I am starting to strongly believe in existence after death.

We were a bunch of pals, who started our real living together – in our teenage years of discovery.

We went to films: tennis club hops, later dances, fell in love, fell out again and finally went our separate ways.

And then young and with a life ahead of her, in another land, Deirdre died.

We had danced together, talked together and went on walks but were not a couple. She and Joe were that.

But her death – even if it was twenty or so years later affected me in such a way that I sought memorial solace, by giving her another life in poems and stories and eventually as a central character in my first book.

I often thought about her and my other companions of our Bog Midland Prairie, Pine Wood Rambling Days, shuffling among the leaves, or climbing the banks to walk along the railway lines and canal tow-paths, or gathering pocket money working the turf banks.

A few nights ago, just drifting to wakefulness alert, a girl came to me into my arms and cuddled me. She was vivacious, full of life and I tingled in her embrace. I felt warm and secure. She apologised for going away, and said she was back now. But I knew she would go away again. She mentioned a name, a boy-man's name.

I awoke wondering – why did I meet and cuddle Shamie? He was at school with me, we were good pals, and then he went away to England. Why am I dreaming of him now?

The day passed and the images were re-run and solidified in my thinking. Eventually I realised the girl was Deirdre.

And then I remembered Shamie had died about a year ago. But why was he bringing this girl to me in my dreams. Then I realised that Shamie, had been married to Deirdre's older sister.

What impact did, this dream sequence, have on me?

Well – the sequel to In The Wicker Wood is now on the back burner, and I'm back completing the book version of Here Lies...

The “…” is important since it will be followed in the book by an inscription on a headstone.

As usual with my writing there is a BIG Clue to the start and end of the book in the “...”.

Like Frankenstein's Monster - Georgie is becoming aware!

He had toughed it out: persevered. Won back his sanity: if ever it had truly been lost, that is.

At first it had been confusing, sometimes he was faking it, and sometimes he believe the Duchess was truly there – in control. Mostly in control? He didn't want to kill again: his soul was clean after his confessions. He meant to keep it that way.

When he was in control of his personalities; that's what the shrink had said, when discussing him. Believing he was out of earshot, or that Georgie was drugged and not responsive. “He has a dual personality condition,” he had explained, “and the old woman is dominant. As a man I don't think we will see Bowen again.”

Dream on Crap-head. I am here all the time just waiting.

Befriending the old boys in the day-room was easy. What old codger does not want to have female company. Getting their trust and access to their wardrobe took a little time. Finally Georgie found it convenient to start appearing in the day-wards as a visitor. “The Major here to visit me Uncle Nigel, Ya know.” The staff were far to busy and lazy to bother checking anything out. He was not able to get off the premises though and had to go back to a convenient closet, empty toilet – wherever he had stashed the dress, and appear once again as the deranged stumbling, leaning on the walls Duchess.

As the months passed, and it appeared he was not recovering, his accommodations changed. He was moved to a small cell and his personal minders left. “I know who sent you to mind me, and why.” He often muttered. Now they had been withdrawn. So the Chief had given up. Stopped fearing that Georgie would spill the beans, reveal his secret. Tell where the treasure was stashed. Sometimes he felt like a pirate abandoned on an island, with a treasure map and a cross drawn to mark where the booty was hidden. It is hidden in my mind, and now I am starting to remember more, I have to be more deranged and then I will be safe. Until I get out of here.

As time passed the staff became comfortable with the visitor. “Here again Major. Visiting Nigel?”

“Why not dear boy. It cheers him up I think. Me too. Dashed rain will come again soon. Must get back to my charitable works. What!”

Then one day an old dear he had also cultivated was very poorly – near the end it seemed. Georgie had an idea, of how to get away, outside, free. And when he considered the plan it appeared so simple – a child, even a frail old Duchess could carry it off.

Plagiarism on a big scale.....and it was paying well.

Read an interesting article in the Sindo (Sunday Independent) Ireland this week about a lady living in, it appears , in Cork Ireland who ripped off three books by another Irish author: from the back catalogue.

