Max China's Blog, page 4

Max China: New book release

I'm very proud to announce the release of my second full length book. The Life and Times of William Boule.

While investigating reports of vigilante killings in Scotland, freelance journalist, Carla Black, meets a man named Miller on the London to Edinburgh train, and later finds he holds the key to an unsolved mystery.

After drawing a blank on her enquiries, she follows up on a tip-off Miller gave her, and discovers it leads back to the original story she'd intended to write.

With the murderer still at large, she writes a book about him and during her research, has an idea for an even bigger story, but first she must use herself as bait to draw him out of hiding, and accomplish what the police have been unable to do; end his forty year reign of terror.

After printing a handful of posters showing an artist’s impression of the serial killer, she heads out to Morocco with a suitcase full of books unintended for general release – her sole intention to lure him into buying a copy, knowing if he reads it, he’ll return to England to exact his revenge on her.

She hadn’t bargained for what would happen next...

The Life and Times of William Boule...

'A distinctive and highly original work of fiction which many readers will enjoy...'

This new suspense thriller by Max China is available to purchase on amazon as from now.UK Link http://t.co/lR0VpEQKJk USA Link http://t.co/GUiwejaFPT

Our Top 50 Best Crime Writers to Watch

A little bit bemused to find myself on this list, but happy and flattered, follow the link and you'll see why...

We're very proud to list you among the Top 50 Best Crime Writers - could easily place you among the successors to the "great crime fiction heavyweights." Thanks for the amazing work.
http://forensicoutreach.com/successor...

Our Top 50 Best Crime Writers to Watch | Forensic Outreach

forensicoutreach.com

The top Crime Writers around the world, from Africa to LA, Iceland to Japan, First novels to seasoned professionals, these authors are must reads.

Don't forget you can download a free sample of The Sister from amazon, click here http://t.co/H5xap22SBX and select your country flag to go to correct download site.

The Sister download free sample.

To download and read your free sample of The Sister from amazon, visit http://t.co/H5xap22SBX and click your country flag to go to correct download site.

izombieheartzoey interview

A few different questions answered here http://interrogatingideologywithachai...

FREE for one day! The Sister on amazon

Updated to include a further FREE DAY, today, April 19th. Don't miss out!

Ahead of the release of The Life & Times of William Boule, and to mark the fictitious first meeting between Miller and The Sister on Good Friday April 6th 2007, download this devious and compelling paranormal suspense thriller - The Sister - FREE for 24 hours from 8am GMT Good Friday. Don't forget to tell your friends! Visit http://t.co/H5xap22SBX and select your country's flag to go to the correct amazon site. There's a new front cover coming too!
Happy Easter:)

Recommended Free Download on amazon

Just read this free amazon download and thought I'd recommend it, particularly as I'd read and enjoyed C Macdonald's other book, Atrament Speaks so much.
Firstborn by C Macdonald

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


Atmsopheric, authentic old testament feel to this prequel. I have read Atrament Speaks and this is a welcome back-story which will no doubt enhance the readers enjoyment of the bigger book. Reading the prequel afterwards, has its own merits - which ever way round you choose to read them.



View all my reviews

Angelika Rust's Interview with Max

I wanted to include this interview by Angelika because she has a very interesting blog and has carried out some really nice interviews with other writers. We mustn't forget that she is herself a talented author, and I have put a link to her blog at the bottom of the page. Thanks for reading.

Sunday, January 19, 2014
Meet Max China!

Max is one of those precious people who'll attack you with sudden bouts of helpfulness, and if you ask them whether there's any way you can repay them, tell you that a virtual hug will do.
I probably owe Max quite a few of those.
But that's not the reason I'm banging his drums here. The reason is, pure and simple, that he's written a great book, and I thought you should know.

See profile photo

This is him. (and, psst, don't tell anyone that when my husband saw that picture,
his first and only reaction
was to mumble 'Vatican mafioso')

Now, let's talk about Max.

Who are you?

My name is Max China, it's a pen name. If I sell loads of books, I'll reveal my true identity.

Ha! Now I'm curious! Let's narrow the suspect group down a bit...Where are you?

I'm in my study, at my house in a quiet Essex backwater, not far from London.

And how are you?

I'm very well, thank you.

Which book do you want to talk about? Tell us briefly what it is about.

My first novel is called The Sister. In a nutshell, it is about a man having the chance to make sense of his life in his dying moments and the story of what he sees as his last breath escapes. It is based on the concept that you see your whole life flash by in those last moments.

