December 12^th, 1981

            I am dying in a casket. According to my mother, I would one day die in an open casket. I banged my fist up against the door. I screamed and heard only my voice. I am a dead man. A flash point. I slammed my head against the casket. “Helllllppp!” Early Sunday morning. I can barely breathe. I am drunk. I have committed manslaughter against one of the worst Colombians in the world. I wish for Officer John Husker. “Shit!” I wish he could dig me out of this six-foot hole. Darkness. My breath scares me. I am a little boy again, afraid of the monster in the closet. I wait in line to die as I confess the chronicles of a dead man.

I remember my life. Tears take steps down my cheeks. Hot. I can flee no more. I am here drunk. Buried. Heated and battered. I feel the blood run down my nose and ear. I wipe the blood. “Helllllp!” Possessed, calm down man. Shit! “I am Black Jesus! I am Black Jesus!” I stop, slow down, fall asleep in the darkness. I dream. I dream of my reward for being a man, for dying like a man and my final hours.

Awake again, with more tears in my eyes; I wipe my face, punch the door that doesn’t budge. My dying is a tribal sovereign nation. Street law. I was careful, C.I.A. snitch, a rat. I was careful, and  I always covered my tracks, in the snows of Haverford Connecticut. My life is a great spin. I cry, and I laugh like a girl. I pray and think of the time that put me in this death plot. I was legal, I worked my time off with Detective Husker. I worked my ass off to keep my cover. I stayed strong, excluded my wife, children, who­­­­­ I hadn’t seen in years. I was black, a spot, on this native land, and now I am dying and think of the times when I raced my bicycle down the streets. My father taught me, as my mama watched me race Eddie Yella down the streets until he fell off. Ugh! Uggghh! I cough the dirt coming up in my hot lungs. I slap my hand over my nose. Breathe slow-slow. No shadows. No voices. No sounds of air tickling the trees. No scuffed footprints. Six feet deep. Six feet under is all I think, afraid. Lost, until I see the light, brilliant yellow light of my life.

November 2^nd, 1977…

            “Hi! I am Tevin Dunbar,” I shook his hand.

“Call me Mike.” Mike looked him in his eyes. He looked wise, smart, a young man who knew his way around the streets. Cleft chin, ladies’ man. “Follow me.”

            I saw brick walls, heard music down a corridor under the Bears Den Bar. I was sent by some Irish guys on my street for this job to clean up the bathrooms before, during and after the poker games. Nothing but brick walls passed a few men going by. No head nods. Ghosts. We were all dangerous ghosts underground.

            Mike got to a door, knocked one-two-three. The door cracked open; a guy with a ten inch cut down his face peeked between the chains. “I got your man.”

            He opened it.

            I walked in, saw the mop and bucket. A dead man lay on the floor with a bullet in the middle of his head, eyes wide open.

            “Clean this shit up,” he stood over him, kicked him to make sure he was dead. He threw an Ace of Spades on this chest. “What’s your name, boy?”

            “Tevin, sir,”  I rubbed my chin, “but they call me Black Jesus.”

            He stuck one hand in his pocket, “well, Black Jesus, here is your first job.”

            “Yessir.”

            “Grab him by his arms,” Mike said.

            I lifted his arms, dragged him backward as Mike held his legs. The dead man was heavy. It felt like I tore my rib cage some as I dragged the weight of the dead man in the alley. Moon white stared down at me. I wasn’t afraid in the cold, as we swung his ass in the trunk of the black Cadillac. Mike slapped his hands and grinned at no one. The man was the color of death, yellow, pale. Eyes closed now. He no longer looked at his soul drift from a place in hell. The card was stuck to the blood circled in the middle of his clean white shirt. The card was the sign, his death warrant. I nodded to Mike. It was silent thanks. Mike slapped the top of the car, and another man drove away in the cold frost of the white moon. How many times had I seen a dead body? Many, plenty. It was my life. Streets were bright with death for me. It was all I knew. Nothing more, but a body and a cup of coffee to wake up to in the middle of the night. Early morning moon. Bright. White. Cold death was my story, my life. I grew up on the streets. Ain’t had much, but death and a cold sandwich. In and out of prison, in and out of shit all my life. Shot five times, survived by the grace of the angels on high. I followed Mike back into the basement. He kicked a mop and bucket at me, clean up the blood. Yeah, I got it. “No problem.”

            What is love? Hell, I didn’t know. I couldn’t feel anymore as I got on my knees and scrubbed the blood. I cherished the day I would die. It was my life. My life.

            I grew up in the library. It was my sanctuary from the street. It was my church. My mama, when she wasn’t drunk, tried to make me go to church. But I ran. I ran so fast from the church, from God, and hid behind the library building. Red bricks. It was a cathedral to me. I felt safe at the desk of the library. Silence, just Black Jesus, and a skinny face white woman. She stared, didn’t smile. No smiles from white folks. No smiles for Black Jesus, but I didn’t mind. No smiles from white folks were okay with me because I was there to get away from Jesus. Hell! I was already Jesus. I didn’t need no church. I didn’t need no God. I just needed to read. Read as much as I could until I got tired of reading, and went home in the darkness. My mama caught me sneaking in the back door. She spanked me. “Boy! Why didn’t you go to church with me and your grandma?”

            “Mama! I am scared of Jesus! He makes me so scared mama!” I stuck my arms up to keep the leather belt from hitting me in the face. Butt naked, as the whip of Jesus came down on my ass. I went to church after that, didn’t miss any more days, and I got my library reading in too. After school skipped the last period with my buddies. We smoked dope in the alley by the school. Boy, I guess you could call them the good days. No taxes. No police. No deaths and no funerals, just a bunch of drunks around the streets. I didn’t get into any shit until I got about fifteen. I was fighting this big mother-fucker, Jerome Smalls. Kicked him in his nuts, and he dropped like a fucking rock. It was a miracle because I was way smaller than him. After that, they started calling me Black Jesus.

            The name only got me three years in juvey. Car thefts. Thank God, they didn’t find the .22 on me. But I learned how to box in juvey. Had no choice, because a whole lot of gang rapings were going around. Fuck the little guy. Well, I broke a couple of bottles in some dudes' necks, that made them think twice about want to stick a dick in my mouth. Naw! It was cool. I just read a lot of Superman comic books, then I read some Shakespeare, then I read some Poe, then I read some Mark Twain, then I read some Stephen Crane, then I read some Richard Wright, and then I read some James Baldwin, and finished it off with some shit from some Russian cats. I got out at eighteen, went back to school, got kicked out. I went in the Marines, got kicked out. I went to work for a trucking company, got fired. I went to work as a janitor, got fired. I went to work on a construction site, got caught for theft, and each time I got up to fight for my ass some more. Hustled. Sold women's’ dresses out the back of my black Impala. I used to cruise the streets from Jackson to Liberty in Haverford. Ghetto heavens I called them, plenty of women with babies and no daddies. I fucked every woman who wanted to buy a dress on credit, even fucked her mama too. It was a part of being Black Jesus. I walked on water with a .45. I walked on water with a sweet left jab and awesome right hook. I was a miracle worker, until one day this white ass cop stopped me and asked me to pop open my trunk.

            “Keep,” he kept his gun on me, “your hands in sight!”

            “Now! Get out the car, realllll slow Mister!” the cop came up behind him, “hands behind your back!” He shoved my face on the hood, cuffed me, “now, what the fuck you doing around here boy?” He opened my wallet, “Your license says… Tevin Garrett.”

            “Yessir.” I felt the thick paws of the cop handled me like a piece of newspaper. No sweat. I have been hassled before. Just give the pig a little of my dough and he's on his way. I was on a side street. No dogs barked. No house lights went on. It was cool. “I got money, in my pocket Officer. You can have it.”

            “Huh!” he flashed the light in my eyes, “I know you.”

            “You do?”

            “You Black Jesus.”

            “I guess you do know me.”

“You know me?” the Officer asked.

I winced at the light on his name tag, “Husker.”

“Officer, John Husker.” He grabbed me by my neck. “I don’t want your money.”

“Well lock me up then… for being black.”

“Naw!” he uncuffed me, “you owe me.”

I rubbed my wrists, “Why, I owe you?”

“Because,” the cop smirked, “I’m the devil, and I know who you work for.”

