Introducing Redser (Wicker Wood), the soon to be computer hackers enemy.

Redser should have gone to prison for poisoning his uncle Paddy – well he wasn't his real uncle: he was his aunt's husband. But everyone insisted he called him uncle. Redser hated him. Ever since he started telling him his hair was rusty from standing out in the rain.

Auntie Polly loved making soup, all kinds: potato, vegetable, broth from leftover meats. Redser liked them, but Paddy loved them, and drank big bowls of them with brown bread and country butter at lunchtime. That was up to the day Redser slipped some wild stringy long stemmed black capped mushrooms into one of the servings. Black Caps, Ink Caps, he later found out were hallucinogenic, and could lead to some very odd behaviour, particularly when the person who eats them consumes alcohol. And Paddy was a drinker.

But Paddy running down the outside streets of a country town shouting that he was Ali Baba and could fly, was surprising. The fact that he also felt very warm: became red-faced, and threw all of his clothes off and gambolled naked, from the pub, was also frowned upon. The plonker later told everyone that two old ladies were so upset that one of them had a stroke, but the other couldn't catch him.

When the incident was being discussed and the Garda called, Redser said I ate the soup, so did Auntie Polly, and we did not go Ga Ga. Must have been the drink. The Garda agree and that was that.

Redser was not an eager student, well unless it was Maths: Geometry, Propositions, Theorems, things like that came easy to him. As he saw it Pythagoras got it right when he said that the son of the squaw on the hippopotamus hide was equal to the sons of the squaws on the other two hides. That was Redser's secret: changing the definitions he would not remember to something he would easily recall. He had lots of those tricks.

“Dunne, yes you. Empty head.” Pointing at Redser, “Square 16. That's right 16 mult.....”

“256, Sir.”

“That was an easy one. 36 squared?”

“1295. Sir.”

“What are you laughing at Dwyer? What's 25 squared?”

Redser converted the problem in his head using a formula his Granddad had taught him. Round up, round down, Add the real square. So 25 by 25 was the same as 20 by 30 and then square the end number 5, get 25 and answer 625 Sir.

"You're useless. Dwyer, Anyone know?”

Redser knew he was not included in that invitation but nevertheless answered “626." Sir”

He got a wallop on the side of his head for answering.

“No one asked you. Boy”

“Am I wrong? Sir.”

“Get out Dunne. Stand outside the door 'til I send for you.”

Redser walked slowly to the door.

“Hurry up. Get out'f me sight.”

Redser left, walked to the bicycle shelter, took his bike, jumped aboard, and peddled for home.

“Sir. Sir. Out the window, Dunne's riding out the gate. He's going home!”

When he got home his Granddad was working in his workshop, shaping a shaft for a pony trap.

“You're early.”

“Wiggy! We were doing maths. He threw me out.”

“Were you cheeky?”

“Well we were squaring. And he was picking on me.”

“I told you to slow down. Stop firing out the answers before the question is over. He told you to clear off home?”

“No out the door. Stand in the hall, 'till he sent for me. Probably cane me when he had steam up.”

“He'll be up to see me so.”

“What will you say to him.”

“I'll give him short shrift and tell him I'll see him in the pub later. He will be shitting himself, waiting for me to come in the door. So I'll got to Nealons for a change. The pint is not as good: but it won't kill me this once.”

“Why don't you go to the normal place and invite him to play a game of twenty five.”

“Cheeky, go on in and tell Polly I'll be in soon.”

Looking after him as he headed for the back-door, Old Bill muttered what he had said to Polly so often in the past. “ He's a good lad, but I think his father's wild streak will get him into trouble. That and living with a quick brain in a town of slow plodders. We will have to get him out of this place!”

When Redser passed his school leaving examination with distinction and qualified to sit an additional test to join the national airline, the head of the Brothers asked him if he could check the letter to see if a mistake had been made. “We did not put your name down on the forms to be considered by the airline, on the basis of your leaving results. There must be some administration error.”

“Well there it is,” Redser replied, holding out his hand for the return of the letter.