It was accomplished it seems by typing in the books and then INDIE publishing, and offering them for sale on Amazon, with a change of title and character name changes. And of course a new author name.

Amazon sold the books unaware and I estimate the first rip-off book alone earned (if 70% KDP royalty applied) over €10,000.

The figures were also given for the second book – but Amazon had been made aware by then and suspended payment.

The third book – I presume is now on the back burner.

What a cheek! What a cheek! To steal another writer's work – and blog, give interviews, and generally market yourself as the genuine author. What a bare-faced cheek! How did she think it would be un-noticed? Obviously nothing between her ears!

Wonder how “entrallingdimple” feel about the glowing tribute and interview they did for the Plagiarist.

It's important to note that the figures for the royalties given in the article and elsewhere do not agree with mine. But I'm basing my calculations on the fact that I earn 70% royalties on Amazon (where the books were sold). Bloggers are getting incensed that the quoted royalties stolen are so low.

Bit of a red-herring I think. The point is that an author of it is claimed 26 books: three of while we know were plagiarised, needs more careful scrutiny than the payments she received.

Some also wrote that they did not know if the person was a she or he.

Well lads, and lassies, the photo I tacked down was for sure a lassie.  

The links given if you Google her name are  no longer available, the website is down, and most of her 26 published books are no longer available to buy.

But so far I can not find any legal action having been initiated by the genuine author: it would not be me. 

Getting back into the swing of the sequel - and Detective Fanahan!!!

 “This way Garda.”

“It's Detective Inspector. Lead on Mc Duff.”

“In here, we only cut her down and laid her on her bed. Nothing else was disturbed. The letter is on the nightstand.”

“Thanks. Who cut him down?”

“The porter cut her down. Will I send for him.”

“No not yet. I want to have a look at him, he has changed hasn't he?”

“I..I can't say. I'm only here a few years. Looking after her.”

“OK! Can I have a minute?”

Fanahan started to hum a tune, a song he heard somewhere, and at time of thinking inside, he ran it through his mind, often vocalising it as humming. He also muttered to himself, silently. Cardboard programming he called it. Saying out loud 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? 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.

Still doing the setup for the sequel to WW - hard work remembering what I did in book 1.

Sidesteps to Beat Steps

“You're welcome Superintendent Tyrell -  to the show.”

“Now Ivor. I'm retried it's just plain Bob now.”

“But you did spend time in the force and rose to the rank of Superintendent.”

“I did, but now as you know Ivor I'm here to talk about my Memoir “Sidesteps to  Beat Steps” my time as a footballer and pounding the beat.”

“On the beat, walking the streets, on patrol. I never knew you did that.”

“Ivor in the old days all rookies started in that way, but again Ivor – the book, that's the mission today.”

“You solved the serial killer case and brought the killer of eleven women to justice, Bob.”

“ I had help, there Detective Inspector Shay Fanahan made the first breakthrough, when he recognised the killer, even though he was dressed in drag. Sergeant harry Roycroft down in Port Siney initiated a search of the Bowen place and found the graves. Dogged police work on both their part. And the dogged detection work of Sheba as well.”

“So it is true a seeing eye dog, sniffed the killer out even in his Grannies clothes.”

“Ivor if you were afraid of dogs no matter if you were up a tree, when one gets sniffing for you - you panic. The late Prunty Senior always said that one of these boys will stand beside a prancing stallion going down to the start at the Currough, but put then in a room with a Shih Tzu, they … well I will leave the rest to the viewer's imagination. It was his record keeping for the customers of his handmade shoes that first put us on to Bowen. I could almost hear him and his cackling laugh as I wrote the case into the book. A gentleman and we all miss him, may he rest in peace.”

“Where is the killer now? Bob.”

“In a place – you couldn't call it a hospital, or a prison – it's a place for the criminally insane.”

“Are the staff, and maybe even visitors, safe from him? Could he kill again?”

