemon," Samual slammed whilst accelerating his Audi R8 through the city traffic lights at the last second.    "Who in their right mind falls for a cam girl?""I've not fallen for her.   I'm just worried about another human being's general welfare.   That's all."  "Someone you've never met and someone who probably kept you online just long enough to clone your ID and empty your bank account?""She would have flashed something else if she just wanted to keep me online." "Maybe she was worried about how long you'd last."  "Yeah, yeah says the guy who got his girlfriend pregnant using the withdrawal method.   You know all about.  .  .  timing, don't you.   But listen, I went back onto that site and looked at every profile on there.   She was nowhere to be seen.   All her pictures had been removed.   Last night there were a dozen pics of her in various states of undress, today.  .  .  nothing.   That doesn't sound like someone wanting repeat business to me.   Does it to you?""Maybe your innocence showed her the error of her ways, innocence or outright stupidity.   You have cancelled your credit card haven't you?"Declan shook his head and fumed silently.  He knew the camgirl wasn't exactly going to be the one but she was unbelievably beautiful.   Maybe she just needed saving.   He banished the thought immediately.  "They barred me," he said instead.   "After her webcam went dead last night, no matter what I tried, I couldn't get back onto the site." "That's because she'd done you already."  "She gave me an address," Dec said pulling out the business card that he'd scrawled down her message on.   "A bricks and mortar address.   Well a street at least.  .  .   and it exists.   I checked online last night.   Now why would she give me a street name if she just wanted to rip me off?""Give me strength," Samual fumed, "or a brother with an ounce of common sense when it comes to the opposite sex.   You didn't tell her what car you drove did you? Maybe she wants you to drop that off as well as your credit card and your ID." "You can piss take all you want Sammy.   It's a Cheshire address, some big mansion style place on Chancery Lane, and guess what? I'm paying it a visit tonight." Declan slammed his breaks on and beeped at a car that had shot through the lights, mirroring his move of just a few seconds earlier. "Why on earth would you even contemplate doing something so obviously fucking retarded?"Declan was confident in his response.  "She was pleading for her life Sam, I mean literally pleading.   Do you know what that actually looks like when someone pleads for their life? It's haunting me.   You didn't see it.   It was horrible.   It's gonna live with me forever." Samual's high-pitched laughter filled the car.  "Seriously mate; you're a danger to yourself when it comes to girls.   Take my advice and stay well away from cam girls.  .  .  and mansions in rural Cheshire." ***The shrubbery along the road was at its densest towards the left of the house.   Under the cover of darkness, it provided just enough shelter for Declan to wait undetected and observe the comings and goings.  This had to be the address.   Chancery Lane was on millionaire's row but then all the streets in this part of Cheshire were dripping in more than just gold. The sprawling mansions were secluded, set back from the road and far apart from each other on acres of land.   What set this one apart from the rest were the thick lines of trees either side of a winding path, leading up to the huge house.   It could easily constitute the cam girl's 'woods' whilst the huge perimeter fencing and electric gates also set it apart.   It had been built a good two hundred meters away from the road with its main entrance hidden from sight around its side. Maybe his suspicions were getting the better of him but each vehicle had been sperated by exactly half an hour.   It was perfectly coordinated.   Each of the cars was a top of the range motor.   Something was definitely going on.  His Porsche Carrera lay abandoned a couple of hundred meters down the road and from his hideout he simply observed.   That was where his game plan ended.  The sudden vibrations of his mobile phone nearly jerked him from his hiding spot. "Hello could I speak to Mister Davenport?" the voice greeted before informing it was the fraud department from his bank. "Hello, Mister Davenport, I'm afraid to tell you that your card has been flagged up as having suspected fraudulent activity on it.   We've had no option but to put a hold on your card.   Would it be possible to run through some transactions from last night with?""Look it's not really a good time.  .  ." "The amounts involved are quite concerning Mister Davenport.   We think the fraudulent activity may have started with a transaction of just one pound fifty four pence.   They then jump to various amounts in their thousands, one thousand and twenty six pounds, three thousand and eighty one pounds.  .  ." "Jesus.   Please tell me these amounts haven't gone out," Declan interrupted.  "I'm afraid the first large amount went out before we could put a hold on your card.  .  ." "These are not my transactions," Declan stressed.   "I can be quite clear about that.   But you've done the right thing in putting a stop on my card." "Have you used your card anywhere unusual recently, anywhere that might.  .  ." "Yeah I can think of one place." Declan looked up to the mansion and wondered if the cam girl was the on the other side of its stone walls.   As he stared, two burly men suddenly emerged from round the side of the mansion.   Each had a Doberman straining at the leash.   They began to walk down the winding path.   Their eyes scoured the parameter of the fence as they moved.   One of them said something to the other and then they set the dogs free. Declan interrupted the fraud officer's list of transactions. "This really isn't a good time," he said.   "I'm gonna have to call you back." He finished the call abruptly and launched himself out of the undergrowth.  In just seconds, the dogs had torn up the distance between their handlers and the fence.   Their teeth snarled as they bounded straight towards him.    Another glance back up towards the house saw the two men break into a sprint forcing Declan to break into one of his own. The Dobermans reached the wall where he'd been standing and broke into unrestrained barks and snarls.   They followed Declan's sprint along the perimeter fencing, slobbering over each other to get closer. Declan sprinted hard to reach his car.   His hands shook as he pressed the unlock button from twenty odd meters away and even more as he tried to start the ignition.  He couldn't risk them seeing the reg. Even before he'd slammed the door shut, he'd put his foot to the floor and swerved onto the road glancing in his rear view before screeching round the first bend.   He was safe but still shaking with adrenalin and without a clue as to what was going on in that mansion.   Whatever it was, it looked massively dodgy. ***Samual edged off the terrace area and onto the path that led down his immaculately presented back lawn. A glance back towards the house and in through the French doors told that Steph was out of ear shot.   She was too preoccupied with singing nursery rhymes to Ollie as he jumped around in his baby bouncer. "I'm just not doing it," he said aggressively.   "So get it out of your head." "I just need a driver," Declan replied from the other end of the phone, "just someone to keep the motor running while I jump over the fence." Samual was fast running out of patience.   He glanced back at his wife.   Despite her pregnancy, she was still every inch the model he'd met three years ago.   If anything motherhood had made her even more beautiful.   But it wasn't her looks he'd fallen for; she really was the nicest person he'd ever met in his life.   Just looking at her with his son talked him down from the verbal beating he had been about to deliver to his brother. "Look bro, whatever you think it is that you're getting involved with...  don't.   So some cam girl wrote 'help me' on her tits; big deal.   Like I said it's probably just a ploy to generate repeat business."  "Are you not even the slightest bit curious as to why she'd write that?""Are you not even the slightest bit pissed off that she's wiped one thousand and twenty six pounds off your credit card?""Yeah well I'll get that back.   Besides, she's not the one doing the stealing.   She's being held captive in that mansion..."  "No she isn't you lemon."Samual realised the volume of his put down had attracted attention from the other side of the French doors.   He opted to quieten down his disbelief at his brother's stupidity.  "Get real Dec.   She's on the payroll. You've been done, so just leave it there.   Look I've got to go, the in-laws are here and I've got small talk to make." "But I've come up with a fool proof plan to find out what goes on in that mansion and more importantly get inside," Declan offered as quickly as he could before realising the phone had already gone dead.   "I just need a driver," he added, knowing already his comment was falling on deaf ears.



Copyright©2011 by Phil MartinAll rights reserved.

Buy The Attached, the second of four Manchester-based thrillers available from Amazon, written by me! Available for just $2.99 (available for i-tab, smart phone, PC, MAC or Kindle)

http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Attached-ebook/dp/B006CNC3DQ/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1322239785&sr=8-1

POEM: The city from my pillow

The city from my pillow
It sneaksin through my window, through my duvet too,It crawls undermy bed sheets; I haven't got a clue,How tokeep the city out when I try and sleep,For justone night I'd love to write, that I didn't hear a peep.
The voicesshout and laugh at first; somebody thinks they're funny, There'ssomeone sitting right outside asking folk for money,Thefootball chants start quite soon too, every night they sing,United arethe team for them and Eric is their King.
Wolfwhistles pierce the city air, as drunkards start to slobber,At hengirls strolling down the street dressed in burlesque clobber,One bloke triesa chat up line, his mind it plots and schemes,Do one youpunk, you must be drunk, not even in your dreams.
The hensall laugh and scuttle off to find their chippie shop,A herd ofgalloping horses pound, their heels all clippety clop,A carslams on and beeps its horn as one steps into its path,Then someonetells a dirty joke and a hundred hyenas laugh.
What'sgoing on? Was that a fight? Is it kicking off outside?I'd betterlook; I'd better check, someone could have died,But inseconds flat the hens are back, singing loudly and in time,"I've hadthe time of my life," they sing. I want to finish mine!  A mobilephone is ringing but the tune's not clear to me,Thensomeone's shouting in their phone like Trigger Happy TV,Every wordfilters up and wanders through my head,Wholesentences are queuing up at the bottom of my bed.
Back to mypit, I try again to block out all the noise,Butsomeone finds a traffic cone, to entertain his boys,He shoutsthrough it and sings a song then puts it on his head,Thensirens fill the city air, and silly boys with dread.
They shoutand scatter everywhere but the sirens carry on,Policecars roaring ever loud, then eventually they're gone, At last Ithink there's quiet, the city sounds quite calm,I spoketoo quick, I must be thick; a shrieking car alarm.
I sit upto figure out; did they move me in my sleep?Hassomeone pushed my bed outside, am I sleeping in the street?The noise isloud and shows no sound of ever letting up,Give up Ithink, you won't get a wink and consider getting up.
My earlynight will never be, I might just join my friends,Might justsee what bar they're in and see where my night ends,Butsilence falls to coax me in and keep me in my bed,It's likeit knows when I get up and sends quietness instead.
But nextit is nature's turn, rain crashes on my window,And I beg forsilence to return from the deep depths of my pillow, All thoughtsof sleep have disappeared; from my mind they're quickly wrenched.As howlsof pain pierce my ears as folk are swiftly drenched.
Shriekingfills the night again, laughs peppered by a scream,The noiseskeep my mind awake, it's impossible to dream,It's likeI'm on the street with them, it's like I am outside,Headphones,ear plugs, background tunes, there's nothing I ain't tried.
The onlycure, it seems to me, if revellers make you groan,Is stay outlate; like way past eight, and be the last one home,Last manstanding, last to bed, make sure you miss the noise,Thenstraight to bed, and straight to z's bring stillness to your poise.
But atlast it's silent outside my flat; the revellers have gone home,No shouts,no sirens, no alarms or annoying mobile phones,I turn mypillow, cold side up and shuffle snugly in,As silenceshrouds my city night, no noise at last, no din.
But then Ihear it faintly, although it's getting near,Thenrealise to my horror, the road sweepers are here,Clearingup the rubbish from the night before,I knowit's time to give up sleep as that hum becomes a roar.
The bottlebins are emptied from the bar over the street,I hear twowomen walking; high heels on their feet, The binmen are outside my flat; it couldn't get much worse,With theirlorry beeping loudly as they slow-ly reverse.
I know thescreech that follows too; I know it straight away,As metalsqueals around the town; the first tram of the day,The mainroad is alive outside; the next roar is from a bus,Nighttime's gone; I've missed my sleep and morning time's on us.
Manchesterhas woken up; my sleep shattered as it fails,The cityfrom my pillow; it tells a thousand tales,A thousandconversations all shouted and not said,When theonly sound I want to hear begins and ends with Z.
Copyright©2011by Phil MartinAllrights reserved.