“And,” I shook my head, “I am Black Jesus.”

“Get your ass in your car,” he got in my face, “Black Jesus, you work for me now.”

“I do?”

“You with the Celtic Gang,” he rubbed his chin, “and I need info.”

“No,” he put his gun to my head, “fuck you. You want,” I moved my head from his gun nozzle, “dat gold shield.”

“And you going to help me, and I am going to help you,” Officer Husker patted me on my leather coat shoulder.

“What about the Celtic Boys?”

“I’m sure you smart enough to do your job,” he said, “can you handle that, Black Jesus?”

“Sure,” I scratched my chin, “sure.”

“You just leave the names in this mailbox over on Sixth and L Street every Friday night,” he passed me a ripped piece of paper with numbers on it. “I want names, dates, times, and men who telling you to move the bodies from one car to the next.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Two-fifty a week and no jail time.”

“Cool!” I drove off from the cop in the night. He was a vampire like the rest of the cops, but I saw in his eyes concern about what was happening on the streets. He was in it for justice. This made this cop most dangerous, nothing to lose but his life. And I wasn’t in this to lose my head, to the cops or the Irish. The Mexicans, Asians, and Colombians were moving into Haverford on fake passports from all parts of the country. I was running scared, trying to keep up with the times. A red light stopped me. I turned the radio up and listened to some Derek Gordon. He was playing his heart out. I felt good. If I played my cards straight, I would have money coming and going. But if I played them wrong, I was dead. I had no choice, just do your job, something my daddy always told me. Never stand over a man digging a hole; it could be your grave? Thanks a lot Pops. Thanks a hell of a lot. He would say, “Boy, you be lucky if you reached fifty.” Never knew what he meant, but now I got the feeling. Now I could understand Pops. He was an asshole, but he had common sense. I tapped my finger, drove my Impala in the alley and locked the car. I saw Geraldine standing in the alley smoking a cigarette. I knew she wanted money.

“Tevin!”

I kept walking, wasn’t gonna give her my time.

“Tevin! Tevin! Don’t ignore me,” she walked behind him, “you don’t want any of this good down-to-earth pussy?”

“Not tonight Jeri,” I leaned against my front door to the third-floor walkup, “no money.”

“Awww! Mutherfucker, you always got money,” she got in my face, “I bought three dresses off you last week.”

“Money was gone.”

“Get more mother-fucker,” she kissed him on the chin, “a girl got to make money out here.” She lit another cigarette, “You know one of my babies yours. When are you going to pay for her?”

“You a whore,” I rubbed my chin, “you got no proof.” I stared in her pretty, glassy eyes, gray eyes that wanted me to make love to her. I was the only one she loved out here on the streets. She took care of me, and I gave her money for her four kids when I had it. “Later.”

The sun was coming up. I nodded, unlocked the door. I turned away from her beautiful eyes that made men take down their pants. She had plenty of business. Five, eleven. Half white, half Native American from the Wacataw tribe of Connecticut. She was a Betty Boop kind of gal. Sweet, smart, and knew how to make five hundred a night behind the bars on Second Avenue. They called her Buffalo Woman.

“You ain’t no better than me!”

“Go home,” I slammed the door, “to your kids!”

“Fuck you!” she swung around, shook her rainbow butt down the streets to a group of other women in high heels. Cars honked, pulled over.

But in the alley a block from his garbage, Officer Husker watched Black Jesus go in his apartment. He lit a cigarette. He was a rookie himself, but he was born around here, an Irish boy, half Russian, and Dutch Catholic. He loved the night. Batman was his favorite comic book reading when he was a boy. Never thought he’d be a cop. He never guessed it. He was supposed to be a lawyer. Big disappointment to his father, but he had to be happy, and the streets were his treats. He wanted to get rid of the monsters. He didn’t have a partner.  The streets were his eyes and ears. People were his pain reliever. This Tevin guy, he remembered him at Haverford High School. Mr. Dunbar was a good wide receiver, but he quit. He puffed on his cigarette. Heard the guy’s mother died. He knew he was a good guy, just lost. He rolled with the wrong crowd. Drugs were coming in the city, part of a Republican war game. Hell. He just had to lock up more black men, like that was going to solve the problems in the country. Tevin was rough. He was smart, fast and just the right man to help him take out the Celtic gang. He didn’t want to get Tevin killed, but it was part of street cleaning. He listened to the radio. PATROL SIX-THREE-ONE  we got a TWO-THIRTEEN… at FOUR THREE FOUR WAKATA PLACE!” He turned on his headlights, sirens and sped to the burglary.

No window, gray room. My father was a Dunbar, my mother a Garrett. I used both names to save my ass. I slept on a cart. I had no kitchen, but a bathroom. The room cost twenty-five dollars a week. The Dunbar Hotel. My grandfather owned it, now I was a resident. But in the will, the hotel went to my great Aunt Jewel. She was a good woman, but she was almost in her seventies with a bad heart. She looked after me; I cared about her. She expected the best from me. She prayed for me every day at the Saint Vincent DePaul Church. I had a photo of a black Jesus Christ over my bed. I had a .45 under my pillow, lit a candle, gazed into the flames of the candle; said my prayers…

“My Father, my Lord, look at my mother and protect me from the evils of this world. Thank you, Jesus.” I had a bottle of Old Turkey by my bed. Sipped, slipped my pants and shirt off, yawned. Knock on the door. “Shit!” I got my gun. “Coming!” Opened up, “Aunt Jewel! What are you doing up so late tonight?”

She handed me a plate, “Did you eat?”

I smelled the fried catfish, took the plate, “no mam.”

“Eat.”

“Yes, mam,” she was crooked but strong.

“And,” she started to leave, “put that goddamn gun away.”

“Yes, mam,” I sniffed under the napkin, “thank you.”

“See you in the morning boy.”

I watched her walk down the faded flower, rose wallpaper hall. Wooden banisters, she held on tight. I wanted to help her down the steps, but she would only cuss me out. I smiled, closed the door. I sat and ate the fried catfish and fried potatoes. I was hungry. I was scared. I was alone, but she had my back when it was time for me to eat. She cared. I loved her, licked my fingers, put the plate up on the table in the middle of the floor. I was sleepy. On the rooftop, I heard the rain. I heard a hard rain. Winters in Connecticut were awful. I stuck the gun under my pillow, got under my blanket and stared in the candle flame, as I thought of my heartache. No mother. No father. No love in my life, just a good old aunt who still had a bit of caring sleeping in her soul. I would protect her, warm under the thick covers on the cot, as I went to sleep and dreamed of dreams I wouldn’t remember the next morning. I appreciate angels keeping my bad dreams away.

Information about PTSD can be sought from PTSD Books. Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) is a psychiatric illness that results from the experience or witnessing of traumatic or life-threatening events. PTSD has profound psychobiological correlates, which might be life threatening and can impair the person’s daily life. In light of current events (e.g. protracted battle, terrorism, exposure to certain environmental toxins), a sudden rise in patients with PTSD diagnosis is expected in the next decade.

PTSD is a critical public health concern, which compels the search for innovative paradigms and theoretical models to develop improved and new ways of treatment intervention and also to deepen the comprehension of the state. Clinical research in PTSD lies in the systematic assessment of the research evidence in treatment intervention as a way to assure the best and efficacious treatment for the benefit of the patient.

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorders

PTSD Workbooks say that traumatic events are profoundly trying. The pressure that results from traumatic occasions precipitates a spectrum of psycho-emotional physiopathological outcomes. As a psychiatric illness consequential, this response is diagnosed in its severest kind to the experience of traumatic events.

Subjects with PTSD often relive the experience through nightmares and flashbacks. They report difficulty in sleeping. Their behavior becomes increasingly detached or estranged and is often aggravated by related disorders such as depression, substance abuse and issues of cognition and memory. The disorder soon contributes to damage of the ability to function in social or family life, which results in occupational instability, marital problems and divorces, family discord and issues in parenting. The disorder may be severe enough and last long enough to impair the person’s daily life and, in the extreme, lead the patient to suicidal tendencies. PTSD is marked by clear biological changes, in addition to the psychological symptoms noted previously, and is hence complicated by a number of other problems of mental and physical health.