“Ivor – he doesn't even know who he is, or where he is, all that remains is the personality of a frail, elderly lady. I say lady because she believes she is the mistress of a large house, with tended gardens, servants and people to cook her meals and serve her. In fact unless she is seated at the end of a dining table with a few candelabra with lighting candles, and a tablecloth on it, she will refuse to eat until things are restored to normal, as she says. I'm afraid that for Duchess Bowen, there are no today's or tomorrow's just yesterday's.”

“Bob are you sure Georgie, the serial killer, is gone?”

“Jees Ivor! I hope so. A killer with no conscience or regret, must never be allowed out into the population.”

“What if one day he woke up and said – I'm back, it's me Georgie. I'm myself again.”

“Then we could charge him with the murders. We have never been able to so far, because basically we could not bring an old lady to court and charge her. You see Georgie is gone, long gone - I don't believe he exists any more. Wish he did – there are many unanswered questions.”

The Tower View Reading Club are asking for a Sequel to In The Wicker Wood.

I don't know what I will call it but the Sequel starts like this! Am I linking the two books in a sensible way?

Fanahan was down, depressed some would call it, but since he did not believe depression existed: for him, he was just down.

Milo had died. Or to be precise Milo had drank himself to death. This time with booze left on the shelves. In other words he failed to drink his Dublin Pub dry.

Cremation was not a real funeral, a real internment! Putting a small box into a grave was a shame. Six by four that was what a man deserved, and six down as well. The undertaker had just bent down and placed the ashes a foot or so deep.

Give me a better send off, Fanahan thought. Scatter my ashes over twenty virgins! Jees where would you get twenty virgins today? Primary School? Grade School?

“Gerry, give me another pint and a large brandy chaser. Those photographs on the wall of the football match. Milo said I could have them after he was finished with them, For sure that time is now. Take them down and I'll bring them with me.”

“He didn't say you could have them, he used them to annoy you – that Cavan beat Galway, but I don't like them either. So take them out of my sight. This is a changed Pub from now on. I might even consider barring some of the customers!”

Grate Pictures, just great for starting a nice fire in a grate! Bloody Tyrell, the Cavan Hoor, had retired. He wrote his Memoir, of his Gaelic playing career, his time as a Garda, and his part in solving the big cases. It was a best seller – he had a lot of celebrity help to promote it. And now he was a security expert spoofin' on the radio and TV when big cases were being analysed, fell on his feet! Retired, wrote a memoir and now a security expert on the radio and TV spouting on criminal issues. SHITE.

Detective Inspector Seamus Fanahan! Stuck in a policing rut and not going anywhere fast. No woman, no kids, no prospects and now – God help us all no best pal. Milo a best pal? Well OK. No pal at all.

He thought when he solved the case of that prick, was he a pal as well? He killed all those girls and kidnapped a priest, that he would get a promotion and a plum job. He got the promotion and was sent back to office duties training dunces – showing them how to use and in some cases abuse the computer records system. If someone wanted a drink driving arrest to disappear before the court case – he could help. His drinking habit could not be sustained on an inspector's pittance – after deductions.

Over 20,000 Readers – 20,000! Pity it's my Tripadvisor Review's Readers!

A long time ago I had a very good holiday in the Canaries. I told Tripadvisor about it. Because I gave information about the hotel, nearby restaurants, bus routes from the airport, fares, taxi fares to the nearby town and things like that. I attracted a good readership.

I then knew that a review is sometimes about more that a single experience.

In all the years I think I only wrote a few time about questionable places.

In the Canaries being asked for cash to pay a large bill.

Or recently, in Dublin, when I observed families with children being refused admission to a pub/dining premises. “No Children” the owner roared as he barred entry at the door.

Or when I found ants in my bed in Sorrento. I had a few words about the hotel laundering my clothes when I also found them in my carry on luggage stored in the wardrobe. But got the usual Italian stall.

But otherwise I had great experiences, in all the places I visited.

So now they tell me they have awarded a badge to me to show I have over 20,000 readers.

That's great – now how do I translate that following to my book readers?

Write a travelogue you fool!