Buy The Attached, the second of four Manchester-based thrillers available from Amazon, written by me! Available for just £2.09 (for i-tab, smart phone, PC, MAC or Kindle) First chapter available on this blog.


https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B006CNC3DQ


Buy Child Number Three, the first of four Manchester-basedthrillers available from Amazon, written by me! Available for just £2.09 (available for i-tab, smart phone,PC, MAC or Kindle) First six chapters available on this blog.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Child-Number-Three-ebook/dp/B005IRNYVM/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1321268694&sr=1-2

POEM: The flowers that never die

The flowers that never die
They sayyou play in heaven but that's a bit far-fetched,You'remore likely to kick about on the pitch where we were blessed,To haveyou represent us, the field where you've shone,I like tothink Old Trafford's where your legacies play on.
I like tothink you're watching us, your spirits in the stand, I like tothink from time to time that you give us a hand,I like tothink that bobble or that swerve is really you,Playingthe ball towards their goal just like you used to do.
I like tothink you push the team 'don't give up my son,'I like tothink you've played your part in every trophy won,I knowthat it's because of you we play the way we do,Coz thespirit of our flowers will always filter through.
Bent and Bryne defendthe flanks, Jones commands the back, Coleman, Pegg andWhelan, all feeding the attack, Edwards covers everyblade, imperious everywhere,Tommy Taylor leadsthe front, still deadly in the air.
So whenthe team looks beaten and the shirts can't find the heart,I like tothink your spirit...gives today's boys that kick start,To pile onthe pressure and not give up the game,Because ofyou we'll never die, we'll always be the same.
A luckyspin, a deflection or pinball in the box,I like tothink the lucky bounce comes from the ones we've lost, Aninetieth minute winner, scored in Fergie time,A helpinghand from the Busby Babes just like in their prime.
Coz theflowers and the phoenix shaped United to the core,And likepetals from those ashes, we knew that we could soar,For fromthat fateful runway, our club's destiny was made,So we singabout you every match so our memories never fade.
We singabout our Munich dead and a team that lay in the snow,Shroudedin our deepest red, all those years ago,We singForever and Ever, and of Sir Bobby and Matt Busby,And howthey fought on for the Flowers to win at Wembley.
I hope mygranddad's singing too, in his 'popular' stand,I like tothink he's clapping and waving a victorious hand,I hope he'sthere with other granddads, the ones that have passed on,So thecrowd's not seventy thousand but seventy million.
Those longlost Flowers of Manchester are the real reason why, For ninetyminutes every match, our team will never die,We'll riseand rise and rise again just like Matt Busby did,And playon in your memory; always U-Ni-Ted.
(But stillthose clowns sing Munich and mock their hero too,Coz one ofthe flowers of Manchester will always be a blue,When they'repraying for deflections or asking god for a gift,I wonderif that bobbling ball is saved by Frankie Swift.)
Copyright©2011by Phil MartinAllrights reserved.

Buy The Attached, the second of four Manchester-based thrillers available from Amazon, written by me! Available for just $2.99 (available for i-tab, smart phone, PC, MAC or Kindle)

http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Attached-ebook/dp/B006CNC3DQ/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1322239785&sr=8-1