I was talking with a writer friend recently, and we got right into a discussion on conventional publishing vs. self-publishing. She’s been querying representatives like crazy. I’ve been doing self-publishing prep like crazy. She was surprised to find out I didn’t even bother attempting to get an agent or publishing contract that is conventional.

Why would I do such a thing? Why would I try and get a publisher?
I’ve done a great deal of analysis on the problem, and while both strategies have advantages, I decided going for best self-publishing services was a better option for me.

1. Follow your personal timeline

The original publishing timeline takes a zen-like amount of patience. Realistically, you’re querying some more, revising your query letter, and looking at a few months of querying agents. Once you’ve acquired an agent, she then needs to find you a publisher, which takes even more time and patience. Upon approval, the timeline for a publishing house is frequently two or one, or even three years. After all this, you’re not even guaranteed to have a book deal.

2. Command stage and your narrative

When you get picked up by a publishing house, you’re signing on the rights to your novel. It’s fairly possible that their editor can force you to change items you don’t wish to alter—including the title. You might have the freedom to choose where to draw the line when you hire your own editing services in Toronto. It is still your book.

3. Publishing house or not, you in charge of marketing your own work. It really changes, although yes, occasionally a publishing house helps out with PR and reviews. As of late, you’ll likely have to produce a marketing plan anyhow in the event you wish to impress to allow them to pick up you.

Invest in yourself wisely. Give your published works the notoriety they deserve. Our Bestsellers' Program will guarantee your exposure to new readers and bok professionals.

• Reach 500,000+ readers.
• Get Promoted to Amazon Book Reviewers.
• Collect our helpful Softwares.
• Get feature on 100s of Review sites.
• Receive your own beautifully designed Author's Page.
• Get introduced to 100s of Book Clubs.
• Receive a One-on-One assistance for your book's SEO keyword & metatags.
• Get promoted through our social-media-networks of 270,000+ combined members.

Apply for the Bestsellers Program at http://bit.ly/1LpLpca.

Fill out the contact form after payment, or you may contact us and leave a voice message at 888-852-4901.

Services included;

Below is a snapshot image of our emailing software that sends out thousands of book promotions an hour to all of our combined network subscribers (book enthusiasts).

Apply for the Bestsellers Program at http://bit.ly/1LpLpca.

Fill out the contact form after payment, or you may contact us and leave a voice message at 888-852-4901.

It's not too late to apply. This month's book promotions would last until the mid of next month.

We are sending out some recommended reads to all of our combined members throughout this month via emailing and other means. We would like to make the promotion service affordable for every writer and include your book title as well. Apply at http://bit.ly/1t9eAbO.

• Reach 500,000+ readers.
• Get Promoted to Amazon Book Reviewers.
• Get feature on 100s of Review sites.
• Receive your own beautifully designed Author's Page.
• Get introduced to 100s of Book Clubs.
• Get promoted through our social-media-networks of 270,000+ combined members.

Your books would also be promoted via emails (and other tactics) to at least 305,000+ readers. View the demonstration picture below.

Apply at http://bit.ly/1t9eAbO.

Lifetime Members do not need to re-apply. The boom titles are already included in the promos.

There is an alternate way that you may carry out for very own book promotions, to thousands of new readers, via our contact lists. 

With these load of contacts, any writer willing to work hard and promote their book (or eBooks) via emails will definitely see some sales, reviews, and direct response from their readers (the recipients). It's guaranteed. If you include the book's Goodreads page in the email body, you would surely receive some votes as well.

Included in these lists are the full-contact-emails of all the Booksellers Associations sprouted out within the United Stated; http://bit.ly/1Kj9VsX. 

Your readers are waiting. Introduce yourself to them via emails.

• Book Sellers Association full list (32,000 members); http://bit.ly/2crC02Y.
• List of 20,000 Goodreads readers; bit.ly/1IcKUhz
• 60,000 Anobii readers; bit.ly/1NxQonc
• Get a list of 850 Bookstore Owners; bit.ly/1302a4N
• 60,000 Scribd, Docstoc & Slideshare subscribers; bit.ly/1KlyaoA
• 20,000+ Amazon readers; bit.ly/1YlyR8R
• HubPages 15,000+ readers; bit.ly/1LD8Rw6
• 5,000 Barnes&Noble Book Reviewers; bit.ly/1Jfmz6M
• List of 6,000+ LiveJournal Book Lovers; bit.ly/1arcwAf
• List of 2,500 Wattpad readers & writers; bit.ly/1Mx5Xv2
• 5,000 Pinterest Book Lovers; bit.ly/1F7dJwW
• 5,000 Twitter Book Followers; bit.ly/1V0Djp0

Reach Amazon Book Reviewers DIRECTLY via these contact email lists.

• Children's Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/children-s-book-reviewers
• Sci-fi Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/sci-fi-amazon-book-reviewers
• Christian's Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/christian-s-book-reviewers
• Horror Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/horror-book-reviewers
• Literary Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/literary-book-reviewers
• Mythical Adventure Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/mythical-book-reviewers
• Parenting Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/parenting-book-reviewers
• Mystery - Thrillers Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/mystery-book-reviewers
• Paranormal Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/paranormal-book-reviewers
• Suspense Book Thrillers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/suspense-book-reviewers
• African American Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/african-american-book-reviewers
• Professional - Technical Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/technical-book-reviewers
• Bestsellers Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/bestsellers-book-reviewers

Audible audiobook Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/audible-audiobook-reviewers

Barnes & Noble Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/barnes-noble-book-reviewers

A full list of Independent Bookstores in the U.S.A Selling eReaders and eBooks; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/independent-bookstores-in-the-u-s-a-selling-ereaders-and-ebooks.

Extra contact lists available; 

• GoodReads;   Amazon;  Barnes&Noble;  Powell's; CreateSpace;  Pubit;  Lulu;  Smashwords; U.S.BookStores;  WaveCloud;  BookTango;  HbHifi; WritersDigest;  NYTimes; PublishersWeekly; GetGlue;  LibraryThing;  IndieBound;  AbeBooks; eLibrary;   Ibpa (Independent book publisher association);  LiveJournal;  WordPress; Blogger; HubPages;  Reddit; Facebook; Twitter; BookBaby;  BookRags;  eBay; Pinterest;  NewPages;  Instagram; EzineArticles;  YouTube;   Digg;  MySpace;  StumbledUpon; Tumblr;  BookClubForum;  OnlineBookClub; FanForum; LibrarySpot; and many others. They will be delivered to your email address after payment(s).

Good luck., and much success!!

If you need a software that will efficiently handle your emailing tasks, allowing you to send to thousands per hour, you may order it from this link, www.bit.ly/1ep81JL.

Sign in

We would like to give our thanks to Rod Jordan for starting a new forum discussion this morning about Literary Agents and Book proposals. We hope to read more insights like this from you authors. For the literary-agents that are among us here at Indie Writers Support, we are all looking forward to your participations.

• http://indiewritersupport.com/forum/topics/writing-the-dreaded-synopsis

Your replies and new forum discussions would automatically stream on all of these channels at the same time; indiewritersupport.com, readersbooks.info, bookwebinars.com, Fan-page, Celina Marka, #books, #eBooks, #news, #indiewritersupp, @indiewritersupp etc.

To start your own Forum Discussion, choose from any of the categories listed below. We look forward to sharing your thoughts.

• CREATIVE ORIGINAL WORKS: POETRY

Use this forum to post poetry that you have written. This is for getting comments and constructive feedback. This is for original, creative works. You must post the actual text, no links. Only one poem per topic please. View Discussions

• PRIVATE REVIEW TEAM FORUM

This is a forum for official communication between the review team. The reviewer's team is a group of volunteers who get free books/ebooks in return for honestly reviewing the books. This creates a win-win-win situation because it gives independent authors a way to get the word out about their allegedly good books, and the reviewers get free books. If you are an author or publisher, you can make your request a review here. If you are a reader interested in honestly reviewing books in return for free copies, you can make your request with the author here as well. View Discussions

• COMMUNITY & OFF-TOPIC

Discuss whatever your heart desires, just be civil. Posts made in this forum do not increase new members' post counts. View Discussions

• Join our social poll for all book lovers and professions; https://www.facebook.com/groups/AmazonBookClubs/permalink/541972722588264.
• Our web-designer is available to assist you; https://live.vcita.com/site/juddmiller/online-scheduling.