Later Granddad chuckled when he heard of the exchange. “So that's what you were at when I caught you practising signatures. Who will he find out signed it for you then?”

“The careers man, the lay teacher. Dinny.”

“The one who retired and went back to Dublin, after the exams were finished.”

“The same man.”

“God bless him so. If Nixer contacts him what will Dinny say.”

“We all believe Nixer forced him out – he was also a good maths teacher, and Nixer wanted his job. So he will listen carefully and then say he did sign it.”

“When you are up in Dublin, look him up and buy him a drink.”

“Buy him a drink? Sure, I don't drink.”

Granddad smiled. “Yet.” 

Georgie is out and about and looking for the goods, the booty!!!

The ticket collector at Port Siney railway station had been warned by phone from Kingsbridge, Dublin to have a ramp ready for a wheelchair passenger. The old man and his companion negotiated the dismount in an expert fashion. He directed them to leave the station by the goods entrance, wider and more suitable, and they moved away walking and pushing down the Station Road. Curious he thought, a car would be more suitable, it's a good walk to the town. But what taxi around here is wheelchair accessible, they have no choice.

Georgie sat slumped in the chair, eyes alive, darting here and there, watching, seeking for a deep gated entrance. He knew one was along the road, nearby, suitable for the quick change.

“There, next left, he hissed to his helper, in there, quick.”

Once inside he sprung from the chair, folded it quickly, and propped it against the high wall, behind some concealing shrubs. He linked his nurse, smiled and said, “Now off to the old place and have a look at it, then the General, me dear, will treat you to a repast, somewhere in this God forsaken town.”

Bowen Court was gone! The perimeter walls had been removed, the main building renovated to provide offices, and a health clinic. The garden was now a large housing estate and the stables housed a canteen, a restaurant, a Kaf as the commoners misprounced the French word. My God: the outside menu even misspelled the beverage Espresso.

He marched around the estate, searching, trying to find familiar landmarks. The trees had been felled, the privet hedge flattened, the lake a dried up weed covered hollow. The graves? The graves were now paved over and a memorial wall had been built. It contained the names of his victims, and called him a savage, a deranged murderer!

How much had the house been renovated? Was any of the original remaining? What happened to the confession box and the hidden room? The passageway, from the stables had it been removed? Was the booty and the ledgers, the journals still intact?

Half an hour of sightseeing, like a house hunter, scoping out the houses, perhaps considering a purchase, brought them to where the back wall to the walled garden had been. The door would still be there, hidden behind vegetation, inside the weeping boughs of a solitary willow tree. He knew it was. 

Have a great Solstice day.

Summer Soltice

The above means Summer Solstice in WebDings, or some such thing.

Why did I do that – because I can't write it in Ogham.

It's the longest day of the year here in the Northern Hemisphere, and today a lot of people in various groups, will celebrate in several ways, music, poetry. story telling and the like (and “the like” covers a lot).

For me - well I fixed a puncture(s) in a tyre on my grandson's bicycle – three times and then when it deflated again found three more holes: as we say in Ireland the tube is Banjaxed, left far to long in the garage deflated.

So I was deflated as well, when “she-who-must-be-obeyed” said, “You better buy him a new tube.” YOU as if it was my fault, well it wasn't. But so that, I don't get notes like “Yer dinner's in the dog!” when I get home: I will obey.

Got version 2 of Wicker Wood loaded to KDP Kindle, but the “Look Inside” has not been updated to the new version yet: sent an Owl to KDP Support, so here's hoping it will be updated soon.

Have a great Solstice day.

Note:- Version 2 W.W has a new cover, and some text changes. Did you know some people out there don't know where "It's life Jim, but not as we know it." comes from? Others think our local dialect, fecken, shaggin, talkin, and their spellings are misspellings. One even, it seems, had an issue with the word "Hoor" thought it was incorrect spelling of Whore: not in Ireland, in Cavan or Kerry dialect.

Changed me bleedin' mind - didn't I.

My old boss, who was young then, once said, Don't ask for advice - 'cause it will mess you up, when you get it.


So...so someofyays didn't like the new cover ......