BOOK: The Attached-chapter1

The Attached-synopsis

When God closes the door the Devil can open a window

Possession versus mental health versus heroin addiction; what if your girlfriend wasn't just restless in her sleep, she was murderous? Navenka Banovic and Declan Davenport are on a collision course from hell. Declan's search for the future Mrs Davenport takes him online, where a terrifying cry for help from a cam girl leads him to a secluded mansion in Cheshire's countryside.   Doubling as an illegal casino and brothel for the rich and famous, it hides the darkest of secrets.   Declan has to take on Manchester's most feared gang if he is to rescue the cam girl but they are the least of his worries.   His prize hides a far darker secret than the heroin addiction forced onto her.
Navenka must face up to her inner demons but Declan doesn't realise those demons are all too keen to take him on too.   As her night terrors turn more sinister and her behaviour becomes more erratic, it becomes clear that Declan's death is only part of the focus for whatever is controlling her. It wants revenge and that means both their lives are in danger.
A queue is forming though; the gang, her past in war-torn Serbia and her dark secret all block their route to future happiness. Declan will explore any avenue to find her salvation from psychological to spiritual.  Because as he learns, when God closes the door, the devil can open a window but Declan knows demons aren't real; Navenka just needs saving.
PROLOGUEShe reached into the rip she'd made in her mattress and slid her finger and thumb across the steel blade of the hidden knife.   Its harsh coldness reassured her.   Laying quite still she tried to regulate her breathing.   She knew the drill.   All too soon she'd hear the key turning in the door and the sound of drunken footsteps thudding against the wood of the stairs.   It always started like this but tonight it would end quite differently. The knife would end it all: the same knife that her grandmother had once chopped vegetables with.   The fleeting memory flashed through her head before being filed away in the memory banks of another life.   She missed her grandmother more than anyone else she'd lost.   Not a minute went by when she didn't curse the conflict in her head.   It had taken so much from her and had destroyed most of what it had left behind.   She blamed that horrible, cancerous war for everything and wondered what it would have been like to be born into another family, into another country, far away from the fighting. The sudden, solitary chime of the clock downstairs made her jump involuntary from her rigid state.   It was one o'clock.   It wouldn't be long now.   The fear prickled slowly through the hairs on her neck. She prayed that the footsteps would simply pass by her door; that a weary head would need its pillow; that a night of drinking at the tavern would have taken its toll, but she knew it wouldn't work out like that.  She blamed the alcohol and she blamed the war; a war that had affected everyone, a war that it would take decades for her people to fully recover from. Peace was a far off memory; the hot summers by the lake, her mother and father laughing and throwing her and her brother and sister into the air.   But then it had all changed.   Genocide, ethnic cleansing; it was bound to leave behind an evil legacy of mental torture for anyone close enough to witness it firsthand.   For years she had made excuses, for years she had pretended it wasn't happening.   At least she was protecting her sisters. The dull thud of his body against the door downstairs signalled he was home. She banished the memory of the lake as soon as she heard the key meet the lock.   There was no room for happiness in the task that lay ahead.   The door clunked quietly shut and the slow thud of foot on step signalled his ascent.   As the footsteps neared the top of the stairs she prayed again for him to just walk past her door but he didn't.   She closed her eyes tight and sensed his presence in her bedroom.    His feet made no sound as they slithered ever closer.   The stench of beer and cigarettes engulfed her. His shadow loomed over her; the white of his eyes just visible in the dark.   She reached again for the knife and fingered the blade feeling for the handle.  Through squinted eyes she saw him bring a finger up to his lips; a hushed warning to be quiet.   As her hand found the safest part of the knife she suddenly let go and lay back and closed her eyes tightly shut to pretend it wasn't happening.   She couldn't do it.   She couldn't kill her own brother. 
PART I1. Undeterred by who'd been waiting longest, Declan Davenport saw the gap at the bar and pushed into it.   Not that he wanted to get served.   He needed to hide.   The pillar provided just enough of an obstruction for him to reach undetected for his mobile so he made the call. "Why are you ringing me so early?" his brother asked with glee.   "Has she stood you up?"I wish she had, Sam.   She's an absolute a horror, nothing like I remembered." "That's one of the downfalls of the five to three pull mate," his brother mocked.Declan peered around the pillar to check his date was okay.   She was mid-conversation with one of her work colleagues. "First date and she's invited me out on her works do," Declan explained.   "I'm currently hiding at the bar from her and half her department.   They're treating us like Cupid's Friday night project. She's been going on for the last half an hour about how much she gets paid and how her bonus levels kick in.  She's obsessed with it. How do I get out of this one?"Declan glanced around the pillar again.   Charlene saw him this time and waved frantically back before mouthing the words 'white wine spritzer' at him.  "Just leave," Samual suggested.   "Everyone's done a bunk on a date.   It's called snog and run." "I can't do that, it's gutless," Declan said wincing at the thought. "Well be honest with her then."  "I haven't got the balls to tell her the truth pal.   No way."   "Just see it as protecting her from the truth." "And what am I supposed to say?" Declan asked in a hushed voice. "Get your drinks, go back over and I'll ring you.   Just keep saying 'oh no' really loudly and then tell her you've got to go because some kids are throwing stones at your Nan's window." "But we haven't got a Nan…""She doesn't need to know that numb nuts.   Now go back over and do what I've told you." Declan finished the call and struggled over with the drinks, squeezing into the booth whilst looking almost apologetically at his date.   His attempt at a greeting was immediately silenced by her ring tone.   I've Had The Time of My Life. The irony wasn't lost on Declan but Charlene's first two words wiped any smile away. "Oh no," she said followed by a succession of 'reallys' and 'oh my god's.'It was like she too had been primed on Samual's snog and run advice.  "What wrong?" Dec asked bemused when she finally finished the call.   "What's happened?""It's my niece. She's been hit by an ice cream van." Declan paused for a second to digest the statement and then burst into howls of laughter. "An ice cream van?" he said incredulously.   "But it's October." The show of shocked faces behind Charlene did little to deter his laughter.  "Sorry but it's a bit farfetched.  Who buys ice creams when it's brass monkeys outside?"The faces just stared back.  "Oh come on," he said as his smile subsided.   "I was just about to use the old 'kids throwing stones at my Nan's window' blag but she's trumped that tenfold with ice cream vans in October.   Are you all in on this?"He glanced over to her workmates for an acknowledgment but it didn't come.   Instead their collective mouths opened and eyes widened in anticipation.   It was the only warning Declan was given before Charlene's open hand made contact with his cheek. "You complete wanker," she hissed as she slapped him hard.   "She's broken her leg." ***Declan stretched out on his six-seat, corner sofa and read over the website's pledge again.   True love or take six months free, it promised.    Charlene hadn't been his first dating disaster, nor would she be his last.   You had to kiss a lot of frogs, he knew that.   It just seemed he'd been kissing a lot of toads, lizards and iguanas too.   He looked around his sixteenth floor, triplex penthouse in Salford Quays.   It had been all he ever wanted.   Girls would drop their guard, if not everything else, the moment they crossed the threshold.   But Declan wanted more than that these days; much more. The family bathroom business was booming.   The massive surge in residential properties in the city had seen to that.   The Davenports played hard, worked hard and then partied even harder; except recently, in the last few years, things had kind of changed.   Brother Samual was married off and Declan had been partying alone for far longer than he cared to remember.   The disco lights had faded and the glare of daylight was blinding. He was ready for the next stage of his life and he wanted it now. The ring of his mobile interrupted his thinking.   It was Samual, which meant more savage banter. "How come you didn't answer my get out of dodge call?" his brother asked. "I was too busy dodging the slaps from my dodgy date." "You're going about this all wrong mate," Samual explained once the piss take had subsided. "Nights out are the worst times to find a woman into today's ladette eats lad age.   They're not interested in one liners anymore but don't stress, you've just got to change your delivery and that just means a new platform. The internet has changed everything. Tuesday afternoons are the new Saturday nights when it comes to pulling.   The dance floor has been edged out by the chat room.   Get them when their bored at work and not allowed to chat to their mates.   Girls want to vet their men these days, speak to them online before meeting them, make sure they tick certain…boxes. Plus you get to keep your dodgy dates in cyberspace so there's no face to face embarrassment. The internet mate; it's how I met Steph." It was all the advice he needed to hear. By the end of the phone call, Declan had keyed in his credit card details and was a fully paid up, gold member of his very first dating site.  He filled out his profile; thirty to thirty five, athletic build, well nearly, dark hair, give or take a few wisps of grey breaking through on the sides. He uploaded a picture from a holiday a few years ago and pressed the search option.He was busy getting to grips with browsing his first few profiles when a chat box suddenly popped up.   It was time to chat. "Hi sexy," it said.   "Do you want to come on an adventure?""Maybe," Declan considered as he clicked on the tiny picture in the corner of the chat box.  Nice, he thought analysing the tiny detail of the thumbnail before it quadrupled in size and he realised it was a transsexual.  Blocked; not a good start."Hey cutie." Another chat box opened immediately. It was definitely a girl this time. "What would u do if I said I wanna lick ur belly button," she typed, "from the inside." Declan didn't need to say anything.   This was not how the future Mrs Davenport would greet him.   Blocked.   This was worse than trawling the pubs and clubs.   Sammy clearly didn't know what he was talking about. The popping of a third chat box looked slightly more promising in the form of a blonde, a very attractive blonde. "Hi," her simple message read.   "How are you?"It somehow seemed classy compared to the level of the last two intrusions.  "I'm fine now since you popped up in my life," he typed back "Cheeky," the girl typed followed by a pregnant pause.   "Do you wanna have some fun? I don't cost a penny but I'm very horny.   Follow this link and you can see how horny I am." The link to another site flashed up in his chat box.  "Don't be scared," the temptress typed.   "I don't bite.   I don't even type in capital letters unless you want me to." Was this a date in cyber space already?  Declan weighed up his options before clicking on the link.   It couldn't do any harm just looking, just to find out just what it was that she did do.   The link clicked through to a webcam with the girl lying on her bed in her negligee, twirling her hair.  "Do you want to watch me?" she typed.He noticed her fingers were nowhere near her monitor; a delay on the stream maybe.He was just about to pay her a compliment when the screen closed, leaving just a chat box.   Another link immediately popped up. "You just need to put in your credit card details.   Don't worry it's completely free.   It's just for age verification.   Type in the code and then I'll give you a free thirty minute show." "I don't think I'll need that long," Declan said to himself. He reached for his card and entered his details for what declared itself to be a site for Live Cam Girls.   This was virginal territory.   The girl's web cam flicked back into action.   She placed her face provocatively close to the camera, pouting her succulent lips and fluttering her eyelids as she did so.   She was the most alluring thing Declan had seen in a long, long time. "So what happens now?" he typed. "Just watch," she replied.  The girl began opening the top of her gown, revealing her ample curves and convincing Declan to reach a hand down to his jeans. She walked up to the camera and began lowering the top of her knicker line. "Nice," Declan typed.   "So where are you from? You look tall." The girl ignored the question and instead pushed her groin right up to the web cam before pulling down the hem of her knickers just enough to reveal two words in bright red lipstick.  'Help Me,' it screamed.Her expression changed again as she flashed the palm of her hand close to the camera.   'Mansion, big gates, woods,' she'd written in Mascara.Then the other hand. 'Chancery Lane, Cheshire.'She glanced behind and suddenly looked terrified, shouting something, screaming even.   Frantically she spat into the palms of her hands, rubbing them together and smudging the message into oblivion.  "Please, please, please," she mouthed silently with her face pressed up to the web cam, begging whilst flinching.  "They kill me."Declan froze as she cowered.  A shadow hovered above her and then lunged. Declan saw the fist pull back.  It struck the girl out of shot, knocking her to the floor.  Another figure emerged, striking the girl too, again and again.  The cam fell to the floor in the struggle.  Off screen the shadowy figures jostled and fought to overpower the girl. A hate-filled face suddenly filled the cam, shouting, veins bulging."Jesus!"Declan jumped as the screen suddenly went blank, the chat box closed and he found himself back on the home page.  The girl was gone.Hands shaking slightly, he tried to log back in but neither his password nor his username were recognised.   He checked his cap lock.   Still the site wouldn't let him in. Then it slowly dawned on him; he'd been barred, his free subscription had been cancelled.  All he was left with was the vision of the girl pleading for her life.
Copyright©2011by Phil MartinAllrights reserved.
Buy The Attached, the second of four Manchester-basedthrillers available from Amazon, written by me! Available for just $2.99 (available for i-tab, smart phone,PC, MAC or Kindle) 

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POEM: The memorial of Peterloo

The memorial of Peterloo Our kids don'tknow politically some of Manchester's feats,It'sstrange that we don't tell 'em of the war fought on these streets,It's odd thatwe don't say... just how those people died,Fightingfor the freedom that voting would provide.
It's nottheir fault; I don't blame them, only a tiny plaque was cast,To honourthis momentous day, this secret from our past,It's likeMPs are still embarrassed or maybe they don't care,For thisdefining moment of an age, Manchester's Tiananmen Square.
Coz itreally was the moment, that they forced politically,To changepublic opinion and bring democracy,  Is itfading from our memory banks, this fight some never knew?Ourgreatest moment of reform; the battle of Peterloo.
It willsoon be two hundred years, since fifteen people died,On thesevery streets of Manchester; where the authorities had lied,Theyclaimed it was a tragedy and arrested those who said,That itwasn't quite an accident but a massacre instead.
The peoplecame in thousands to fight against their toils,Sixtythousand gathered close to Discotheque Royales, Just fouryears after Napoleon and the battle of Waterloo,Povertyhad bitten hard and northern life was cruel.
We didn'thave the vote back then and jobs were hard to find,The CornLaws were a barrier and daily life a grind,The richwere getting richer; the poor had nowt to show,And richmps in London town just didn't want to know.
Revolutionistsin Manchester, guys like Henry Hunt,They choseto fight for normal folk and do what mps wouldn't,Butmarches south just didn't work out; London didn't yield,So theykept the fight here in Manc, and marched to St Peter's field.
The banners shouted loud and proud, their message defiant,Vote By ballot, No Corn Laws, Annual Parliament!It was time to drag our politics from this darkest ofDark Age,Let usdie like men, the women said, and not be sold like slaves.
Reformleaders across the north, gathered there to say,Thatparliament in London couldn't have it their own way,The massescame to listen; the authorities weren't too keen,At whatremains today the biggest... UK meeting ever seen.
But asthey started speaking and the crowds began to cheer,The localMPs panicked and ordered soldiers near,To runinto the ordered crowd and swing their swords about,To arrestthe public speakers and pull the leaders out.
But thecrowd refused to buckle and tried to stand its ground,They triedto hold their banners high and form a shield around, Thespeakers they were gunning for, their voices must be heard,Butthrough the crowds with sabres drawn, they were savagely murdered.
The horsestrampled, crushing folk, who had nowhere to go,Whilstsoldiers swung their swords, butchering innocents below,Some werestabbed by bayonet or trampled underfoot,Some wereshot by muskets as the cavalry went nuts.
Womendied, and kids were hurt, no concessions made,Thecavalry just didn't care for the people they had slayed,Eventuallythe soldiers won and broke the human shield,Fifteen killed,six hundred hurt, a bloodied battle field.
Arrestswere made and sanctions sought, the speakers put in jail,Buteventually from that shameful day, the changes they did hail,For on thesite those people died they built the Free Trade Hall,Where theAnti-Corn Law league won out; a free economy for all.
Demonstrationshadn't worked but a newspaper was born,One tochallenge everything and politically pour scorn,Today it'scalled The Guardian; a paper for us all,A tributeto the folk that died; a Manc memorial.
Copyright©2011by Phil MartinAllrights reserved.
Buy Child Number Three, the first of four Manchester-basedthrillers available onAmazon, written by me, at a cost of just $2.99 (available for i-tab, smart phone,PC, MAC or Kindle) First six chapters available on this blog.
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POEM: Pillar of strength