INNER SPACE Book One

By Merlin Fraser

Chapter 1

What a complete and utter waste of bloody time. These were the thoughts of Detective Inspector Nick Burton as he returned to his home patch after a fruitless trip to Wales.

He was trying to imagine if there had been an alternative reason for his boss to want him out of the office and out of town. He didn’t think there were any secrets between them. After all, they were a good team as well as good friends, so why the silly subterfuge?

However, jammed in the window seat of an overcrowded train carriage sitting next to a man of very ample girth, whose breath smelled of stale beer and onions, is not ideal to conducive thought. Opposite him across the dividing table sat the man’s wife, a woman of equal size, who fidgeted constantly and managed to kick him every time she moved, with a sickly grin and “sorry dear” every time it happened.

As a distraction, he tried looking out of the grimy rain streaked window, but with the gathering gloom outside and the bright lights inside, all he could see was his own miserable reflection. He grimaced at the sight of the life battered face looking back at him. It appeared older than his forty-five years. Once upon a time, it had been a handsome face, sitting on top of a well built body. However, in those far off days he had had a relatively carefree, easy going attitude to life and he enjoyed the challenges life threw his way.

Twenty odd years a policeman had changed all that, carefree became careworn, easy going had become embittered. The all new politically correct police force and a legal system that cared more for the rights of the criminal than their victims had taken its toll. Add to that a broken childless marriage, a receding hairline, an expanding waistline and the promise of a stomach ulcer, and you had his life in a nutshell.

He dragged his thoughts back towards the half assed reason as to why he was even on this train in the first place. His boss, Chief Superintendent Daniel Davies, or Dapper Dan as he was more commonly called, had sent him on this fool’s errand to review evidence held at another police station. Evidence that, as far as he could see, was completely irrelevant to anything they were currently working on. He was doubly annoyed, given his well known aversion to travel, that Dapper would send him on a job that could so easily have been handled by a first year constable.

Courtesy of his recent travelling companions and the time-wasting exercise, he was still fuming two hours later in the darkness of late evening as he walked towards his own police station.

As he pushed the front door open if he was expecting a sea of calm efficiency, which was the norm around here, he was in for a shock. The place was in uproar, and most of the noise was coming from his colleagues.
There, milling in front of him, was a weird mixture of uniform and plain clothed policemen. The two different day watches were strangely intermingled; all seemed to be talking at once.

He pushed his way through the crowd to the front desk and the uniformed sergeant that stood there. As he approached, he could see the sergeant was not a happy man. His facial expression seemed to darken even further when he saw Nick coming.

He asked, “Tom, you mind telling me what the hell is….”

The rest of the question died on his lips as the sergeant spoke almost in a whisper, “They’ve arrested Dapper.”

Nick’s jaw dropped. “What? Arrested… arrested Dan… what the hell for?”
“Murder,” was the reply.

Nick shook his head. “No way, that’s ridiculous, Dan arrested for murder this is some sort of sick joke. Let me through, I want to see him.”

The sergeant stood firm, his hand on the folding lid of the counter; he replied as calmly as he could, “Look I know how you feel, but I can’t let you in Nick.”

“The hell you say,” Nick replied. “The head of CID arrested for murder, and the whole station standing out here with their collective thumb up their backsides.”

Now the desk sergeant was getting angry. “Look around you sonny Jim, we’re all here because we’ve been thrown out. CIB is all over this station your office is off limits to everybody, especially you by express orders.”

“Who’s bloody orders?” Nick demanded.

“Mine actually.”

Nick spun around so fast his vision blurred and a mild wave of nausea hit him. He put a hand on the counter to steady himself as he looked into the cold blue eyes of Superintendent Margaret Joy, recently promoted and made Divisional HQ liaison with the Complaints Investigation Bureau (CIB), what the Americans call Internal Affairs.

A more misnamed person would be hard to find – small in stature, she was as hard as nails and hated throughout the force for her fast tracked promotion through the ranks. Mostly, if rumours were to be believed, at the expense of her more experienced colleagues whose backs she had stabbed, robbing them of their successes. Plus the overzealous pursuit of her new job put her at odds with practically every officer in the force, and it seemed that in her opinion everybody was guilty until they proved otherwise. Her offhand way of dealing with her job had turned officer against officer and friend against friend.

“Of course,” Nick spat the words at her. “I should have recognised your unmistakable handiwork a mile off. The ring of steel jack boots tiptoeing around that, and the sickly smell of burning flesh…..”
Superintendent Joy just stood there, a slow smile growing at the corners of her mouth, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Careful Inspector, insubordination to a senior officer comes under my remit as well. Besides we need to talk.”

“Talk?” Nick said, surprised at his own calmness. “Just what the hell do you suppose we have to talk about? If you want to talk to me, you’ll have to trump up some charge and arrest me, and even then I won’t speak to you unless there is a lawyer present.”

Her smile widened. “You’re over wrought and upset, I can understand that. It can wait until the morning. In the meantime, you’re suspended from duty pending further enquiries.”

The colour was starting to rise in Nick’s face. Their conversation was starting to draw the attention of the whole room. “Suspended? What possible grounds could you come up with to suspend me?”

“I would have thought that was obvious, wouldn’t you? Your long association with the accused for a start, everyone knows how close you are. For all I know, you might be an accessory to the murder, and until I can establish the facts….”

Nick took a step towards her, then checked himself. “My God! You can thank your lucky stars you’re a woman, because I wouldn’t take crap like that from a man. You have no grounds to suspend me, I’m not some wet behind the ears constable that you can ride roughshod over. But if you want to pursue the matter, we’ll go to the Chief Constable right now.”

The room was now still and silent. Superintendent Joy realised she had gone too far and it was time to back away. “Have it your way, for now, but be warned I am your superior officer and I will not tolerate another such public outburst.”

And before Nick could say anything else, she turned on her heel and marched from the room.

Nick was trembling with anger. “That bloody woman, who the hell does she think she is?” He pushed his way back to the counter and the desk sergeant. “Who’s in charge upstairs? Tell them I’m here and I want to see Dan.”

The sergeant smiled at him. Not many stood their ground before Superintendent Joy, and it had been amusing to watch. “Dan’s not here, he wasn’t arrested here, and we don’t know where they’ve got him. The first we knew there was anything wrong was when ‘Joy to the World’ walked in with her goon squad and started to chuck their weight around.”

“That’s it, I’m out of here! If anybody needs me, I’ll be at headquarters,” and with that Nick stormed out into the street.

The cold night air hit him immediately, and brought him down to earth with a bump. As he walked through the cold wet streets his thoughts raced, what the hell is going on? Dapper Dan arrested for murder! He shook his head… No, impossible, some huge misunderstanding, it has got to be, there is no conceivable way that Dan would take someone else’s life.

Who the hell is he supposed to have killed anyway? No one had told him that, mind you he hadn’t asked. His mind turned to all the cases they were currently working on. He could think of several lowlife villains currently under investigation that would make the world a better and safer place if they were no longer among the living. But Shit floats; sink one turd, and another one just pops up to take its place.

The only thing that he could think of was that in some extreme case, Dan must have been provoked or somehow caught so completely off guard that he overreacted. But one question kept nagging at him, why had Dan sent him out of town on such a stupid waste of time? Why today? Were the two connected? Nothing was making any sense.

The night air had cooled his anger and cleared his head. He still hadn’t a clue what was going on, but he was determined to find out and before the night was much older. He hailed a passing taxi and headed for the centre of town and police headquarters.

As he entered the building, he had to show his ID card to the constable on duty, and then he had to sign in before he could see anyone. He had already passed at least six people before he saw anyone he recognised or knew from Adam. He made his way to the duty Inspector’s office and knocked on the door, only opening it when a polite female voice called out “enter.”

He recognised her at once: Sandra Goodwood, quite a few years younger than him, but they had worked on a couple of cases together when she was in CID. “Is the Chief in?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

She looked up from the papers on her desk peering over the top of her glasses and said, “Don’t be daft, he’s off to some wingding or other, left hours ago, in fact I think all the seniors are attending. Anything I can do?”

Nick went in and closed the door. “You’ve heard about Dapper, I suppose?”

Taking her glasses off she smiled, “Nick, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what to say…”

“You could tell me it’s not true, you could tell me where they’re holding him.”
“Don’t you know? Dan’s been charged with murder.”

