Still writing the sequel to Wicker Wood, I think, it's draft one, half completed.

 In drafts of novels, I tend to write paragraphs, or sections, quickly. Later I pad them out as the story requires. This will be much longer in Version Last.

In Georgie's mind the question had to be was he ever mad and believing he was his own granny, or was he just dressing up, to escape his sins. Did he believe he was now clean since Father Gaffney had pardoned him: in confession, in a confessional box, all good and catholic. But was the absolution even good now that the priest had give up his vocation and was away on the continent working in a Disco Bar, complete with lap dancers.

Strange world. Anyway his information had been coming from a reliable source. That was the key to him escaping – a reliable pal, a helper, someone in the know. Nursie, as he now called her, was supposed to be his warder, his prison guard. In the so-called enlightened practices of looking after the criminally insane, such names were not used. Attendant that's what they are called. So she attended to his needs and he attended to hers. A sexual relationship at his stage of life, who'd have believed it? With no shame or guilt or rages strong enough to kill as in the past. But none of those girls had welcomed him, like nursie did. Then one of her other charges had died and they put their plan into operation. They dressed the corpse, in his “Granny Clothes”. Moved her to his room and strung her up, as if she had hung herself. Then nursie raised the alarm, laid the red herring trail, while he hid in an empty room dressed in his General's clothes. While alone there he assumed the personality of an old fashioned military man, complete with west-Brit accent, mannerisms and phrases.

Maybe after all he had not been mad believing he was deranged in the personality of Duchess. Maybe he was just a damn good actor and performer.

The fly in the ointment revealed itself when Fanahan had arrived on the scene. That so called detective was now a shadow of what he had been and would never figure out that the lady who had died was not himself in his drag costume.

See, this Georgie was even starting to develop a sense of humour.

Then nursie from her spying position in the next room, through a peep-hole: necessary the authorities said for a patients' safety, saw Fanahan lift the dress. Dirty Bastard. Only a degenerate would think of checking for the sex of the corpse.

They scarpered then and headed for their safe house. One of nursies' inherited properties. A previous occupational vocation of nursing the terminally ill, had made nursie a nice little fortune and a property portfolio.

I'm starting to motor again – dreaming my plot for the WW Sequel.

In the past when I'm well into a book plot I start to dream scenes.

This is a scene from the rough draft of the WW Sequel.

“Missus Green. It's Detective Inspector Fanahan. Can you open the door?”

“Inspector, just a moment.”

The door was opened in a confident manner. Then Shay saw why there was no hesitation. The largest Alsation dog he ever saw was sitting in the hall between himself and Aoife Greene.

“That's not Sheba!”

“No Inspector. Sheba died a while ago. Old age. She went peacefully. This is Davy. He minds me now, don't you boy. Come in.”

“Will he let me?”

“Of course, don't be silly.” Aoife turned and walked down the small hall, and headed for the back room. A kitchen he presumed.

Not fit for the parlour am I? That's where you used to bring Tyre ll.

Carefully he entered, closed the door and stepped around the dog.

After the carefully presented tea and biscuits, arranged on the tray, so that her blindness would not lead to an accident, a cup doped, milk spilled, or a biscuit being replace on the white table cloth after a bite, Aoife asked “ How can I help. Not another kidnapper in the area is there?” Then she smiled.

Jees if you only knew. No nothing like that Missus Greene. It's a new initiative I am working on. Policing in the community, bring pets to visit patients in Nursing Homes. I want yourself and Sheb...sorry what's his name again

“Davy.” At his name the dog stirred, then figuring he was mentioned in passing, not being called to work, went back to his light snooze.

“Davy, to be one of those visiting dogs. Will that be OK?”

“I can go with him. Is that part of the plan...you see...”

“No Missus Greene, that's the plan. If you agree, I will check it out with the office and ring you with the time and place. Then I can collect you. I lost your mobile number, can you write it down.....No can you ring me please my number is....”

Last night I had a dream that Aoife rang retired Superintendent Bob Tyrell to tell him Fanahan had called and that they had visited the Insane Asulyum.

He tells her he knew she had a new dog: some of his ex colleagues rang him now and then with the news from his old station.

When she told him about Fanahan bringing the dog and shoving him in the inmates faces, he twigs that Georgie, who is terrified of dogs is missing and possibly in hiding again.

Up to last night I did not have this plot avenue.

Roll on tonight and more dreams.

Shay Fanahan in another graveyard!

Fanahan yearned for the old days: the days when a policeman had a house and two derelict properties, bought cheap, being “done up”, renovated, to sell or lease out. Nowadays he was struggling to live on his salary. He hadn't been on a real call out job for a long time. He needed a stay away from base, living on subsidised meals and collecting mileage, for visiting suspects in his own car. When he rang Tyrell for a discussion, trying to pick his brain, on Georgie: he almost asked him if there was a job in the offing.

He had moved from his city apartment to a place in the country: a dream some people had, a nice bungalow, a few acres of land, a few outhouses and in the phrase of the old days ...room for a pony. Instead he was living in a one horse village, in a so called new house, bought at the top of the market, and now, like a lot of others in The Village, it was pyrite cracked and he was fighting with the developer to try and get it remedied. Bloody pyrite no one ever heard of it until recently when it was discovered in filling under foundations. It apparently caused the footings: sub walls, under the wall bricks, to move, maybe even crack. The results was that the door frames, and window sides, went on vacation from the places they had been fixed into.

The kip, hadn't even got a decent pub. It had two: family owned, one at the bottom of the main street was called the Bottom Shop, and the one at the other end of the street was called the Top Shop. A group of visitors on a pub crawl recently remarked that the local patrons resembled each other, and followed that with a derogatory remark about their origins. But there was some truth in his observations because for generations farmer's sons, married farmer's daughters. This ploy kept farms, and land, in family ownership for centuries.

The clientele also had men on the scratch, the local name for welfare, who always seemed to be drunk and making a nuisance of themselves. Shay suspected that some subsidies were being paid outside of the tax system.

He went for drink early in the evening, apart from the welfare pay day the place was relatively quiet. Since no one knew his profession, his day job, he sometimes overheard so called confessions about this folding money, payment for working on farms for cash. He kept this information for a rainy day, when he might have to assist Revenue in one of those dawn raids: with a press release later that read "Illegals arrested", working without work permits. A raid that only yielded welfare spongers would not be news.

One night, feeling shattered, after a dressing down about the lack of progress in the hunt for Georgie, he stayed drinking most of the day and into the weekend lock-in. He fell over on the way to the cigarette machine. Someone suggested they pick him up, call for a taxi, and send him on his way. They searched his pockets for his address, found his warrant card, with his name and rank. He woke up later: where he had been thrown, on a flat gravestone, above a crypt, in the nearby graveyard.