Pillar of strength

Chargrilled,burnt out buildings spewing up their insides,Carcasses,stripped of all their meat, spilled guts, missing their sides,Contortedconcrete confetti, showered in shards of glass,Roofsripped away like cardboard by the power of the blast.
Thestreets all strewn in debris; the end of the world has come,Battered,tattered, shopping mall, society undone,Girdersbent in agony, the bridge to Marks and Sparks,Is hangingfrom the rafters which are nearly blown in half.
Explodedand imploded, sirens pierce the city air,The streetsare scorched and scolded; rescuers stand and stare,For as thesmoke has cleared and the dangers gone away,A symbolof Manc stubbornness comes firmly into play.
Standing bold,still loud and proud, puffing out its chest,Is anunscathed red pillar box, Manc defiance at its best,Devastationon all sides, destroyed and torn apart,But likethat bright red letter box they'd never take our heart.
The fabricof our safety lay unravelled in destruction,But risingfrom the ashes came Manchester's reconstruction,And justlike that little post box protected every letter,They'd dotheir job, rebuild our town and make Manc even better.



Copyright©2011by Phil MartinAllrights reserved.
Buy Child Number Three, the first of fourthrillers available from Amazon, written by me! Available for just £2.09 (available for i-tab, smart phone,PC, MAC or Kindle)

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BOOK: Child Number Three-chapter 6