“You mean arrested?”

Rising from behind her desk, she shook her head as she came towards him. “No, I mean charged. He was standing over the body in the hospital when they arrested him. He’s confessed… signed a statement and everything.”

The colour drained from Nick’s face, and he slumped into a chair. “I don’t understand…Dan would never…it doesn’t make any sense. Who the hell did he kill? Where is he… is he here… can I see him?”

Sandra was standing over him, her hand on his shoulder. “I think you need to go home. Yes, he’s here but they won’t let anybody see him, especially you of all people. Come back in the morning when the seniors are around. They’ll be able to get you in to see him.”

“Is he alright? Does he need anything? A… a lawyer, has he seen a lawyer?”

“He’s fine, as far as I know. And no, there’s been no lawyer, he hasn’t asked for one, says there’s no need.”
Nick sat there white as a ghost, he didn’t stand up… he didn’t think he could. Sandra was on the verge of offering him a stiff drink when she remembered he didn’t drink any more, or couldn’t, to be more precise.

The room fell silent. All of a sudden, Nick felt tired and sick. Shakily, he rose to his feet, holding the back of the chair for support.

Sandra said, “Let me get the duty car to take you home! Get some rest, start again in the morning. Honestly, there’s nothing you can do tonight.”

Her words were barely penetrating his brain. It sounded as if his hands were over his ears; he heard the buzz of a phone and felt her arm gently supporting him. She led him towards a door that mysteriously looked both open and closed at the same time. The door moved and took on the shape of a big burly policeman. He heard muffled words, “Take him home… get him to bed… stay with him if necessary….”

The mist closed in, and the voices stopped.

The next morning, Nick awoke with a start. He was lying face down on a bed but had little recollection as to whose bed it might be or where. His first thought was that it must still be the middle of the night, given the darkness of the room. He lay there, quite still, trying to gather his thoughts, listening for any telltale clue as to where he was. He had no memory of going home, in fact, as far as he could recall his last clear memory was talking to Sandra Goodwood, but exactly how long ago that had been he couldn’t tell.

It was no good; he could hear nothing, and his head ached. He needed to get up, he fumbled around in the dark until his hand struck something hard at the bedside. Gently, he felt for the edge and moved his fingers over the surface, until he touched something that felt like the base of a lamp. Running his fingers up the side he found the little switch just below the bulb itself. He pressed it, and the room lit up before him.

It was his bedroom. He was lying on the wrong side of the bed, still in his street clothes with a loose blanket thrown over him. He thought of Sandra. Nah! Probably one of her men, the total lack of finesse as to his present state suggested the delicate touch of a beat bobby.

He swung his feet to the floor and went in search of his slippers. The bedside clock said 05:36. A good strong cup of coffee was called for, and as he waited for it to brew, he threw off his clothes and wrapped himself in his dressing gown. He knew he must look a sight and in need of a bath and a shave, but he needed coffee first.

On his next journey towards his tiny kitchen, he saw the little red winking light on the telephone that meant there was a message waiting. Even that was made to wait its turn. With a mug of steaming coffee in hand, he wandered back to the phone – it shouldn’t be that important. Anybody who needed him urgently had his mobile number. He pressed the rewind and waited for the machine to click and whir its way back to the start.

“Nick! It’s Dan. Listen, I don’t know when you’ll get this message but I imagine by now all hell has broken loose.”

“Christ! That’s an understatement and a half,” Nick said aloud as the message continued.

“Most of what you have heard is probably true, and by now the CIB will be all over the place. Whatever else you do, stay away from me. That’s an order, probably the first I’ve ever given you, but I mean it! Stay right out of it or ‘Joy to the World’ will try and drag you in as well. What’s done is done. I’ve no regrets, and there’s nothing you or anyone else can do to help me. Stay at home, go sick or take some leave, all will become clear if you stay at home.” The line went dead.

Second cup of coffee in hand, Nick played the message twice more before taking the little tape out of the machine and replacing it with a brand new one. Superintendent Joy’s goons would undoubtedly search his flat, with or without his blessing, so there was no point leaving them any gifts. The fact that the message was there at all was testament that he had not been searched already. He thought, more fool you Margaret Joy, but there again you were always a piss poor detective. In her shoes he would have searched his place as soon as Dan had been arrested.

Standing under the power shower, his one real luxury, he let the hot water knock the ache out of his shoulders while his brain tried to make sense of what was going on. His shock and the denial were over; it was true, and his friend and mentor these past seven years was indeed guilty of murder. But whom had he murdered and, more importantly, why? He had to know, even if it meant facing Dan and asking him.

Washed, shaven and in clean clothes, he felt a lot better than he did last night. He phoned the station and talked to the duty sergeant, who informed him that the goon squad was still there. Apparently, they had spent the night packing everything up: computers, files, even the wastepaper baskets from the CID office. They had carted it all away in a hired white van. Good luck to them, thought Nick. The sergeant ended with, “Superintendent Joy left a message that she wants to see you here at ten o’clock.”

Nick replied with a smile. “If she asks, you haven’t seen or talked to me and I don’t seem to be answering my mobile. If I don’t have an office to work in, I might as well take the day off.”

“No problem sir,” was the reply. “Anyway, I’ll be off duty long before she even gets here.”

Nick heard the line go dead, and he listened an extra few seconds just in case there were any telltale clicks before he also hung up.
Decisions, decisions, thought Nick. Bowl of cornflakes or a bacon sarnie at the local greasy spoon on his way to headquarters? He stared into the small fridge, not enough milk for cornflakes. Ah well! Such is life.

It had just turned nine when he entered the headquarters building. A casual glance through a side window told him that none of the senior officers had made it in yet. Obviously a good night was had by all, he thought. Although how they could just go out on a free binge with one of their own languishing in a cell downstairs was beyond him. Not something you need to dwell upon, Nick me boy, he thought to himself, the chances of you hitting those dizzy heights are a million to one. Then another thought chilled his brain. He knew one person who was clawing her way up the greasy pole, and he shivered at the prospect.

The duty custody sergeant popped his mug of tea under the counter as he saw Nick approaching. “I’ve come to see Chief Superintendent Davies,” he said as calmly as he could.
The man looked down at his desk and picked up a clipboard. “You’re not on me list of people who’s allowed to see him. Besides I don’t think you’re even allowed in here, are you, sir?”

“Look sergeant, what harm can it do? He’s already confessed and been charged, so where’s the problem? I only want to see if there’s anything he needs, a change of clothes, a toothbrush or something.”

“Five minutes is all you got and you have to talk to him from the passage, no going in there, and if anybody comes you pulled rank on me, alright?”

“Fair enough,” Nick replied and followed the man to the cells, where with a big bunch of keys he opened one of the doors and then moved a respectful distance away.

The sight that greeted Nick did little to improve his darkening mood. There, hunched on the hard narrow cot, was his friend looking tired, drawn and a little used.

Everybody knew him as Dapper Dan Davies, a good old fashioned copper, honest and well respected by all, even those he nicked. He was a tall and well built man from a fairly well to do family. His financial independence allowed him to indulge in his passion for being well groomed. He always wore immaculate tailor-made three piece suits over handmade shirts and coordinating ties. There was always a touch of gold about him from his cuff links to his father’s old pocket watch with its chain strung across his waistcoat.

None of that was apparent from the tired unshaven wreck of a man sitting there before him. He had been stripped down to the essentials, the neck of his shirt gaped open, and the double cuffs of his shirt hung open and dangling below his hands. The belt was missing from his trousers, as were the laces from his shoes. Rank had no privilege here. Nick felt the colour rising up his neck at the thought of Joy’s goons manhandling this man out of his clothes and searching everything.

The old man looked up, and it was clear from his expression he was not at all pleased to see his colleague. “Just what part of stay away from me didn’t you understand, Inspector? God Almighty man, get away from me and stay away.”
Nick looked crest fallen. In all their years together Dan had never pulled rank or even spoken to him in such a way. “I… I only came to see… if there was anything you wanted… needed…”

“No, no there isn’t, just get away from here.” The earlier sting was out of his voice now and he just sounded tired.

“Did those evil bastards keep you up all night? Did you have a lawyer with you? At least let me get you one of those…..” The words were tumbling out in a torrent.