Why did you write it?

I've always wanted to write a novel and I guess it had been building in me. It went through several incarnations before becoming what is is today. I had some things I wanted to say about choices and what can happen if under pressure the wrong ones are made, how easy it is to do that and the possible consequences of getting it wrong.

Tell us about your main character. What does he/she look like, love, hate, dream of? What qualities/flaws/principles does he/she have?

The book is written in an unconventional way so that a variety of people are introduced fairly quickly, cameo fashion. The early lives of Bruce and Vera are explored, the effects on Bruce from witnessing a killer disposing of a body when he was seven years old, and of course, the effect it had on Vera viewing the same thing remotely from two hundred miles away. She is older and born with a wisdom that belies her years and other properties which enable her to cope so much better than he does. Bruce develops mechanisms that shield him from the fear, but blind him to the truth . . . I think I have to just clarify at this point that there are several main characters which come and go throughout the book. You never know when they will appear next.

Is there a song you'd associate with your book?

There is a scene in the book when Bruce is reminiscing on a lost love which I imagined would have gone down well accompanied by Rivulets' I Told Jesus Christ How Much I Loved Her. I didn't hear the song until after I'd written the scene, but it summed up the loneliness Bruce felt so well . . . it choked me up a bit.

I promptly went and listened to the song, and I fully agree with your choice. The slightly psychedelic sound would make a very fitting soundtrack. Speaking of soundtracks, which actors would you cast for the movie?

I could see Sean Bean in the role of Bruce when he reaches his forties, Kevin Spacey as Kennedy, Michael Caine as Doctor Ryan, Julianne Moore as the ageless Sister, but don't ask me about the serial killer. I'd have to think about that one . . .

If you could make up your own genre for this book, what would it be?

Not an easy question, that. It is a genre crossing, multi layered book with hidden depths and many themes.

Is there a message in your book? Do you want your readers to take something home?

There are many messages in the book, koans deliberately seeded throughout. Find one and you'll find others. On a more straightforward level, as I said earlier, it is about choices and living with the consequences, good or bad. I refer to the poem by Robert Frost on a number of occasions, it's included at the back of the book in its entirety, taken from 'Mountain Interval' it is called 'The Road Less Travelled' – it wasn't the inspiration for the book, but it is used as inspiration by one of the characters, who then passes that inspiration on. In a way I'm doing that too. It is a fine poem.

What are you currently working on?

The Life and Times of William Boule: Serial Killer, it's a spin-off featuring some of the characters from The Sister. I also have some other projects on the back burner.

Which target audience do you write for? What do you think makes your book especially appealing for that audience?

I didn't write for a target audience, but I would imagine if someone is into thrillers, there's something for them, same with crime suspense and mystery. A bit of a jamboree bag really, something for the mystics in there too. And even a little romance. Horror? Did I mention horror?

Why are you a writer? Were you born to be one, did it just happen, was there some moment of epiphany...?

I wrote my first short story when I was in primary school, I still remember how it felt to have the teacher choose to read it out in front of the class. Perhaps a seed was sown back then. I also remember telling a friend when I was seventeen years old that I'd write a book one day . . . it took me a while to get around to it.

Where do you get your ideas? What inspires you?

Stray thoughts, usually. They pop into my heard and my brain turns them around. If I can see a story there, I have the first pieces of a puzzle to work with. Once I start, I'll wake at three in the morning with fresh ideas or solutions to things that weren't working. I think it helps that I remember my dreams as I'll sometimes dream a sequence that fits.

Plot or characters? Which is more important and why?

Interesting question. You have to have a plot to have a story and without strong characters to carry the plot what are you left with? I'd say equally important.

Do parts of you shine through? Are some characters like you, or friends, or family?

My secretary often jokes that Miller is me, and given where he comes from it's inevitable that we share some traits. Given the nature of some of the things I write about, much of it comes from the news, mostly long past and converted by my imagination into something else. Friends and family? I'd hate for them to recognise any part of themselves and think it was based on them, so the answer to that is no. Aquaintences? That's a different story.

How does a typical day for you look like? What do you do when you're not writing?

I work full time and these last few years have filled most of my spare time up with writing. I like to keep fit so I do kettlebell training three times a week. I like to cycle, walk, read, listen to music, family things. I said elsewhere that I love to dream, and I do. If you can remember your dreams, then that time asleep doesn't seem such a waste.

Who is your favorite author?

