Past events cast shadows you can’t outrun. Wayne and Phil knew that better than anyone, after Stevie died, way back when they were children. A pebble dropped in a pool. Ripples spreading outwards. Who knew where they would end?

 

 

Extract

Simon Walsh isn’t in the newspaper office when I call. There’s just a middle-aged woman with forgettable glasses and a welcoming smile who takes adverts and deals with callers. Behind her, the press room is buzzing with activity.

‘He’ll be back in a couple of hours,’ she says. ‘Do you want to leave your name?’

I don’t. After his recent headline, my name might set alarm bells ringing, and arouse fear of violent retribution. I say I’ll call back.

‘Can I ask what it’s about?’

You can ask, I think. But then I say, ‘Tell him it’s about Wayne Keech and his brother.’

Evidently, she remembers the name, because her face freezes and her teeth seem momentarily set like concrete in her mouth. Then she relaxes and says, ‘I’ll let him know.’ She smiles again as I leave.

I think maybe I’ll walk down to the precinct and get a coffee, but I’ve not gone many yards when I get this strange feeling that I’m being watched. It’s not a feeling I welcome under the present circumstances. My thoughts slip immediately to Denny, Tyrone, and the knife. I turn and look around, but the street is quite busy, and everyone seems to be moving except me. I can’t see anyone suspicious, but what’s suspicious in a crowd of people? You’d need to be wearing a billboard or a red nose and a funny hat to stand out in that lot.

Nonetheless, I can’t shake off the feeling. I cast sideways glances and stop at shop windows, trying to watch reflections like I’ve seen on TV, only it doesn’t work, and I just feel foolish.

I grab a window seat in Maggie’s café and order a coffee and a ham roll. It’s surprising how all this conspiracy stuff makes you hungry. Then I wait to see if anyone follows me, a man with a billboard or a red nose and a funny hat, maybe. But there’s no one conspicuous outside and it’s five minutes before the door opens. It’s just a silver-haired, elderly guy with a penchant for floral colours who sits across from me. He calls to the girl behind the counter in a loud, self-confident voice – obviously a regular.

Simon Walsh isn’t in the newspaper office when I call. There’s just a middle-aged woman with forgettable glasses and a welcoming smile who takes adverts and deals with callers. Behind her, the press room is buzzing with activity.

‘He’ll be back in a couple of hours,’ she says. ‘Do you want to leave your name?’

I don’t. After his recent headline, my name might set alarm bells ringing, and arouse fear of violent retribution. I say I’ll call back.

‘Can I ask what it’s about?’

You can ask, I think. But then I say, ‘Tell him it’s about Wayne Keech and his brother.’

Evidently, she remembers the name, because her face freezes and her teeth seem momentarily set like concrete in her mouth. Then she relaxes and says, ‘I’ll let him know.’ She smiles again as I leave.

I think maybe I’ll walk down to the precinct and get a coffee, but I’ve not gone many yards when I get this strange feeling that I’m being watched. It’s not a feeling I welcome under the present circumstances. My thoughts slip immediately to Denny, Tyrone, and the knife. I turn and look around, but the street is quite busy, and everyone seems to be moving except me. I can’t see anyone suspicious, but what’s suspicious in a crowd of people? You’d need to be wearing a billboard or a red nose and a funny hat to stand out in that lot.

Nonetheless, I can’t shake off the feeling. I cast sideways glances and stop at shop windows, trying to watch reflections like I’ve seen on TV, only it doesn’t work, and I just feel foolish.

I grab a window seat in Maggie’s café and order a coffee and a ham roll. It’s surprising how all this conspiracy stuff makes you hungry. Then I wait to see if anyone follows me, a man with a billboard or a red nose and a funny hat, maybe. But there’s no one conspicuous outside and it’s five minutes before the door opens. It’s just a silver-haired, elderly guy with a penchant for floral colours who sits across from me. He calls to the girl behind the counter in a loud, self-confident voice – obviously a regular.

Thank you, Barry Litherland and Love Books Tours

 

About the author

Barry Litherland is an author living and working in the far north of Scotland, not far from John O’Groats. He writes in a variety of genres but has achieved greatest success with his recent crime and paranormal crime thrillers, Waves Break on Unknown Shores, The Hand of Ronan Hawke and Turbulence. He is an avid reader and loves classical novels, modern literary fiction and self-published books. When he’s not writing or reading, he likes photography, at an amateur level, cycling, and walking the mountains and coastlines of the Northern Highlands. Some of his photographs are shared on his website bleaknorth.net.

After a successful and rewarding career in primary education, he now considers writing his new vocation and writes a new book each year. He has two new novels awaiting proofreading prior to publication and – a new venture – two Middle-Grade children’s novels (for 8-12-year-olds.)

He is married to Susie, has three children, a grandson, Harry, and two springer spaniels, Ziggy and Daisy.

 

Author Link

@BWLitherland

 

 

Book Link

https://amzn.to/2Mgg2EM