Child Number Three-chapter 6

6.  Amy turned her hair dryer off and took a breather.   The heat in the small bathroom wasunbearable.   With her towel wrappedtightly under her arms, she sauntered out onto the balcony and watched the sunset against the towering minaret of the Hassan II Mosque.  She didn't hear the key slowly turn to unlock her hotel room door.  It had been an exhausting yet unrewarding day and she was beginning todoubt the Morocco connection at all.  Maybe she'd investigate the whereabouts of her mother at the time of theTuscany coach crash.   Maybe her motherwas the link, not her father and Morocco. Amy jumped as the balcony door suddenly slammed shut, trapping her outof the apartment.  She desperately triedto yank it open and then scoured the floor below for help  but then smiled as a grinning Carolynappeared at the door.  "Slight change of plan for this evening's entertainment," her friendsaid as she slid the door open again.  "And what's that?" Amy asked viewing the two bottles of wine her friendhad just purchased.  "Well, you'll never guess who I just bumped into at lesupermarche."  "Who?" Amy asked refusing to play the game.  "Only that sun bronzed god Tarquin from the beach the other day,"Carolyn said smiling from ear to ear.  "Unfortunately he'd got changed out of his speedos and of course heasked about you first but I explained that you were already spoken fortonight.   I knew you wouldn't mind,given your aversion to dating any man of this earth.   So I thought that whilst you were chewingthe ears off Prince Luca of Kasbah, I might get to grips with eating Tarquin'sentire face off and perhaps even finding out what he keeps under histrolleys."  She corked the bottle and poured the wine into two plastic beakers fromthe bathroom.   "He knows the restaurant where you're going so I suggested that he and Ieat nearby and then meet you at ten at your restaurant.   And then he's gonna take us to shake ourbootee on some packed out dance floor." Carolyn looked to the heavens andthanked any God who might be up there.   "At last some sense of social normality on this madcap holiday."  Amy's sip on her wine was invigorating but she knew better than to turnup on a strange date tipsy.   "Sounds good to me," she said, thinking it might be easier to grill theMoroccan for more information if she was alone.   "Me and Luca should be done in twohours.   You could come to the restaurantto pull things to a nice timely conclusion." "Sure thing, granddad dater," Carolyn said.   "And then Aims, it's the dance floor for meand you.   And I want to see you makingsome serious shapes to make up for all of this."  Carolyn pulled her best raver's face and threw some shapes of her ownforcing a laugh from Amy who then took her wine into the bathroom to continuedrying her hair.   If the Moroccan wasgoing to delve any deeper into what happened twenty three years ago he'd bemore likely to do it without Carolyn constantly messing about.   The more she thought about it the more theplan made perfect sense. 
*** There was a slight breeze in the air as Amy made her way along thebustling Boulevard de la Corniche close to the old town where the restaurant was located.   She was pleased she'd brought her cardigan.The boulevard had been described as the FrenchRiviera of the African continent, and she could see why.   A number of restaurants, bars and clubs were already touting for business.  Amy recognised the concierge's description of the restaurantimmediately.   It was built into a courtyard within the old, orange coloured city wallson the outskirts of the old medina, close to the sea.   Amy looked at the high walls, the hugeshuttered doorways and the clock tower above the entrance to the restaurant andfelt nervous like she was stepping into the unknown.   She suddenly felt very alone in the worldand wished Carolyn, at least, was there by her side.  Her fears were diluted by the atmosphere as she got closer to thecourtyard's entrance where she was greeted by two waiters in colourful,traditional Moroccan djellabas who welcomed her and beckoned her inside.   The courtyard was bustling with bellydancers gyrating around tables to traditional music.   It was packed full of diners joining in withthe festivities.   Their presenceimmediately made Amy feel safe.   She wasled through the courtyard and upstairs onto a terrace area overlooking theaction below.   Luca Garcelon-Siri sat alone on the terrace nodding his head slowly to themusic whilst sucking on a big, fat cigar.  He noticed Amy immediately and stood to greet her.  "You have come alone?" he asked looking slightly disappointed.  "Yes I'm sorry my friend had a prior engagement."  "Not a problem at all," Garcelon-Siri said holding out both hands andflashing his white teeth.   "It merely meansyou will have to endure my table talk without the support of your friend.   Now please sit down and join me in watchingthe dancing."  "Actually I might just nip to the ladies," Amy said apologetically.  "Be my guest," Garcelon-Siri said pointing the way to the toilets.   He waited until his guest was out of sight before reaching once more forhis mobile phone and speaking in a hushed voice.   "There has been a change of plan," he informed.  "Only one of my women has turned up fordinner.   I will find out where the otheris so you can extract her later but the plan remains intact.  It must look like both girls chose to goskinny dipping drunk.  Leave theirclothes in two piles by the beach at their hotel then dump their bodies far outinto the ocean.   Of course, it isimperative that we take both of them.   Iwill take care of Amy Walker.  You takecare of the other.  Wait for my call andthen collect the friend." 
***Carolyn was late.   She was alwayslate.   She decided not to wait for theelevator and ran down the hotel stairs instead.   She'd arranged to meet her date in the bar next door to the hotel butshe was already ten minutes late, mainly due to not knowing what to wear, whatwas too revealing and what was too conservative.   In the end she'd settled for a long sleeved,stripy, knee length dress which although revealing in that it clung to herevery curve covered more skin than most of her day wear.   She figured it was a fair trade off.  As she skipped down the hotel steps and out of the foyer, she noticed aface in the shadows to the left turn to look her up and down.   It wasn't an altogether unusual occurrencewhen she was dressed up for a night out so she chose to ignore it.  She ignored the footsteps which quickened behind her too and the feelingof someone's breath on her neck but the hand placed firmly on her shoulder wasa step too far.  "Get your fucking hands off me you perv," Carolyn screamed as she spanround.  She recognised the man's tanned face immediately.   It was the man with the knife from theslums, Sirat's son.  "Don't scream please," he said releasing his grip on Carolyn'sshoulder.   "I mean you no harm."  He stepped back to emphasise his point, giving Carolyn her personalspace back.  "Forgive me if I don't believe you but last time I saw you, you werewaving a huge knife in my face," Carolyn said.  She could tell though by the man's face that he was not a threat toher.  "The last time you saw me I was rescuing you from a baying crowd andpacking you onto a motorbike to get you out of a situation that you had createdwith your own stupidity," the man corrected. Carolyn thought for a second and realised the man was right.  "Point taken.   I standcorrected," she said.   "And thank you, Iguess, for getting us out of there."  She held her hand out for the man to shake.   "We didn't actually get chance for a formal introduction first timeround.   I'm Carolyn," she said.  She noticed too that he was concealing something in his jacket, lodgedunder his arm.  He held out his otherhand awkwardly to shake.   "Karim," he said.   "Now please Ineed to see your friend."  "Everybody always wants to see Amy," Carolyn sighed.   "But I'm afraid your lucks out, she's out ona date tonight, which is exactly where I should be.   Can I give her a message?"Karim shook his head.   "No, no.   I need to see her andspeak to her tonight," he said.   "It'sextremely important.   Do you know whereshe is?"Carolyn rolled her eyes.   "Well actually she's gone for dinner with the nice, rich man who used toemploy your father," she explained.  Karim's expression changed immediately."You mean the evil, rich man who murdered my father," he corrected.   "I knew I had made a mistake not warning herof Garcelon-Siri.   We must find herimmediately.   She is in greatdanger."  "Well she's meet him in a very public place," Carolyn said trying not topanic at the man's words of warning.   "Where exactly?""At a restaurant.   I can'tremember its name.   It's near the oldtown, in a courtyard built into the Medina walls."  Karim moved into the street and hailed a taxi.   "We must leave immediately," he said.  "Do you have money? We cannot waste time walking.   Luca Garcelon-Siri is a ruthless, evilman."  He opened the back door of the taxi for Carolyn and then ran round tothe other side to let himself in.  "He has many men who work for him...and the restaurant you described? Heowns it.  I presume he didn't mentionthis to your friend."
***  The heavy headedness hit first but then she'd hardly eaten all day,maybe the bottle of Merlot she was sharing was going straight to her head.   Garcelon-Siri was a funny man, telling talesof his father's adventures in business as well as some of his own anecdotes onMoroccan life.  "Do you think we should order some food now?" Amy asked, hoping to soakup the alcohol.  "There is plenty of time," Garcelon-Siri replied.   "Let's finish this second bottlefirst."  Amy's mind was elsewhere as he embarked on another tale.  It span out of control on a cycle she didn'tquite recognise; a strange feeling, like being drunk but different too.   She forced herself to concentrate, tolisten, even just to look straight.   Shereached for her glass of water but knocked it over.  "Are you okay?" Garcelon-Siri asked, standing the glass back up anddabbing at the spillage with his napkin.  "Amy, are you alright?"Her vision wobbled and she felt unhealthily faint.  "Are you drunk already?" he asked. "Have you had too much sun?"Garcelon-Siri rushed round to the other side of the table and pulled achair next to Amy's.  "Take your time, breath slowly," he said.   "In and out."  He held her hand and moved his head close to her forcing Amy's world tospin ever faster.  Her sight blurred andher hearing wobbled.   She knew somethingwas wrong.  Garcelon-Siri's smile beamed. "Don't worry my Angel," he reassured.  "It is just the effects of the sedative.   Soon this uncomfortable world you've comeback to will feel peaceful."   "What?" Amy gasped incomprehensibly. He moved his hands up to her face and cupped it romantically like alover would.  "But before you drift any further my dear, listen to me and look into myeyes.   I want to thank you for comingback and for giving me this chance to make everything better.   I have thought about you every day since youleft me; every single day.   We only kneweach other a short time but none of the others could ever replace you.   Now please before we leave; one kiss.   You know we could have had so much more."  The words washed over Amy.   Shewas in no state to fully comprehend them and struggled to free herself from hisgrip but her strength had ebbed from her body. Garcelon-Siri pulled himself close and placed his lips over Amy's mouth,kissing her long and hard as her defenceless head span into orbit.   He beckoned over to the waiters standing bythe door.   Amy tried to push herattacker off but her attempt was feeble.  "No," she muttered.   "Get offme."  Garcelon-Siri pulled back for a split second and smiled at the girl'sattempts to fend him off.  He would enjoy their first embrace as if it was their last.  "Don't worry.   It's quite alrightmy treasure.   It's okay for me to kiss you;the ocean will wash away any trace of my DNA and nobody will ever know."  "What?" Amy mumbled again as confusion reigned. Her aggressor lent forward and kissedher again biting her lip hard this time and pulling it with his teeth.   He laughed as he latched onto her lip, shepulled away fast and a trickle of blood dripped from her lip.The pain brought her out of her slumber.   This was wrong.  She had to get out of there. The wine bottlewas in touching distance. She grabbed for it and swung it straight intoGarcelon-Siri's face as he came back for another kiss, right in his face,catching him on the side of his head, knocking him from his chair.   He staggered from the blow and fell to the floor giving Amy vitalseconds to get down the stairs.   Herthoughts raced as widely as her adrenalin. Public space, she needed a public space. Stop him doing anything. She could barely muster the strength or coordination to walk.   The bottom step was too much for her, toosteep a drop.   She stumbled off it andfell into a belly dancer.   A glance up to the terrace; he was coming, the man was coming. Garcelon-Siri leaned over the balcony barking Arabic instructions to hismen.   Two waiters surged down the stairsas Amy staggered through the tables and out of the main entrance.Taxi, she needed a taxi but saw none.  She had to lose herself, hide, distance herself from these men.  Somewhere safe, she had to find somewheresafe. A final, desperate glance back told her the chase was on.   Garcelon-Siri was gaining ground, making hisway through the tables flanked by his waiters. She needed a sanctuary; but all Amy could think of were the bustling backstreets of the Medina. 
*** "I think you'd better start talking," Carolyn said in the back of thetaxi.   Amy wasn't answering her phone and Carolyn's panic was spreading likeforest fire.  Karim ignored her at first and instead told the taxi driver to put hisfoot down.  "What do you want to know?" he said after delivering his instructions tothe driver.  "Oh I don't know," Carolyn said, her words dripping in sarcasm.   "Maybe you could tell me what the bestnightclub is in Casablanca, what your favourite local restaurant is or perhapswhy my friend's in so much fucking danger?"Karim sighed and ran his hand through his jet black, curly hair.  "I was just a child at the time, nine years old, ten maybe," hebegan.   "I was too young to understandwhat was going on.   I have my own gapsand things that I don't understand."  "Tell me," Carolyn said firmly.  "We had a nice house in those days," Karim said struggling with how todeliver his story.   "My father wasreasonably wealthy.   He had worked forthe Garcelon-Siri family for many years and life was good but then he was askedto work for Luca.   The man was midthirties and a social oddity.   I was tooyoung to notice the change in my father but I would hear hushed voices as heand my mother spoke late at night.   Theywould send me to my room and they would talk and talk.   One night my mother said I must stay in myroom but I hid at the top of the stairs," he continued.   "And then I saw her for the briefest ofmoments; a little white girl with dark hair just two years old maybethree.   My father brought her in, ledher in holding her little hand.   He andmy mother didn't speak.   They justbrought her into the house, gave her a glass of milk and waited.   It was an hour later when the manarrived.   He shook hands with my fatherand they spoke in French and in English.  He stayed less than ten minutes and then he took the girl.   I saw my father give him a small thinbook.   It wasn't until years later thatI realised this was a passport."  "Do you think that was Amy?" Carolyn asked.  "I don't know," Karim conceded, "but I hated that little girl.   I've hated her all my life.   I knew she was to blame.   Later that night we were visited again.   They broke into my house and they beat mymother asking where my father was.   Hehadn't turned up for work.   They beather unconscious.   I hid in the bottom ofa small cupboard in the kitchen but I saw it all.   They were quiet when my father came in.   I wanted to scream out to warn him but I wasscared.   They beat him and asked himagain and again where the 'little girl' was.  I prayed for him to tell them but he didn't.   They said he had betrayed the trust of theGarcelon-Siri family and hacked his tongue out with a rusty knife."  Carolyn covered her mouth with one hand and reached to console Karimwith the other.   "I can still see the bloodstreaming from his mouth and still hear my father's cries," he continued.   "I closed my eyes but I heard them say hewould 'never steal again.' They used a machete to cut his hands off and laughedas they slit his throat."  "Oh my god.  That's the mosthorrible thing I've ever heard.  I'm sosorry," Carolyn said.  Karim showed no emotion as he wiped away the rebel tear trickling downhis cheek.   "I was just a boy," he added.   "Itold them it was Garcelon-Siri but no one believed me.   I vowed I would get my revenge when I was aman but the struggles of everyday life in Sidi Moumentook over.   I don't know what my fatherdied for but I know it involved that little girl."  "And now you want to save her?" Carolyn said realising immediatelythat she should have kept the thought private. Karim nodded his head.   "My mother is on her death bed," he said as the streets outsidethe taxi flashed by.   "I told her thatyou had come to see me and that I forced you to leave.   I am sorry for that but my anger hasremained hidden for many years.   Mymother told me that if that girl isn't heard then my father's death would havebeen for nothing."  "But Amy knows less than you.""Maybe she just needs to be reminded," Karim said as the taxiscreeched to a halt.   "But first we mustfind her."  The taxi slowed down and pulled over by the kerb.  "This is the restaurant," Karim added and flung open the taxidoor.  He ran towards the entrance pushing the staff out of the way onhis way in and scouring the diners but seeing no one resembling the girl.   Carolyn struggled to keep up with him as hemade his way through the tables and up the staircase leading to theterrace.  "She's not here," he shouted before glancing at the bottle of redwine on the floor and the spillage on the floor and then the discarded cardiganon the back of the chair.   Maybe theywere too late.  "We must cover the circumference of the Medina," he instructedbefore running back down the stairs.  "If they have taken her out the back way the crowds will have slowedthem but they won't have stopped them."Adrenalin surged through Carolyn as she realised Karim's fear wasfor real; her friend's life really was in serious danger. 
***The rabbit warren-like alleyways of the Medina were crammed with people;face after face turned to see the commotion.  Amy struggled to stay on her feet, stumbling over huge bags of spicesand into stalls selling vegetables.  Tourists and locals were pushed out of the way like skittles as sheran.   Her eyes fluttered in and out offocus as she tried to navigate the crowds, threatening to fall with every stepand present herself, gift wrapped to her pursuers.  The realisation that she'd been drugged cascaded from one side of hermind to the other mirroring her own stumbles through the market stalls.   She feared she may not have much runningleft in her.   Garcelon-Siri and hiswaiters were nowhere to be seen.   Theiruniforms had blended in with the local dress but they could be right behindher, ready to pounce.  Faces stared and voices shouted their disapproval as she stumbled step afterstep, debating which way to turn in her mind and then struggling to keep to herchoice.  She glanced behind and saw him.  In his white suit, the gangling Garcelon-Siri stood out over the crowdsand stared straight back at her as he jostled his way through.  Her heart raced and then sank.  The power of the sedative was taking over.   Her focus fluttered again, her jaw feltweak.  Her eyes wobbled with her legs.An archway, a clock tower, an exit?  She mustered her remaining strength and forced herself towards it, likeit offered some sanctuary.   Battlingthrough the crowd, edging ever nearer but her body was giving up thefight.   Her legs buckled first.   The pain as her knees hit the concrete wokeher briefly.   She tried to pull her bodyalong with her arms and felt the crowds gather above her.   A glance upwards and she thought sherecognised the face staring back at her; the woman trying to lift her to herfeet.   Carolyn?   She couldn't tell if she was hallucinatingbut the feeling of safety which flooded her body left immediately.   Sirat, the knifeman from the slums hoveredbehind her friend but then all conscious thoughts left her as the sedativeforced her to a complete standstill.  
***"Grab her arms," Carolyn shouted.  "Lift her up we need to get her out of here."  Karim bent down awkwardly, restricted by what was in his jacket.   He pulled one of Amy's arms over his backand across his shoulder and told Carolyn to do the same with the other to liftAmy through the remaining meters of the Medina walls.   They moved quickly passing under the wallsof the old town and onto the United NationsSquare.  "Where now?" Carolyn asked frantically.  "Across the avenue," Karim replied pointing to an island in themiddle of three huge carriageways of traffic.  It was home to a spherical, domed piece of art, a metallic web ofintrigue.  The lights of the nearby Hyatt Regency called Carolyn like ashining beacon of the western world.  She longed to be back home.   Thethree darted in and out of breaks in the traffic.   Carolyn counted eight lanes, maybe nine asshe glanced back to the walls of the old town. A man in a white suit burst through the exit.   He was in his fifties.   Carolyn knew immediately it was him.   He ran awkwardly, flanked bya team of men all dressed in the same uniform.  They threw panicked looks in all directions and then clocked theirprize, pointing, then scurrying towards them. Karim and Carolyn reached the traffic island and placed Amy on thefloor.   She muttered incomprehensibly asshe lay slumped in a heap.  "Check your friend is breathing, check her airways," Karim instructedtaking charge.  "I know, I know, I'm a doctor," Carolyn replied coming out of her tranceand getting her friend into the recovery position.   Karim had already stepped up to the edge of the road where he removedthe machete from inside his jacket.   "What are you doing?" Carolyn gasped."Your friend is not the only one who wants answers," he shouted over thenoise of the traffic.  Cars and lorries beeped and screeched as Garcelon-Siri and five of hismen navigated the many traffic lanes of Avenue de l'Armee Royal.    He shouted over the din of the traffic inArabic at the man brandishing the machete and then spoke in English.  "You don't know what you're getting involved in."  Karim made sure Garcelon-Siri saw the machete.   "And you don't remember what you involved me in," he shouted steppingout into the road with the machete above his head.  "All those years ago."Garcelon-Siri froze as the knifeman snaked in and out of the speedingtraffic, getting closer then he froze, froze as he recognised a resemblanceburied deep within the man's face, a family resemblance of a man once close tohim.   Karim moved forward ready toattack.  The absolution of two decades ofpain stood transfixed in front of him."You murdered my father, you bastard," Karim shouted."Sirat," Garcelon-Siri mouthed back.As he moved to pounce with his machete held high, the blare of a hornfrom a speeding car forced him back, bisecting the men and missing both byinches. Garcelon-Siri turned into the road away to make his escape but steppedbackwards straight into the path of a speeding holiday coach.  The impact picked the man off his feet and carried him, plastered on thefront widescreen of the coach for a few seconds before discarding him like anunwanted meal.Wincing as the coach took him, Carloyn crouched, open mouthed over herfriend.   She saw the man in the whitesuit fly through the air and land in a crumpled heap ten meters away from theimpact.   The coach slammed on its brakesand screeched to a deafening halt, convincing Garcelon-Siri's men to scatter.Amy was breathing but out for the count.   Carolyn ran into the road whereGarcelon-Siri lay staring blankly and blindly up to the heavens, choking as theblood filled his punctured lungs.  "Aless,.."   he mumbled as theblood purged from his head.   "Aless…"The pool of blood spread in seconds filling the tarmac of the road likean ever radiating crimson tide.Carolyn had seen plenty of patients die.   She knew the signs.   There was nothing she could do even if she'dwanted to.   She sat and watched as theman's breathing slowed and his eyes glazed over with their last view of thisworld.  She checked for his pulse but he was gone.   It was over. Carolyn couldn't help but think that any answers to her friend'squestions had just died on the road as well. As Amy slept, Morocco had just hit the most impenetrable of brick walls. 
Copyright©2011by Phil MartinAllrights reserved.
Buy Child Number Three for £2.09 (available for i-tab, smart phone, PC, MAC or Kindle)http://www.amazon.co.uk/Child-Number-Three-ebook/dp/B005IRNYVM/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1321268694&sr=1-2