That's a tough one, I've had favourite authors throughout different phases of my life, my early favourites were Harold Robbins, Stephen King, Trevanian.

Is there an author you'd love to be compared to?

I wouldn't compare myself to another, but some have said they see shades of Dean Koontz and echoes of King in my work.

Who is your biggest supporter?

I have many supporters that I've never met and I feel blessed to have had that support, but in the flesh, it has to be my secretary, Anya.

What's your favorite book of all time and why?

A Stone for Danny Fisher, probably because it was the first adult book I read. It just gelled with me.

If you could have a superpower, which one would you choose?

The ability to travel through time.

What are you addicted to or can't live without?

The thing I miss the most when I go on holiday is my computer, there I said it, shock, horror.

What's the most stupid question you've ever been asked?

Can't think of any that stand out, but when I've filled in a form and I sign it, it says position. I always think that's a stupid question.

Angelika's blog can be found here: http://angelikarust.wordpress.com/

The Lift and Times of William Boule - Serial Killer

Exerpt from my forthcoming book as titled above. (No names, no spoilers).


"I had several things happen to me, and when they did - I realised several things were true. What were they? That when the end comes you don't see your whole life flash before you-"
She laughed, "There's not enough time!"
"No, there isn't, not by any conventional means, but the sense of things - if you are lucky, you might just get to make sense of things . . . " The tone of his voice lilted up as he trailed off, as if to pose a question.
"You've lost me," she said, a vague smile on her lips.
"The whole thing, every part of it was preordained . . . jigsaw pieces, cut and neatly fitted into place. If they were squares or circles, I'd have seen it sooner, but then, even that was part of the plan."
She smiled, "You know something?"
"What?"
"You think about things too much."

Random Chapters from The Sister

As and when I get the time I'll post a few random chapters as a taste of what's inside the book . . .