“Go home Nick, go home and stay there, is that clear? Everything you need to know is there. Now, if you have any respect left for me, get the hell out of here.”

Nick was ready to start raving with more questions, but what would be the use? It was clear that his presence here was far from welcome. The fact that he didn’t know why hurt him as much as if Dan had struck him in the face. He grabbed the door to the cell and slammed it shut with such force that the noises echoed around the hall.

“Sit there and rot if that’s what you want!” he shouted as he marched past the policeman with the keys.

There was nothing to be gained from staying here, it wasn’t his case, and as Superintendent Joy had so nicely pointed out he might even be involved. Back outside he wandered aimlessly, until the cry of a street news vendor caught his attention.

“Senior Policeman arrested for Murder! Read Allaboutit.”

Nick almost ran to the newsstand, elbowing his way forward as he grabbed the paper from the man’s hand. Quickly he handed over some money and was scanning the headlines as he walked away. He read over the sensational opening sentences looking for some hard facts, suddenly his hands tightened on the newspaper as he read:

Late yesterday afternoon, detective Chief Superintendent Daniel Davies was arrested for the murder of a patient at the St. Anne’s hospital. According to eyewitness reports, he offered no resistance as staff restrained him while the police were called.
The murdered man was 34-year old Colin Murray, a long-term patient of the hospital. Mr. Murray who, according to a senior member of the hospital staff, was completely paralysed from the neck down following a car accident fifteen years ago and would have been unable to fend off any attack. Also due to his paralysis, his vocal cords were damaged and he would have been unable to call out for help. In this seemingly motiveless attack, police and staff are completely baffled as to why Chief Superintendent Davies would commit such a crime. This highly respected officer of local law enforcement is of course well known to this newspaper, and we believe there must be a plausible explanation, but it escapes our reasoning at this time. A police spokesperson said it was far too early to say anything…

Nick read on but there was nothing more he could learn, at least he now knew who if not why. He stuffed the newspaper in a waste bin and hailed a passing taxi.

“Where to mate?” the taxi driver asked.

Good question, he thought, where the hell am I going? “Just drive west for the moment.”

As the vehicle moved away from the kerb, he asked himself the question again, where to? There is no point going to the station and into the waiting clutches of Superintendent Joy. He still was not in the mood for another session with her or to run the risk of getting himself suspended. Can’t go back to the flat, even Joy’s goons would be waiting there by now… I need somewhere… somewhere I can think in peace and quiet, the library, yes! That’ll do.

“Can you drop me at the central library, driver?”

“That’s east that is, not west…. Still, it’s your money!” There came an angry blast of a car horn from somewhere close behind them as the taxi driver hastily changed lanes, apparently without signalling.

Two hours later, stomach rumbling with hunger, he was no further forward. This is pathetic, he thought to himself. I have the biggest goddamn database of criminal information at my disposal and here I am sitting in a bloody library like a penny ante news hack.

He had been half-heartedly trawling though microfiche records of fifteen year old newspapers. Again, he had no idea what he was looking for; car accidents, even ones that leave their victim paralysed, was hardly front page stuff. Let’s face it… people get flattened every day, tragic but hardly newsworthy.

Of course, he had to admit to himself that he was not actually looking for anything in particular he was just whiling away the time, or more precisely hiding. But hiding from what? He was not a criminal, he hadn’t done anything wrong so why, against all logic, was he ducking and diving around the city like a common villain? There was only one reason he could think of, joyless Superintendent Joy. Even here, other than his dislike for the woman, why avoid her? True, a small part of him realised that his disappearance would be a great sense of annoyance to her, and that gave him some pleasure. But why not face the cow? Get it over and done with, after all what could he tell her that would advance her case one step?

Then he smiled – what case? There had been a murder, and the murderer had been apprehended and confessed – hardly crime of the century stuff. It would be almost laughable if Dan was not involved. They had got their man, so why was she still stomping through all their files? There again, maybe she wasn’t. He hadn’t checked in lately; perhaps it was time he did.

Once clear of the library, he pulled his phone from his pocket and switched it on. It bleeped at him: there were seven messages. As he ran his eye over the tiny screen, he saw that all the messages were from Superintendent Joy. So Joyless, he thought, you are still on the prowl are you…and he switched his mobile phone off again. She will just have to wait a little longer – there is no way I can face her on an empty stomach.

Lunch over, he caught a bus to the station and was just walking the last few hundred yards when a car screeched to halt just ahead of him. A large shaven headed man got out of the front passenger seat and faced him. Nick recognised him at once. “Christ,” he said, “it’s getting harder to tell real policemen from Mafia hit-men every day.”
The man showed no recognition and even less humour. “The boss wants a word with you.”

Nick thought he even sounds like a henchman. “I assume you are talking about Superintendent Joy? Your boss, not mine,” replied Nick. “As you can see, I am on my way to the station right now.”

“The Super is not there. She’s gone back to HQ. My orders are to pick you up and take you there.”

Nick asked, “And you are?”

“DS Harvey.”

Nick looked at his watch. It was nearly half past two. “Well, DS Harvey, do you have a warrant for my arrest?’

“No, I was just told to go and get you.”

“Shouldn’t that be told to go and get you, sir? OK sergeant, you’ve seen me, you’ve passed your leader’s message on. Now run along back to Mama and tell her that I have some urgent business to take care of and I will come and see her in her office at four o’ clock, alright?”

“Sir!” The word was almost spat out. “My orders are….”

“Were you ever in the military, sergeant?”

“Yes Sir!”

“Well then, you should know by now to always obey the last order. And my orders to you are more recent now… bugger off…..” The man took a step forward but Nick stood firm. “One more step and I’ll drop you where you stand.” His voice was ice cold, and the expression on his face said he meant it. DS Harvey turned on his heel and got back in the car, which sped off tyres screeching, leaving the acrid smell of burnt rubber in its wake.

That was stupid, Nick admitted to himself. Why antagonise the woman further? But he had resented her arrogance at sending one of her bigger goons to fetch him. Better be on time for their four o’clock appointment, he thought, or next time they may just have a warrant.

He pushed his way in through the station door. A constable at the desk looked up and buzzed him through the door. He ran quickly up the stairs to the CID offices, stopping sharply with his mouth open. There in front of him was a sea of empty desks with drawers hanging open. Wires dangled from torn out computers, leaving dust rings as evidence as to where they had been. Chairs were overturned and paper was strewn everywhere. Two of his junior colleagues were over in a far corner nursing plastic cups of coffee. “Looks more like a crime scene than a CID office.”

DC Mary Riley was the first to speak. “It is a crime scene, sir. They’ve taken everything, even our personal effects.”

“What about interviews?” Nick asked.

“They finished about an hour ago, we were the last two,” this time it was the young man, DS Dave Martin, who spoke.

“So what did they want to know?”

“Just a fishing trip if you ask me sir. They just seemed to be going through the motions. I mean, what the hell do we know? They kept asking about some guy called Colin Murray and who was working on the case.”

“What case?” Nick asked.

Mary chimed in, “Precisely, no one had even heard of a Colin Murray until they started talking about him.” She looked around at the shattered office. “You can see they believed us.”

“So,” enquired Dave, “do you know who the mysterious Colin Murray is, sir?”

“Colin Murray is, or rather was, the man murdered yesterday by Chief Superintendent Davies,” Nick responded in an almost casual manner.

Mary said, “We’d heard he been arrested but none of us could believe it. Not our boss, surely? It just can’t be true, can it sir?”

Nick replied most soberly. “It can and is true. I heard it straight from the man himself this morning.”

“But why?”

Nick smiled. “That… he didn’t tell me, so I know as much about it as any of you. Anyway, round up the troops for the morning. Get this place cleaned up, and I’ll see about getting our stuff back.”

Four o’clock on the dot he knocked firmly on Superintendent Joy’s office door and waited for the command, ‘Enter!’

As he walked into the office, he imagined he could feel the cold of her stare as she watched him cross the room. There was no preamble or formal niceties, no welcome of any sort, just a blurted command. “Have a seat, Inspector.”

Nick did as he was told, keeping his facial expression as neutral as possible. Without further ado, Superintendent Joy got straight down to business. “I expected to see you this morning at ten o’clock. Didn’t you get my messages?”