So how's this then?

I'm getting a face lift. Easy. Easy. I'm considering a new cover for Kindle edition of Wicker Wood.

A link can be found on the left panel.

Wicker Wood - sequel Draft 1 ....Fanahan again in crappy mood!!!

Fanahan had to admit that Gerry had tidied it up, and gave the place a lick of paint. He was unsure about the big framed painting of Milo R.I.P. Rot in Pogutary. Does that place exist any more? Does Limbo either? It was hanging at the back, behind the counter above the mirror, it looked like he was smiling down at the punters!

A new, different clientele...if you could call toss-pots and drunkards clientele, were now coming into the Saloon Bar. The plonker changed the name as well. Fanahan knew that late on a Saturday night, in this location, after watching TV and engaging in iPhone betting on the nags all day, the boys would act like cowboys in a saloon brawl.

“What cha say to her, me gurlfrien'?”

“Nuttin'.”

“Well that's it then - just say nuttin' or ya'll be picking up yer teeth – wan by wan.”

But a couple of new customers were dropping in for a few. Scoping the place out no doubt. Shay was missing the old crowd – even the Prick – you could get a rise out of him. Now, it seemed, he had reverted into Georgie, cast off the cloths of his granny the duchess, and was on the lam.

I need a diversion, from me problems. Wind yer man up.

“Would you like a drink pal?” The suited, if shabbily suited, gentleman on his right turned and looked Shane up and down.

“No thank you, pal. I'm fine and on my own: enjoying my own company.”

“Oh! La de daw, pal and it's detective to you, Detective Inspector Fanahan, to be exact. Who are you?”

Flustered at such a direct approach, cautiously he replied. “Church Willmore is my name.”

“Church? After Churchill, it's no wonder you shortened that. What do you do, Church?”

“I'm retired.”

Fanahan was starting to enjoy himself, interrogation was something he enjoyed, particularly when it served his purpose of upsetting someone.

“What did you do then? How would you describe yourself? Mr. Retired.”

“I would say I was a former editor at the Irish Press Newspaper Group.”

Fanahan wanted to reply and I'm a former schoolboy but instead continued twisting the knife. “Sure that went out of business in 1995, didn't it. Connie was the only journalist in that rag, the rest acted like stringers. The mouthpiece of De Valera. He founded it. Didn't he?”

“So they say detective.”

“Hop it then back to your own company, I'm tired engaging with you.”

Fanahan remembered the note he had picked up in the hospital: the one Georgie left for him, after he hanged the auld dear to pretend it was himself as the duchess. He fished it out of his pocket, opened the envelope and glanced at the message.

I've changed my drink to a Brandy and Port, Shay. Suppose you are still a pint and a ball o' malt chaser man.

See you soon and we can reminisce.

Jees. He is back, and I bet he is as evil as he ever was. More evil? Bloody psychopath.

Draft 1 of the sequel to In The Wicker Wood is progressing.

This sequence deals with the deranged Grorgie, who escaped being tried for the murders, since he had regressed into the personality of his Grandmother The Duchess. Now he is planning his escape......from the Hospital.

The boy visited more often now, never with any interesting gossip. He was only interested, it seems, in telling his own stories, ones, Duchess presumed from his past, his youth, when he lived away from then family. Then she remembered he never lived outside of Bowen Court, at least not for any time.

The stories, the tales he told were vile. No sane human would be involved in such depravity. She hoped he was telling her about his dreams as the scenes, he was able to replay in her head, terrified her, although the telling seemed to excite the boy.

She began to close her mind to his wants, yes wants, he wanted her to know what she had assisted in. He called it that assisted, helped, because she did not stop him. As the time passed he became more insistent that once again she would let him loose again to do more killing. He enjoyed doing that he said.

Over time Duchess got weary, tired, confused again. The world she knew was crumbling. Georgie was becoming aware again.

Duchess tried to resist on those occasions when the boy dressed her as a man and sneaked her out in that guise from her rooms to the hospital – a terrible confused place full of sadness. Georgie was not being honest. He would not let her walk in a normal fashion. He made her slouch along walls, often making her drool, and mumble. It was most distressing for her to act in that way, but somehow in those occasions she did not have the will to resist. Always she wanted to go back to her rooms and take to her bed.