Chapter 10

Late May 1969

In the early summer of 1969, two memorable things happened to Dr Ryan, and they both occurred on the same day. One: a rainstorm the likes of which he'd never encountered before. The other: meeting Vera Flynn for the first time.
Rain, driven on demonic winds, lashed horizontally - millions of thin, watery nails unleashed, wave upon wave, like sheets that seemed to undulate in all directions as they rode the currents. Dark skies subdued the light, making everything leaden and drab.
The soft red of the car stood out as it wound its way down the lane, the driver slowly easing in and out of the unavoidable water-filled potholes. Huge splats of machine-gun bullet rain drummed against the windows, producing a secondary mist that cut visibility, so that Ryan perched as far forward on his seat as the wheel allowed, his nose only inches from the inside of the screen. He wiped a swathe of condensation clear with his hand. As soon as I have enough money, he told himself; I'm getting a car with a decent blower. The wipers of the old Ford couldn't wipe quickly enough to keep up with the rain. The dampness raised a sweet, stale odour from the upholstery inside.
Beyond the misty veil, the farmhouse was barely visible. Set back from the road, he saw it only at the last moment. Pulling quickly into the gateless gap in the stone wall between the pillars, he parked as close to the front door as he could.
Ryan switched the engine off and braced himself ready to jump out. One - two – three, he flung the door flew open and dashed out straight into a puddle, cursing as the freezing water swept into his shoe, and soaked his sock. This was the Somme, a war zone masquerading as a driveway with water filled, muddy craters everywhere.
He grabbed his bag from the back seat of the car and head down against the rain, zigzagged between craters to the front door. A woman watched his approach through a porthole she'd wiped clear through the mist on the glass. As soon as he lifted the knocker, the door opened, and he swept inside, stamping and scraping on the mat to dry the rain from his shoes.
"Mrs Flynn?" he enquired.
Possessing the heavy, blunt features and ruddy complexion of someone who had spent a lifetime working outdoors, she looked from his bag to his face and said, "Where's Doctor Robert?"
"He's, um … indisposed, so they sent me instead. Sorry, I'm Dr Ryan." He extended his hand. She ignored it.
"What's happened?" she said, eyes narrowing.
"I think he's had an accident, and that's all I know."
She looked at him suspiciously and turned away, removing first her coat, then the scarf covering her head, to reveal a tangle of surprisingly snow-white hair, distinctly at odds with her age.
He took the opportunity to ask some questions. "What seems to be the matter with her?"
"She was outside yesterday - you remember how dull it was - when she came back in, she looked as if she'd suffered the most terrible sunburn, so she did, all blistered and all."
Ryan frowned as he discounted sunlight from the list of possibilities. "Has this ever happened before?"
"When she was thirteen, by all accounts, something similar happened one Sunday morning, at Mass."
"How old is she now?"
"She's fifteen."
"Uh-huh, let's take a look at her then."
She led him down three steps from the hallway. The flag-paved floors did little to make the house feel warm. Ryan shivered; the dampness had seeped into his bones.
They stopped outside the last door down on the left. She knocked and entered without waiting for a reply, ushering him in behind her.
"Vera, the doctor's here." She did not turn away from the window. Ryan looked around the room; it was a dirty white and sparsely furnished. No two sticks of furniture matched. A small mirror hung over a pine chest of drawers, a rickety looking chair in front of it. Over by the wall furthest from the window, was a child's bed. The blanket covering it was green, and the sheet from underneath it folded down over the top to form a collar. A single pillow was propped upright against the wall; the sag in the mattress gave away how much use it had seen over the years.
The other side of the room, opposite where Vera sat, was a table with a collection of paintings on it. He moved closer to inspect them. The girl had talent and a vivid imagination. The top painting was an aerial landscape view. She must have recreated it from a photograph, or remembered looking down on it from an aeroplane. The centrepiece drew his eye deep into the painting. A black hole of nothingness stood out stark against the greenery of the tree canopy surrounding it; bottomless and empty like the well of a dark soul, it stared up at him. Pointing to the painting, Ryan remarked, "Very imaginative."
"Not imagination at all, people have died there," Vera said without turning around. Unsure what to say, Ryan looked over to the easel next to the table. On it, a half painted canvas depicted stormy skies. Crows or ravens rode the thermals above misty mountain crags and in the foreground, at the foot of the cliffs; two black horses pulled a funeral carriage; one dragged a man behind. A procession of faceless people followed. Ryan switched his view from the painting to the window and beyond. The room was too cold for condensation to form on the glass. Dressed only in a thin nightgown, if she felt the cold, she showed no sign of it. Her eyes seemed fixed on the grey cliffs in the near distance. Taking a step back, away from the window, he'd almost staggered as he recognised the scene. It was the backdrop to her painting.
Her hair was the palest shade of ginger, and it spilled down over her shoulders. The way she sat hunched made her backbone stick out through the fabric of her nightdress; her skin was as fine and white as porcelain. He'd not expected to see such delicate beauty after seeing her mother.
"Vera?" Ryan spoke softly.
She turned to look at the young doctor, the expression on her face serious, her eyes green and feline, fixed on him.
"Doctor Robert won't be coming will he," she said.
"No, Vera something happened, he—"
"Died in his sleep last night," Vera looked from him to . "And she's my aunt, not my mother."
Mrs Flynn's piggy eyes were as wide and round as they could go. Her hand covered her mouth, stifling a gasp.
"How could you have known about Dr Robert, Vera?" Ryan said, also taken aback.
Without answering, she moved over to the painting. Her hands worked with incredible speed. They watched transfixed as she mixed colours and painted the outlines of three additional characters. She left them unfinished, but clearly recognisable as a man and woman, carrying a pinkish baby.
The significance of the earlier work troubled him, and a feeling of apprehension passed through him as it became clearer. He wondered if he should ask about the addition of the new figures.
Vera raised her eyes from the painting and stared over the top of the canvas at him.
She smiled with all the self-assurance of a grown woman.