“No, Ma’am,” he replied, “I didn’t feel too well, so I took a day’s leave.”

“Not sick enough to stay at home, or so I was informed.”

“I wasn’t sick, just not up to par. I thought fresh air might be more beneficial than just lying around the flat.”

She pulled a blue folder towards her and opened it. “This case you and Davies were working on…”

“Which case is that? We had at least four going on up until yesterday.”

“The one involving Colin Murray,” she replied, holding the file so that Nick couldn’t see the contents.

Good try, thought Nick. “That’s not a name I’m familiar with, Ma’am. I don’t recall the name being associated with any case we are, or ever have been, working on together.”

“Do you actually expect me to believe you’ve never heard the name Colin Murray before this moment?”

Nick thought: now she was getting flustered, not only a lousy detective but a lousy interrogator as well. “That’s not what I said. I said I don’t associate the name with any ongoing case. I know the name from a report in this morning’s newspaper saying that was the man murdered by Chief Superintendent Davies. Until then, I had no idea who he was.”

She changed tack. “Where were you all day yesterday?”

“Cardiff,” Nick said with a sigh. “I was asked to go there and review the evidence they had on a local murder case to see if it matched anything we were working on, possible serial killer, that sort of thing.”

“Who asked you to go?”

“Chief Superintendent Davies. It was a complete waste of time as it turned out.”

“So do you think you were sent out of the way to prevent you from being implicated in yesterday’s murder?”

My God, he thought. That was the first sensible question she has managed to ask. “The thought had crossed my mind, yes. It certainly makes more sense that way.”

There was silence as the two of them looked at each other across her desk. Neither wanted to be the first to break eye contact, Nick blinked.

“Listen Ma’m, can I say something?”

“Be my guest, if it’s relevant.”

“I am in the dark as much as anyone as to why the Chief did what he did. As far as I’m aware, it has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with any case that CID is currently working on. In the seven years that I have known and worked with him, there has never been any mention of a Colin Murray even as a social acquaintance.”

“Thank you Inspector, but that doesn’t alter the fact that a murder has been committed and we need to know why.”

“I too would like to know the answer to that, and given time we probably will. However, the point I’m trying to make is that you have the contents of our entire department locked up in a white van somewhere, and I need it back so we can get on with our job. Surely, if your people have done any work at all, you must have realised by now there is nothing in our system relating to this crime. You’ve got your man, he’s confessed and been charged, therefore why is the CIB still wasting their time by investigating the entire staff of one police station?”

She stared coldly across the desk at him. “If we had had this conversation at ten this morning as I asked, perhaps your department might have been back at work by now.”

For the first time during the meeting, Nick smiled. “That would not have been possible, Ma’am, perhaps if it had been a friend of yours arrested for murder you might understand. Besides, I didn’t find out who Colin Murray was until lunch time.”

Margaret Joy closed the file she had been holding and put it with the others in a neat pile. “I’ll arrange for your files and computers to be returned first thing in the morning. That’ll be all for the moment.”

As he stood to take his leave, Nick thought: Christ she’s a cold bitch even in defeat, but all he said was ‘Ma’am!’

While he crossed the office towards the door, she said, “It won’t be made official until tomorrow, but you’ll be in charge of CID until a new Super is appointed. I believe a promotion to acting Chief Inspector goes with the job, congratulations.”

If there was any warmth in the congratulatory statement, he couldn’t feel it but he added a “thank you Ma’am,” as he opened the door and went into the passage beyond. Was it just his imagination or was it really warmer out here?

On his way back downstairs, he mulled the meeting over in his mind. Christ, Burton, you are slow-witted today! Joyless should never have told him about his promotion, albeit temporary, it was not her place to do so. It was so obvious that she just couldn’t contain the fact that she knew something that he did not – a fact that she could only have picked up by talking to the top brass. Had she overstepped the mark by her raid on his station and been called to account? That would account for the relative softness of their meeting. She was just going through a face-saving exercise by trying to put him on the spot. Kind of obvious now, her heart wasn’t in it at all. No chance to use her brand new rubber truncheon, poor dear, he whispered with a grin.

Before he left the building, Nick’s thoughts turned to the prison cells in the basement. His first impulse was to go down and face Dan once more, tell him his fears about getting him involved were groundless. Get him in an interview room and find out what the hell was going on and what the two of them were going to do to get him out of it. Then, with a touch of anger, his next thought took him back to their previous encounter: what was it Dan had said?

‘Go home Nick, go home and stay there…,… now get the hell out of here.’

So with those words ringing in his mind, Nick left the building and headed for home.

On his way back to his flat, he stopped off at his local corner shop for some milk and the evening newspaper then popped across the road to his favourite Chinese takeaway. Now if there was just something half-assed decent to watch on the telly, his evening was set. Tomorrow was another day not touched. He would start working out the why after a good night’s sleep.

As he entered the front door leading to his flat, there was a small table set against the wall for mail and other messages. Nick put down his takeaway and other shopping and rifled his way through it. He whispered, ‘Junk, bill, bill, junk, junk, offer of a free massage, junk, junk.’ There was also a postcard from the Royal Mail saying that they had tried to deliver a package that needed a signature. He could collect it from the local sorting office, wherever the hell that is, he thought. He dropped the mail in with the rest of his shopping and stuffed the postcard in his coat pocket.

I’ll bet the first question you asked yourself was who the Hell is Nick Burton ? I don’t blame you and it’s not a bad question all things considered.

You see not so very long ago I was nothing more than a shadow in the imagination of an obscure Scottish author called Merlin Fraser, a faint voice in his head that wouldn’t shut up. I had a story to tell and no other way to tell it than to trick him into thinking the whole thing was his idea and getting him to write it down and get it published.

Now thanks to the glorious digital world of the Internet I can at last reach out directly and fill in any of the missing pieces and respond to the many questions my stories raised.

He’s a funny guy this Merlin Fraser, he called his books the INNER SPACE trilogy, you see the irony here? Inner Space… the space between his ears the inner space of his mind with me in it steering him this way and that until I was a spent force, or so he thought, but just like ‘Arnie’ I’m B-a-c-k !

However I am getting way ahead of myself here because it is more than possible you have never heard of Merlin Fraser or his Inner Space trilogy of Murder Mystery stories as dictated by yours truly so I suppose I had better introduce myself properly.

I am Nicholas Burton, Nick to everyone who knows me. I am, or should say was, a serving Detective Inspector in the British Police Force and according to my critics becoming something of a dinosaur because, in their opinion, I was being left behind by all the modern day technology. I am what they call an old fashioned flatfoot bobby, a plodder, someone who uses brain power and traditional police methods of detection rather than sitting at a bloody computer all day and listening to criminologists and criminal profilers and their like.

In hindsight I don’t suppose they were that wrong, after all most of the officers senior to me are also younger than me. University degrees sticking out of every orifice, fast tracked into senior positions with little or no time in the real world of crime, little or no actual common sense but up on all the latest politically correct speak and methodology. I think it’s what used to be referred to in the old days as ‘ass kissers,’ only these days it seems you can get a University Degree in it and it is becoming almost compulsory.

It’s mostly my own fault, I know, I was in a rut and cruising towards an early retirement, as the song goes, a policeman’s lot is not a happy one. My wife divorced me for all the usual reasons I was never at home married to the job….. You’ve heard it all before I’m sure, blessing was there were no children involved and as far as I know no other man, she just wanted out.

OK I admit it, career on the slide, no family and no life outside the job I was in a sinkhole of self pity and if events hadn’t taken a dramatic turn I might well have just faded away into obscurity, just another burned out copper.

In our small town police station I worked for a great guy, not only a good boss but a great friend, he saw how things were going for me but didn’t rub it in. Plus I am fairly sure that like many others around me he was at a loss to know what to do about my situation after all I did my job, kept my misery to myself and tried to keep out of their way as best I could.

That is until ‘That Day!’ There’s always one, a day that when you look back you say ‘that’s when it all changed.’

Only in my case it was actually the day before ‘That Day,’ because it was then that my leader, Chief Superintendant Daniel Davis, decided to send me on a three hundred mile wild goose chase to Wales to check out evidence held by another police force, a job that took me out of town and away for most of the following day.

By the time I got back to my own station all hell had broken loose and the chaos I found as I went through the doors did little to improve my health, temper or the headache that pounded in my temples.