Then when they returned she could wash the disguising smell of madness from her body, power herself, resume her wardrobe, lie on her bed and cry.

“Yes”

“Chief, Laurel here.” Before he could continue he was interrupted.

“Good news? The gravelly voice asked, then continued, “Still away with the fairies I hope, and if he is not, why are you disturbing me?”

“He's recovering. He sneaks out of his room now in man's clothes. We watch him. He is visiting the other inmates. Just looking and observing so far. What should we do?”

“Get him out of there if this goes on. Watch him closely. If we snatch him and he is lucid, well as lucid as he ever was, we will have to eliminate him.

The phone link was broken and Laurel looked at Hardy and said, “He promised to send us on holidays in the Sun, when this is all over.”

“Don't hold your breath,” Hardy replied, “He'll change his mind about that when another project comes up for us, probably making the calls now.”

“To his travel agent?” Laurel asked.

“Dream On. Hardy replied.

Stand back - I'm going to let fly! (This means I'm givin' out.)

When I started publishing books, I did that on Createspace. Naturally I joined the forums and began to follow posts. What a mistake!

I joined Amazon forums and even with my first question got racial abuse with the phrase "You Irish and people like you..." Of course it was a Brit who did that.

Later she attacked others, who were not native British, and eventually she was banned and her posts had to be removed.

Probably by now she has returned under an alias.

Then I started to follow posts and forums on Createspace itself.

I stuck it out for about a year before the quality of the Q&A's drove me mad.

"How long should a paragraph be?"

"Do you have to enclose speech in speech marks?"

"Yes they are called quotes and they enclose speech."

In "unpublished excerpts" only.

"Please read the first chapter of my published novel."

When you do and reply "It's rubbish, you can't spell, have no idea what punctuation is, and besides you already published it on Amazon, where it stinks up the rest of our work."

Eventually the man who said he was an editor and because of that we all believed he was helping others in editing their work, broke the rule and unknown to us posted the first chapter from his published book. 

It was terrible, silencer suppressed rifle shots echoing in the hills and a broadband office set up in the mountains on a satellite dish and a bit of cable. When I pointed this out and commented that to get a signal from a satellite or another dish you needed a subscription. He went ballistic.

Then I suggested that in order to get the grammar checked, he needed to use a particular product, which he had been pushing,  he went totally  ballistic. I suspect I touched a nerve, that is, that the excerpts from others that he was correcting he had run through the checker.

Again I got abused, and I left.

Then as I am on Linkedin I followed their forums, and shortly after ceased following the forums there.

Recently I started to participate again. Then I joined a Book Marketing Group, who told me I could not post links to my book. The forum it seems was only for advising each other on marketing books. I suggest changing the title to "advice on marketing your books", and was invited by a member to leave. 

Then the moderator asked me not to leave. I evoked the Groucho  Marks axiom and left that discussion group.

Now I have to leave the Linkedin Forums as well. This morning someone posted poetry that had no punctuation AT ALL. And a poster was bewailing that he changed the point of view of a character, from third person to first person and now needed to go back and give him a romantic connection.

Then I suppose the poster who wanted to know would he dream about his work in progress, took the biscuit.

So my conclusion is that some people who say they write and have produced 23, 34, 42, 56, 9,7 or whatever number of dross books are not writers: unless each and every one of those books are selling. 

They are just pulp mills ruining the World's resource of trees, and that some forum posters are completely nuts, abusive, uneducated and do not respond to criticism at all.

But then again I did find some genuine helpful friends on all the forums, and I feel for them when they get abused. So much so that like me they cease to participate.

But I still look in now and then, and now I can do it for amusement.

After all -it's my blog - so it should be used to help sell my books.

I'm was being plagued by requests to monetise my blog.

Seems simple if they are correct - all I do is allow someone or other to add advert links to my blog. Then when a punter clicks a link a seller offers to sell something or other, offer advice, or whatever, and I get buttons - not shirt buttons - small amounts of money, deposited into my bank account.