POEM: The last day of Christmas

The last day of Christmas All fluffyand comfy in scarves and in gloves,Ignoringthe pushing, excusing the shoves,Girls wrappedup pretty in Christmasy coats,As ladsthrow bratwursts and beer down their throats.
It's abustling place where we all come to meet,When workhas finished for mulled wine and a treat,All food imaginable and all sorts of goods, FromLancashire hotpot to goulash with spuds.

Profiteroles, pancakes, pies and paella, Crepes thatare smeared in lashings of nuttella,Cheese, jamand chutney, salami stalls too,Piping hotcoffee laced with a whiskey or two.
Zippie looksover but it's fair to say,That mostof us actually prefer the day,When Santaclung to the Town Hall wall, Bringingblow up Space Shuttles to one and all.
We'll meetunder Rudolf but the crowds are too big,All walksof life here to merrily swig,Hot chocolatewith baileys and gooey marshmellows,Then ontothe strudel all laid out in rows.
The mulledwine is flowing, it's deliciously hot,But be careful at home time, it's deceptively got,Alcohol concealed,in fact it is laced,There's afall over hidden in its vimtoey taste.
But it's anice kind of tipsy as you giggle and talk,Then nipback to the pig stall for a nice bit of pork,Your noselooks like Rudolph your cheeks have a flush, The lavatorybeckons, but no chance to rush.
So ontothe conveyor belt of folk you must wait, For peopleto move on, just don't let them grate,As theypush and move in every direction,The crowdsare the markets one imperfection.
But thescene is so perfect as the snow starts to fall,Themarket, your friends, you're in love them all,You can'tquite remember what it is you've just said,Maybe themulled wines gone straight to your head.
Butregardless, the markets are THE thing to do,For nearlya month they've entertained you,Nightafter night for fun with your friends,You'redreading the night when it comes to an end.
But thesign on the exit, informs you quite blunt,Tomorrowthe markets will be quite defunct,They're packingup later, so the sellers can go,Back home totheir families and Bavarian snow.
Andsuddenly Albert Square looks so alone,
As youstand in the bustle and inwardly groan,Tomorrowthere'll be nothing and no one to see,Except forone solitary ... Christmas tree.
So back toyour friends for one last mulled wine,It'sChristmas, be happy, but you're sadly resigned,That themarkets are over for one more year,It's likeChristmas has ended before it got near.
But takestock of your thoughts and start to reason,Our Albert'sa square for every season,Not longtil you sit here one summery day,Thinkingmarkets? Did they happen? Here? No way!


Copyright©2011by Phil Martin
Allrights reserved.
Buy Child Number Three for £2.09 http://www.amazon.co.uk/Child-Number-Three-ebook/dp/B005IRNYVM/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1321268694&sr=1-2