Embarrassed, Ryan quickly ushered Vera away from the window to the bed, where he could more easily examine her. She refused to move from her chair, and no amount of coercion could persuade her otherwise, so he conducted his examination right where she was, by the light of the window.
He checked her eyes, ears and throat, pausing between to make notes. "Say aah . . ."
Mrs Flynn, having provided a running commentary of Vera's symptoms throughout, now demanded his diagnosis.
He held his hand up for her to wait while he finished note taking. Conversation and writing at the same time wasn't good for him. Some people could do it. He could not.
Even without talking, he made enough mistakes, so he always drafted in pencil. It made it easier to correct if the need arose. Scrawled out corrections looked so unprofessional; he'd sooner rub them out and then start again. He clicked a further millimetre of lead out into the nib, and examined it, before continuing.
"Dr Robert would've had the answer by now… What do you think it is, Dr Ryan?"
"Give me a minute, please."
Although he was a doctor of medicine, he longed to qualify as a psychiatrist. He had a flair for it, an affinity with people and a clear understanding of how their minds worked. To put bread on the table, however, as soon as he’d qualified as a doctor he’d had to take a job. Often, while making his medical diagnosis, he would include a psychological evaluation, which he would keep to himself, but this time his analysis was for her aunt. Despite making an allowance for her anxiety, he marked her down as an impatient woman.
She was asking him questions again. "I know you must have some idea of what's going on with her. What is it in heavens name?"
He knew she wouldn't drop it until he gave her something, so he effectively summarised what she'd already told him. "Mm-m, she looks anaemic. From the diet you told me she has, it's unlikely that's what she's suffering from. Her complexion is naturally pale, a well-known characteristic of her hair type. You said she can't go out on sunny days without blistering and yet she blistered up with sunburn when the weather was dull like this yesterday - if I have that right?"
"That is what I told you."
Where had all the blisters gone? Ryan frowned. "She has no melanin in her skin - was she always like this?" The pigmentation of her eyes and hair were normal. If he didn't know better, he might have thought she was suffering from a type of albinism. It puzzled him. She was as pale as alabaster, even in the grey of the dull day; she was almost pure white.
She continued to gaze out of the window. Her eyes were almond shaped, her face elfin. She didn't look hot; she had no difficulty breathing; her pulse was normal. He decided to check it again and took her hand in his, turning it over, so the back of it lay against his palm. It was surprisingly soft, yielding and warm; his thoughts turned inexplicably to images of post-sexual spooning.
Ryan shook his head involuntarily to get the image out; with his other hand, he spread her fingers and inspected her palm. Opened fully, it was remarkably unlined, completely unblemished. His intention was to take her pulse, but he waylaid himself into examining the structure of her hand. They were not the hands of a girl that worked physically at all. Her fingers were long and slim; there was a slight callous near the tip of her middle finger, and he already knew it wasn't from writing. He guessed she must do a lot of painting.
Ryan felt for her pulse, frowning as he manoeuvred his finger around the inside of her wrist, he found no trace, feeling only the throb of his own heart in his fingertip.
He became aware of her turning away from the window; her eyes had changed appearance, no longer feline, they were now wide-open sea green and had settled on him. For the second time she smiled as a woman and then her pulse began strongly, it mingled and beat in accord with his. Ryan suddenly felt self-conscious under her gaze and looked away to break contact.
She spoke for the first time since she'd mentioned Dr Robert. "Talk to me, B. Ryan, I don't bite."
Ryan found himself taken aback for the second time that morning. How could she know his first name began with a B? Her eyes led him to the bag; the nameplate on it said B Ryan. So that was how she did it! He smiled in recognition of the simple fact. She could be no more than fifteen, but she had the knowing smile of a woman. He looked away.
"Vera, are you allergic to anything you know of that you might have come into contact with in the last few days, yesterday perhaps?"
She didn't respond; instead, fiddling with something she held in her free hand.
He caught a glimpse of a shiny black object between her fingers. The quizzical look on his face, prompted her to tuck it away behind her back.
Although he was curious, he decided not to ask about it.
If he had, she would have told him it was just a stone that she'd found two days before on the beach.
"I'd like to get you in for a blood test. The hospital will contact you with an appointment."
"She needs something doing - and now!" Mrs Flynn exclaimed, louder than she'd intended. She covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes rounder than ever with embarrassment.
Ryan turned to look at her. "What am I missing here, ?"
She didn't reply.
He looked from one to the other for a clue, and noticed that she shot her niece a sharp look. Vera glanced almost imperceptibly at the bed. He eyed the hollow caused by sagging springs.
"Have you been sleeping well?"
Her aunt chimed in and answered for her, small round eyes rolling anticlockwise towards the ceiling. "That one hardly sleeps at all for nights on end. I'm telling you. You can hear her walking about, creaking open doors like a noisy ghost all night long. She isn't asleep, and she isn't awake either. When she does sleep, you can't wake her up at all!"
Vera gazed steadily at Ryan; he pretended not to notice, but the heat under his collar gave him away. His discomfort made her smile.