But I see click on terms and conditions, so there must be a catch. But it seems there isn't.

But (third but) I sell books: paperbacks and kindles, and as the adverts will be associated with what I blog about, I presume they will be for others selling books.

Put the idea on the back burner: but it kept calling me, nice little earner, no work, just blog.

Then the light bulb idea and question. Can I advertise and sell my books from my blog?

A little research, a little HTML and Hey Presto! It happened!

The links at the left hand of this blog now shows my books, as added and displayed on Goodreads.

The long planned inflatable boat is now a possibility!

Shay Fanahan appeals to all that's bad in me - that's why I love when he talks in my head.

Draft from the new... In The Wicker Wood - Awake Again.

Fanahan, stuffed the letter, into an inside pocket of his wind-breaker. He started to hum a tune, a song he heard somewhere, and at times of thought he ran it through his mind, often vocalising it as humming. He also muttered to himself. Cardboard Programming he called it. Saying softly what was worrying him. Sometimes even finding a quick solution, that formed in his brain and became reality.

“You have changed Plonker, smaller, skinnier. Jees when you fell on me in the street – you almost flattened me! How many years ago. Five? Six? Seven? Was it seven? The wig fell off. Christ is that a wig? It's a better one anyway. Did someone buy it for you Georgie, or did you inherit it. If someone looks in and sees me smiling and talking to myself they may try to keep me in here. Shay you are here to identify Georgie. Is it him? Who the feck, else could it be? He has changed, but as he was incarcerated in here – it must be him. I need to get out of here quick and have a few scoops, before I report back. Well a lot of people will be relieved – the killer brought to justices. God's justice, if not man's justice. Dead as a doornail – no danger any more. Can't believe he hung himself. Did he come back to himself and do it, or did he come back as he did it. Feck we will never know. Good riddance. Hung himself.”

Now that's something I always wondered about. They say when a man hangs himself, he gets a big Langer, a big erection. No Shay you wouldn't – you wouldn't take a peek. Sh-one-t I would. But what if someone sees me – the detective was observed peeping up the dead woman's skirt. Jees no I can't risk it. Crap. You will never get another opportunity to find out. Get rid of yer woman first.

He went to the door and opened it wide. He called the only nurse outside and asked her to get the orderly who found the body and cut down Georgie. As soon as she turned away he hurried back to the bed and taking a deep breath, raised the skirt quickly and looked underneath.

“Jayus! Shit! Bollix! Crap! It's not Georgie! It's an auld one – a real auld one. With a gee. Where's Georgie then. Ah! Bollix. What's going on here?”

Stay quiet. You are in the shits now. How can you explain how you found out. Calm down. Let the primitive Fanahan survival instinct take over. Stand back over by the door, they are coming back.

“This is the man detective...he found the body. Are you all right?”

“Fine. Just thinking back to when I brought him in here.” Get a grip. There's a way out. Emphasis the HIM, the gender. “When I brought him in here, a good few years ago: five or six, was it?. Maybe more. He had killed a lot of girls and kidnapped a priest. He was a nutcase. A raving nutcase. A madman, mad,” he repeated the word. “Man.”

“Detective I think we are at cross purposes here. This body is that of Georgina Bowen, Mistress Bowen she liked to be called. Sometimes Duchess. She has been a guest here a good few years and is a woman. Not a man”

Attack! “I'm sorry sunshine, this is, su...” Don't say supposed to be. “Is George Edward Bowen – Georgie. A serial killer! Incarcerated here awaiting a return of his memory, so that if that happens we can charge him. This is not a woman! It's a man: a serial killer. And if you don't believe me, go ahead and check. God knows I can't.” Nice one. Shay.

The nurse moved forward, raised the lower clothing, then opened the top buttons of the blouse, and stood back and turned to face Fanahan.

“Detective,” she said through gritted teeth, “beyond any doubt, you might have. This patient is a woman – without any doubt at all.”

Good job I didn't stop for a snifter the way this blooming whale is sniffing my breath.