BOOK: Child Number Three-chapter 5

Child Number Three-chapter 5

5.  It took the motorbike less than ten minutes to get the girls backto the civilisation of their hotel with both grateful to be away from theslums.  "Perhaps you should stay in the nice part of town from now on,"the shanty town tour guide said with a cheeky grin.   "But if you want to know more about ZitaneSirat, perhaps I could introduce you to my father.   He still works at the International. I toldyou my father knew Zitane."  A smile widened on Amy's face. "Could you take me there now?" she asked despite Carolyn's obviousfrown.   "Don't you think you've had enough adventure for one day?" Carolyncomplained.   "Plus you've still gotdried claret around your nose.  It's notthe best of looks."  "I'm just getting started," Amy smiled back.   "Besides I'm only meeting this gentleman'sfather as he puts in an honest day's work at the International Hotel.   It's hardly going to be lifethreatening."  "I suppose I'll have to come too then," Carolyn winced.   "As much as I don't like the way thismorning panned out, I'm glad you weren't there alone."  Amy smiled, trying to keep things jovial.   "You wouldn't be sayingthat if they'd snatched your handbag."  "Imitation you see," Carolyn shot back. "Real Gucci and that strapwouldn't have broken."Amy didn't care about her handbag.   The flow of information that morning hadbeen relentless and even though there had been no breakthrough answers as a routeto asking the right questions it could prove invaluable.   Like why had Zitane's son blamed her for hisfather's death and the complete demise of his family? Already she'd left thelies of Tuscany far behind.   Carolyn turned to face the motorcyclist.  "Thanks all the same for the double backie out of Dodgeville," shesaid, "but if it's all the same with you I think we'll travel to theInternational via more conventional means.  And if you could possible leave it half an hour, I'd love to get out ofthis get up and into something a little less…touristy." 
***The girls arranged to meet the tour guide, Sofian Mourtada, at the entrance to the International, bothdressed in long, flowing summer dresses, covering their legs if not theirarms.  The palm trees lining theroad up to the hotel were a welcome luxury and a far cry from the crumblingshanty towns that had scared the hell out of them only a few hours earlier.  Carolyn pulled her friendback by her dress.   "I want an honest answerlady," she said.   "Do you have any ideawhat this is all about?"Amy shook her head.   "I swear I only found outabout the murder of that man's father today.  It might all just be one big coincidence."  "It didn't look like acoincidence when that slum dog Sam started threatening us with his kebab skewerback in his mud hut," Carolyn said.  Amy shook her head at herfriend's choice of words.   "My dad's passport showed hetravelled out of Morocco on the date of that murder," she explained.   "So what?" Carolynquestioned. "A million people did a million things on that date.""That's the date they toldme they were on a coach crash in Italy, the coach crash where I miraculouslyappeared, Cazza, or didn't as the case may now be."  "So Charlie lied?" Carolynquestioned disbelievingly.   "Charlie, Jenny, theadoption agency," Amy replied.   "I'mstarting to wonder if my whole life hasn't been one big lie."  Amy recognised the motorbikepropped up against the wall of an ornamental flower bed and saw its eversmiling owner waiting in the shade by the entrance to the hotel.  "Come," Sofian said.   "My father isexpecting you."  The three walked in though the hotel reception and over to theconcierge where an old man was explaining the wonders of the HassanII Mosque to two hotel guests.  His face looked like wrinkled leather but it oozed happiness.   He noticed his son with the two girls andsmiled, waving in their direction.   Amylistened patiently to the history lesson unfold until the concierge smiled inher direction and beckoned the girls over.  "My son told me you are friends of the Sirats," he said.  "I wouldn't quite say friends," Carolyn replied.  Amy explained that her father used to work in Morocco with aFrench oil company.  "Well I'm afraid that I don't know your father," the old manexplained, "but I did know Zitane.   Heused to work with me in this very hotel many, many years ago now.   He was very good at his job, so good in factthat a very wealthy son of an oil tycoon asked him to work as a butler forhim.   Working for such a wealthy man isseen as being a great, great honour in this country and of course it can payquite well."  "Do you know how he died?" Amy interrupted.  "He was murdered," the old man replied.   "Zitane was found at his home with histhroat slit, his tongue cut out and his hands cut off.   Perhaps I do not need to be so graphic in mydescription but such injuries suggest that he betrayed someone's trust bytalking about them and that he stole something."  Amy grimaced imagining the murder scene.   "Was anyone charged with the murder?" she asked.  "No, nobody was ever charged.  The police questioned Zitane's employer but he had a strong alibi at thetime of the murder.   The whole thingremains a mystery."  "And what happened to the Sirats?" Amy asked."  Why were they forced into the slums?"The hurt in revealing what happened was clear for both girls tosee.   "They became outcasts," the concierge explained.   "Stealing is greatly frowned on in ourculture.   It brought great shame ontotheir family.   They had no income andlost their home and Sidi Moumen was the only place they could live.   It is a vicious circle of poverty and lackof opportunity.   I cannot do much forthem these days as I have my own mouths to feed but I do give my son food andmoney to take to them when I can."  Carolyn felt guilty at her earlier description of the knife man inthe shanty town.   Maybe she'd been alittle flippant.   "This man, the wealthy manthat Zitane used to work for, is he still around?" Amy asked. "Yes he is," the maninformed.   "Luca Garcelon-Siri has never wanted for anything due to his father'sriches.   He is a very private man, arecluse.   He lives in a palace in Anfanot far from here.   I can get you theaddress if you wish."  Amy noddedenthusiastically.   "If his fatherwas involved in oil maybe he knew Charlie," she speculated.  "Well a palacecertainly sounds better than the shanty town," Carolyn replied.   "So I'm game."  It wasn't muchof a lead but it was the best she had and Amy knew she had to make the most ofher time in Morocco if the seeds of her family tree were going to bloom. 
***The descriptionof Luca Garcelon-Siri's abode as a palace wasentirely accurate.   Set on the greenhill of Anfa, inside its own gated courtyard, it backed onto the lush greenexpanse of the Royal golf course.   Afountain in the courtyard gave the property a near regal feel whilst all mannerof foliage flourished on either side of the yard.   The three-storey salmon coloured buildingboasted archways, domes and balconies in front of each of the large Frenchcolonial style windows.   The fountainmeanwhile was adorned with geometric tiling and Islamic calligraphy.    Amy rang the intercom, positioned at the side of the gates.  "This place is actually a palace, Carolyn said.    "I'll show my ass from the walls of themedina, if we get in here."    "You'll be locked up forall of eternity if you got your butt cheeks out over here, not to mention alifetime of embarrassment on youtube as soon as I got near a PC."  The interchange was interrupted by the emergence of three hugeDobermans.   They charged over to thegate, barking and snarling at the girls. "Jesus," Carolyn said backing off from the snapping jaws of thedogs.   "Not even Hades is guarded bydogs so evil."   The intercomcrackled into life and an Arab voice greeted the girls.  "Hello do youspeak English?" Amy began, speaking over the barking of the savage dogs.   "I'm here to see Mister Garcelon-Siri."  "I'm afraid MisterGarcelon-Siri isn't available to be seen," the voice said immediatelywith an accent more akin to the Queen's English than either girl couldmuster.   Amy stepped back towards the intercom risking being covered in theDobermans' slobber as they snarled and jumped up at the gates.  "Could you tell him that my name is Amy Walker and I've come all the wayfrom England to see him? My father Charlie Walker used to work for a French oilcompany out here.   He knew Zitane Siratwho used to work here as a butler.  Please could you mention both those names to Mister Garcelon-Siri and seeif he is willing to see me?"The voice agreed and scuttled off to make the request leaving the dogsto keep the visitors at bay.  "I don't like this place," Amy said.  "It's too quiet, too secluded."  "You're joking aren't you," Carolyn replied looking enthused.   "Apart from these dogs, it looks like the PlayboyMansion to me.   I bet it's hosted allsorts of lavish parties over the years." Eventually, the intercom crackled back into life.  "MisterGarcelon-Siri has granted your entrance," the formal voiceinformed.   The butler appeared at the main entrance to the mini palace, lookingevery inch a pleasant man, dressed in a full length cream djellaba.   Softleather slip ons covered his feet whilst a red fez saton his head.   He pointed what lookedlike a remote control at the dogs, pressing a button to send them whining andyelping back towards the side of the palace where they disappeared from view,then casually walked down the steps, shutting a gate to lock the dogs intotheir kennels.   "Looks like you've got a date with the medina walls this evening," Amyjoked.  The butler approached the gate and pressed a remote control buzzer.   "My apologies for the exuberance of our welcoming committee," hesaid.   "Mister Garcelon-Siri'sfamily have many riches which he needs to protect."  The girls strolled through the gate to the courtyard.  "Nice place, you've got.   Is yourboss some sort of Prince?" Carolyn asked only to be ignored by the butler.  "It is my pleasure to welcome you here," he said instead.   "And your timing is impeccable.   Mister Garcelon-Siri istaking afternoon tea in his gardens and will see you immediately."  He led the girls through a grand marble reception hall where an ornatestaircase with gold trimmings wrapped around itself to the second level.  "I'm afraid you must wait here," the butler said to Carolyn.   "Mister Garcelon-Siri willonly see Miss Walker.   It is Miss isn'tit?"Amy nodded nervously prompting the butler to ask the girls to wait inthe reception whilst he checked his master was ready to see his visitor.  "Are you alright with this?" Amy whispered to Carolyn.  "I'm fine if you are," her friend replied.   "Besides it's your family tree that's got aprince in it not mine."  Amy frowned at her friend's comment. "He's not a prince," she said.  "You don't think I could be related to this man do you?" "Oh I don't know," Carolyn speculated, "your dark hair and dark skin? Icould see a bit of Arab in your genes.  Maybe you were conceived out of wedlock with a western woman and tospare shame on the family you were sent to England for adoption."  "Maybe your imagination's in overdrive," Amy said laughing.  "Well, someone's got to join all this together," Carolyn added.   "And given the choice of palatial luxury orthe sewers of slum central, I know where I'd be laying my hat along with therest of my wardrobe."  The emergence of the butler stopped Carolyn's summary of Amy's familytree from flourishing any further.  "Mister Garcelon-Siri will see you now Miss Walker," he said.  Nervous excitement prickled like before an exam that she'd revised andrevised for.   All she wanted now was forall the answers she'd revised to come up.  Taking in every detail of the palace's opulence, she followed the butlerthrough a sitting room leading to an extensive dining room which backed outonto the landscaped gardens.  The man she had come to see was sitting at a table under the shade of acanopy drinking from a china cup and saucer whilst reading the localbroadsheets.  He stood up as he saw Amy approach.  Tall and slim with curly dark hair and a thin pencil moustache, helooked a Moroccan but not a Muslim and his crisp, beige suit was certainly inkeeping with the surroundings.  "Please Miss Walker, make yourself comfortable," he said with a charmingsmile whilst lifting a Panama straw hat from his head.   "It is Miss isn't it?""Well it's kind of Doctor but I'm still getting used to that bit myself,"Amy said nervously. "I've only just qualified."   It was the second time her relationship status had been brought up in amanner of minutes.   Maybe it was justsome local tradition to ascertain the marital status of any woman upon meetingthem.   The man's wrinkles spelled outthat his life had been happy and somewhat charmed.  "I'm amazed and somewhat embarrassed that someone would travel so far tosample afternoon tea with me.   But tellme first, how are you enjoying Casablanca?"The small talk was expertly delivered.  Garcelon-Siri was in his late fifties, clearly well educated andaccustomed at having to engage with people from all walks of life.   He engaged with Amy with no problems atall.   Having shared some of his ownfamily history and established where Amy had travelled from, that she had beenadopted and that she was searching for some clues as to her own ancestry,Garcelon-Siri brought up the name that had granted her entrance into hishome.  He poured her a cup of tea as he spoke. "I'm afraid I didn't know your father but you did also mention Zitane,"he said.   "Zitane was a fine aid for me,an excellent butler and a good friend.  How did you know him? You barely seem old enough."  "I didn't know him," Amy answered.  "But my father did.   They musthave met on one of his many visits to Morocco but it must have been importantto him as my father kept a copy of Zitane's address in his desk."  Garcelon-Siri nodded his approval.  "Zitane was an excellent host," he explained.   "If your father had been lucky enough to beinvited to his house, he would have been well looked after.   Zitane excelled at hospitality."  "Do you know how he died?" Amy asked, going in for her own kill.   "I heard he was murdered."  "Yes it was very tragic," Garcelon-Siri explained.   "My own father hired an investigator topiece together what had happened.  Zitane had borrowed some money to buy his family home but he borrowed itoff the wrong people.   When he fellbehind with the payments these people became aggressive towards him and set himimpossible deadlines to repay the money.  They claimed he had stolen the money from them and cut his hands off andthen murdered him.   The tragedy is thatmy father would have happily given him the money if he had asked.   He would have bought his house outright andgiven it to him.   That's how fondlyZitane was viewed in my family."  Garcelon-Siri drank diligently from his tea cup.   "Did your father come to the funeral? I don't remember him but then itwas a lavish occasion with many people there.  My family paid for it.   It reallywas the least we could do."  Amy frowned.  It didn't sound likethe shunning she'd been told of earlier. "Life, real life is full of suchtragedy," he continued.   "Do you haveany idea how Zitane and your father knew each other?"She sighed heavily, unable to disguise her disappointment.   "I was kind of hoping you may have been able to fill in that blank," Amysaid.   Maybe this was as far as her adventure would go.  "Well I'm sorry I cannot tell you more," the man added.   "Zitane was a noble man, a realgentleman.   If your father knew him I'msure your father must have displayed the same qualities."  Garcelon-Siri smiled.   "Perhaps I could invite you to a night of Moroccan hospitality, food anddrink, tonight as way of an apology... for not being able to help you more," heoffered.   "My catering staff have beentrained in every culinary expertise possible.  I could bring in some entertainment, some music, some dancersperhaps.   What do you think?"Amy was caught off guard by the sudden offer.   "I couldn't, really, but it's very kind of you to offer."  "No please I insist," the man said.  "Bring your friend and your boyfriends.  I would like to treat you to some fine dining, Morocco style."  Amy didn't feel comfortable with the impromptu offer and chose to ignorethe boyfriend link.   "I couldn't ask you to go to all that trouble," she said.   "Not at your house.   It's very kind of you but…""Okay, a meal out at a restaurant of my choice," Garcelon-Siri saidunrelenting.   "I know a perfect placeoverlooking the Mosque and the ocean.   Me, you and your friends.   What do you say?""There's only my friend Carolyn with me," Amy explained.   "Well in that case I will have the pleasure of the company of twobeautiful ladies all to myself.  Please," he added with his charming smile.   "Let me repay your trip here to see me withsomething palatable.   You will be quitesafe.   I promise you.   I am an old man and trust me as beautiful asyou are, you are not the right age for me.  And if I bore you with stories of my father's empire gone by please justtell me and I will be quiet."  Amy chuckled a nervous laugh.   "I don't suppose it would do any harm.  What time are you thinking?"Garcelon-Siri called his butler to bring a business card for therestaurant.  "Shall we say eight o'clock?" he suggested handing Amy the card.  The deal was sealed with a smile from Amy.   She convinced herself that it could be anice start to the evening, some free food and drink and an insight into locallife.   They could ditch him at ten o'clock and get in one of the nightclubs Carolyn had been itching to get intosince they'd got there.  She thanked Luca again for his kind offer and bid him farewell. 
***Carolyn was beginning to get bored.  There was no signal for her mobile phone in the reception area and soshe couldn't even send the dozen or so texts that she'd promised to send to herfamily and friends back home to tell them they'd got to Casablanca in onepiece.   When she did eventually getround to texting she'd be sure to miss out their adventure in the slums.   That was a story to save for when they gothome.   There was no point in worryingpeople unnecessarily.  A noise from above distracted her from her thoughts.   She glanced up to the top of the stairwellwhere a young, Chinese girl poked her head through the ornate railings.   She muttered something in a language Carolyndidn't recognise.  She looked about ten.  "Hello," Carolyn said.   "Aren'tyou just the most beautiful girl? What's your name?"The response was unintelligible but uniquely aggressive. The girl thrusther hands through the railings, grabbing at the air around Carolyn's head.  The butler suddenly emerged and shouted at the girl as soon as he sawher, racing up the stairs after her and sending her scurrying back into herbedroom.  Carolyn stood open mouthed at the butler's sudden change indemeanour.   From calm and cool to kickoff in less than three seconds.   It wasimpressive.   She narrowed her eyes andlistened intently to hear a key turn in a lock and the butler mutter somethingunder his breath.  "My apologies," he said on his return.   "The lady of the house has finished school for the summer.   Her father insists that she studies for twohours each day but she is easily distracted." The two looked at each other in silence until Amy's reappearance endedthe awkwardness.   The butler immediatelyushered them towards the front door leading back into the courtyard.  "So how did that go?" Carolyn asked her friend.  "We've been invited out to a restaurant," Amy replied.  "Cool, anywhere posh?" Carolyn asked.  "I'm assuming your sugar daddy is picking up the tab."  "He's not my sugar daddy," Amy answered.   "But yes, it's his treat?" "So you didn't get the bean tingle then?" "Caz, that's disgusting. He'sabout sixty," Amy replied.   "I'm atleast thirty years too young for him." 
***Garcelon-Siri waited until the butler returned from seeing off hisguests before making the call.   Hecouldn't decide whether this unexpected turn of events was bad, very bad or exceptionallygood but he was sure of one thing; it was definitely her.  The butler returned and informed that the girls were on the other sideof the palace gates, prompting him to punch the number into the phone.  Even after all these years he was confidenthis associate would answer his phone.  There was a slight pause.  "No names, you know who this is," Garcelon-Siri said immediately afterthe voice had greeted him.   "And I haveno time for small talk.   The girl isback; the girl taken from me twenty three years ago.   Yes I know what that could mean.   Of course I know what I must do.   I will take care of everything myself.   Yes, I will do it tonight.   I understand every implication.   You don't need to send anyone over.   I am more than capable."  