"Vera, when did you last get a good night's sleep?"
She made brief eye contact, and then looked over to her aunt. "Last night, the night before . . ."
"Since when?" Mrs Flynn scoffed.
"Since last night, and the night before!"
"Willful child, how dare you take that tone with me!" She moved within striking distance, the back of her hand raised above her left shoulder.
Jumping between, arms outstretched, he kept them apart. "Let's not be squabbling now," he said, holding his hand up in Mrs Flynn's direction as if stopping traffic, before continuing, "So, Vera, you would say you sleep all right?"
She hesitated for a moment. "Well, I would say so." She shot a defiant look at her aunt, knowing she'd say differently.
"That bed looks uncomfortable, you might try turning the –"
"Don't you think we've tried that!" she snapped. "The springs are poking . . . Soon they'll poke through this side as well."
The idea of having a new mattress delivered anonymously occurred to him, but he guessed they would know it was from him. When pride was one of the only possessions people had left, you couldn't afford to hurt it.
"How did you know about Dr Robert, Vera?"
She swivelled away from the window to face him square on, a faint comma of a smile appeared at the corner of her mouth, enigmatic, like the one in the painting of the Mona Lisa. A brief appreciation of Da Vinci's talent crossed his mind. How do you capture something as transient as that in a painting?
Mrs Flynn's face illuminated, and she glanced at Vera, a mixture of pride and awe. "She has the sight. I wasn't sure before, but now I'm convinced of it. This morning before you even arrived, she taunted me about Dr Robert. I didn't see how it could be true, but that smile of hers just confirmed it." She shook her head slowly. "A blood test indeed!" she guffawed. Fixing him with a hard stare, she pushed her face to within inches from his. The smell of her breath stunned him as she rasped, "Buy me a chocolate teapot!"
He chose not to respond, and instead cleared his throat into his clenched fist.
"I’m a doctor, but I’m hoping to become a psychiatrist. I'd love to understand a little bit better what you're going through, could you help me with that?"
Vera's eyes softened; he saw a kind of fleeting sympathy there. A second later, it was gone. "Doctor, I don't think I can do that, I believe it's beyond your powers of comprehension."
His voice was soft, but determined. "Try me."
"Dr Robert was riding to my house on a mare the colour of midnight, its mane tied off in black ribbons and bows. A storm rose from hell. The animal was uncontrollable, too fiery for him, unbroken. He fell from its back and lay in the mud. It was the same horse that dragged poor David Robert behind, the same one that led the funeral procession." Vera pointed to the painting. "Oh, I knew he was dead, but he didn't die like that," she explained. "He woke up clutching his chest, his bulging eyes almost popping out of his head. Knowing it was the end, he grabbed for a note pad and scribbled and scrawled and didn't finish it all. He tore the page from it - now you tell me - why would he do that, if he hadn't finished?"
There hadn't been a note!
He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. What if it were true? What would that mean?
She seemed to read his mind.
"You were there this morning, it's why you were late . . . there was a note. It slipped under the bed off the bedside table, the draught from the door blew it there when the housekeeper went in to wake him. She found it after you left. Do you want to know what it said?"
The cold truth of what she was saying started goose bumps rising; a chill ran over him, and the hair on his arms stood up as if in an electrostatic parade.
"Will you tell me?"
Vera beckoned him closer. "Yes, but it's for your ears only."
Mrs Flynn looked fearful. She shook her head and said emphatically, "I'll not leave the room!"
He bent forward and inclined his head towards her. She leaned and whispered something in his ear.
What she said made him stand erect and incredulous. She gave him three predictions, and of those, one came true within the hour. The second would be confirmed in the not too distant future, while the third would remain a secret until the time was right to reveal it many years hence. She played her tongue suggestively across her lips, her green eyes shiny with unmistakable desire.
Mrs Flynn was outraged. She grabbed his bag, shoved it into his arms and ushered him out. "That's enough! What sort of doctor are you anyway!"
Ryan blustered, protesting.
Her finger pointed to the door. "Out!" She started moving towards him. He had the distinct impression if he didn't leave right away, she might help him on his way.
The sun came out beyond the confines of the room. Not visible outside the window, it didn't shine in directly, but the increase in light drew his attention to the painting. At the top was a tiny church with an illuminated cross. How did I not see that before? For no particular reason, he noted that the window faced north.


The business with Dr Robert and Mr Ryan's subsequent visit made Brenda Flynn's mind up for her. Vera's little predictions were becoming all too frequent and always coming true.
Keep her on the side of God, away from the Devil. After what she'd seen of her flirting with Ryan, it was time to act.
She reported Vera to the church and told them all that she knew of her devil's curse.

Book giveaway

Just to let the four lucky winners of The Sister paperback know - I arranged direct delivery via amazon yesterday, and the estimated delivery date was given as 18th December. So if you're not going to be in, leave instructions for the postman.
I hope you all enjoy the book.

Just for anyone who's interested, there were 661 entrants from four different countries, three winners from the USA one from the UK. Around three hundred added the book to read. It would be nice to hear back from those that do . . .