Copyright©2011by Phil Martin
Allrights reserved.
Buy Child Number Three for £2.09http://www.amazon.co.uk/Child-Number-Three-ebook/dp/B005IRNYVM/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1321268694&sr=1-2

POEM: The Manchester Tunnels

The Manchester Tunnels Under thecity, half a mile down,Legend hasit there's a forgotten town,Way belowwhere we eat, work and sleep,Is asecret world way down in the deep.
Cellardwellers back in Victorian times,Sheltereddown low from the wintry climes,They hadshops down there in this subterranean space,Everythingthey needed in this deep down place.
In thenineteen thirties, they had it quite cool,With anunderground heated swimming pool,It's stillthere today as historians showed,Underneaththe BBC on Oxford Road.
Then intothe wartime as somewhere to hide,When theGermans came bombing from every side,There aresecret tunnels, in fact quite a maze,Wherepeople hid for hours and days.
But whenwartime was over and we'd stopped the attack,Some ofthose hiding didn't want to come back,Scared ofbeing killed by bombs in their sleep,Theirfamilies tunnelled further down into the deep.
Thissecret band made the tunnels a home,And hidfrom the world, they grew up alone,Wearingclothes from the forties, in suits and in hats,They atewhat they could mainly spiders and rats.
They hadchildren down there that had never seen day,Who'dnever known life any other way,They madehomes and beds from what the Victorians gave,And used theunderground pool to wash and to bathe.
Generationslater and their memories would fade,Theyforgot quite what they were trying to evade,Eventuallythe world in their heads had expired,With justa feeling of danger, they slowly rewired.
Decades wentby and they adapted their sight,To see inthe dark as their world was in night,They scuttleand scurry and all have a hump,Fromcrouching over they've developed this lump,
Theirlanguage has changed too, they whistle and click,Their hairis all matted; their beards long and thick,Theybecame less and less human as their elders did die,And theythrew off their clothes as the years went by.
Their skinis affected by the dark where they dwell,Deathlywhite, skinny, they all look unwell,With yellowyeyes sensitive to the light,Androtting teeth falling out when they bite.
They haveno idea there once was a war,But stillstick to the pact that they long ago swore,To stayhidden from view and just carry on,Buryingdeeper and deeper 'til danger has gone.
To never goback just in case it ain't safe,There'sbad things up there, it's part of their faith,So theymake sure they're hidden as they live out their days,Buriedunder the real world and set in their ways.
There's hundredsthere now, they bred and they bred,I guessthere ain't much to occupy their head,A sub-humanrace living in a different way,Miles downfrom where we work, rest and play.
But oneday one of 'em will go against the grain,So if youever see eyes looking up from the drain,You'llknow one was swayed by his curiosity,And came backup the tunnels to find out and to see.


Copyright©2011by Phil Martin
Allrights reserved.
Buy Child Number Three for £2.09http://www.amazon.co.uk/Child-Number-Three-ebook/dp/B005IRNYVM/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1321268694&sr=1-2