It looked like a riot everyone yelling and as far as could see no one listening but the strange thing about it all was that the yelling was coming from my own colleagues. It looked to me as if both the day and evening shifts were involved. Strange as that was I was in no mood for such behaviour and I tried to restore some order by demanding to know what the hell was going on.

The Sergeant on the desk, who seemed to be the target of the shouting, took the slight lull in the uproar to tell me they had arrested Dapper. To explain, Dapper Dan, was the affection nickname they had for Chief Superintendent Davies because of his dress code, he was always immaculately turned out and always dressed like the perfect gentleman he was.

In the roar of confusion he had to give me the message three times before it sunk in and of course then my head exploded. “WHAT ?” Arrested CS Davies… the boss…my friend… probably my best friend… for what for Christ’s sake ? “ Murder!” Was the reply.

Once I managed to get my head round this piece of information and the serious side of my detective knowledge and experience kicked in and I started to take charge of the situation. “What Utter Bollocks is this…Who said so ?”

OK! Not my finest hour or the best opening statement I have ever made but you have to remember I was in shock.

True, after I went for a walk in the fresh air and calmed down a bit I reviewed the facts as I knew them, and arrived at pretty much the same conclusion that it was still Utter Bollocks. It had to be a mistake or even worse something of a frame up. After all, over the years he and I had crossed paths with some right royal villains many of whom had sworn on their Granny’s grave that they would get us back one day.

It had to be something like that, there is no way in hell that Dan would break the laws he had sworn to uphold and as for ‘Murder’ for God’s sake… give me a break !

I stormed into Police Head Quarters and made a complete Prat of myself, demanding to see him, like that was going to happen, but I needed answers and who better to give them to me ? Instead I was shown into the duty officer’s office and when I again settled down she confirmed the fact that not only had he been arrested for murder but had also confessed to the crime.

The following day they did let me see him, albeit very briefly, a meeting made all the more brief when he threw me out of his cell telling me not to get involved.
Then there was the final bombshell of the day after that when Dan was found dead in his police cell apparently having committed suicide.

Now I knew there was something wrong, the whole thing stunk like a barrel load of rotting fish.

I will concede that given the right set of circumstances we are all capable of committing a crime, even have murderous thoughts but this ridiculous suicide suggestion….No way ! Not the Dan Davies I knew, if he had committed murder, which I seriously doubted, he was man enough to face up to it and would take the full consequences of his actions.

Right there, right then, I knew I would not rest until I knew the truth of it and clear my friend’s name.

Of course, when things like this happen within the Police Force we are not allowed to conduct our own investigations. That goes doubly so for friends and close colleagues and I was duly warned to keep myself as far away as it was possible to get and ordered to cooperate fully with any inquiry.

Stay out of it ! I’d resign first ! And they knew it.

The old me was back, no longer in the self dug pit of despair, my friend needed me and I’d be buggered if I was going to let him down or allow the PC driven white wash to trample his good name into the mud.

Have you ever asked yourself the question; ‘how well do I know my best friend?’

Over the many weeks and months that followed I asked myself that question several times and didn’t like the answers I was getting. In truth I came to realise I didn’t know him at all. I knew nothing of his past prior to me being assigned to his division and his Criminal Investigating Department (CID) as a Detective Inspector. Me Watson to his Holmes as it were, he brains me running behind taking notes but he was a damn fine teacher.

Remember right at the beginning of this piece I said I was a plodder, takes me a while but I get there in the end?

I got there and what a tale it was. It challenged everything in life I thought was true, it made me a believer in things I had never previously considered, or thought possible, if I did think of them at all I had dismissed them as rubbish.

Then came my true dilemma, no one was ever going hear my story, not in an open court of law that was for sure. What I had discovered was beyond the comprehension of most people and would raise issues and ideas that many would rather not even think about. I had no hard evidence or proof that would stand up in court so what had it all been for, what exactly had I achieved ?

Conventionally I knew the real story would never see the light of day, not now that it had been covered up and buried in the many ways government bureaucracies have of dealing with things they think it’s best for the general public not to know.

So I came up with a cunning plan, if the story and all the facts of the cases will never see the light in reality how about as a work of fiction ?
All I needed was the right mind to make my plan work.

Was I right to take over the mind of another human being in this way? Only you can judge by reading the stories for yourself, only then will you come to realise what I did and why.

You see there is more….and it hits at the very highest level of what we laughing accept as democracy again the real powers that be will stop at nothing to prevent the real truth from coming out but, of course, I now know a way.

For the time being I am leaving dear Merlin’s mind in peace but if you decide you want more then you have to tell him … You will find him and my stories in Amazon.

I will be watching and will know your feelings.

https://www.amazon.com/political-Communist-prisoners-concentration-metamorphosis-ebook/dp/B015WBCD2Y/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1483772252&sr=1-1&keywords=sevarion 

One man in a thousand, Solomon says,

Will stick more close than a brother.

And it's worth while seeking him half your days

If you find him before the other.

Nine hundred and ninety-nine depend

On what the world sees in you,

But the Thousandth man will stand your friend

With the whole round world agin you.

Rudyard Kipling must have been speaking about people like my dear friend Barry. Kipling would have wanted Barry for a friend, no doubt about it. Barry was with me during some of the darkest days of my life. In the 40 years I knew him, I cannot once remember him complaining about the quick thrusts with a knife that life sunk into him. I don’t remember him assigning blame to anyone when his car was vandalized and set on fire. The same car he had saved for with his meager earnings for five years. Nor did he complain when the insurance company gave him only half what the car was worth in settlement. You see, Barry was one of those types of people you could easily run over and he wouldn’t complain. He just wasn’t the type of person who was confrontational. Was he a coward? No, I don’t see him that way. Nor should you. Barry was just a humble, gentle soul who never wanted any trouble. But, trouble always found him, no mater how much he tried to avoid it. He went through hell on this earth due to people seeing him as being “weak.” It wasn’t that Barry was “weak”. It wasn’t that Barry was of low character. It was just he basically had little or no confidence in himself for a variety of reasons.

Every time I ever saw Barry, he was always either broke or living day to day on whatever money he happened to earn at whatever odd job he worked at that day. He refused to take any money from me. That would infuriate me more than I could say. I could never get Barry to further his education when we were younger. It wasn’t that he was a poor student. Barry made better grades than I did in school. I remember how envious I was of him because he would make straight A’s with little or no study. I had to hit the books three or four hours a night just to get a B, if I was lucky. No, it had nothing to do with intelligence. It had to do, once again, with confidence. He totally lacked it. I told him this to his face many times and he agreed. I tried to get him to get counseling. But, I knew he would never acquiesce to this idea. He would have to face up to his failings in life. That is something my old friend could never do. I loved him like a brother. But, he made me so damn angry sometimes by his refusal to get help. And he needed help. God he needed help on so many levels. You see, confidence wasn’t Barry’s only problem. Alcohol and drugs were also a menace to him throughout his life.

I felt responsible for some of Barry’s problems. I talked Barry into joining the U.S. Navy with me back in May of 1970. We went on the “buddy plan” together. This meant we would both go to boot camp together and would be in the same company for training. Barry’s mother told him this was a mistake and that he should just go to college. In retrospect, Barry’s mother was right about that one. She knew what Barry was all about. I thought the only chance Barry had to grow and prosper as a fully functioning adult would be to get completely away from her. I was wrong and I have regretted it for many years. Barry didn’t last four weeks in the twelve week boot camp back in those days. He just couldn’t do all the basics expected of him. To be brutally honest, Barry couldn’t do anything right in boot camp. I tried to help him. But, I couldn’t do everything for him. He was chewed out over and over by his squad leader. Damn it, it wasn’t his fault and I tried to explain that to my company commander. I practically begged him to give Barry more time. But, he would not. Barry was given a medical discharge and sent home. He was devastated. And so was I.

Barry could have blamed me for pushing him into something he knew he wasn’t able to do. But, he never uttered a word about it to me. Even after I came home from ‘Nam, Barry was among the first to greet me and shake my hand. He told me how proud he was of me. But, I wasn’t proud of myself. I still am not. Barry always seemed to want to push me to the forefront of attention and make self-depreciating jokes about himself. That always made me uncomfortable. Barry was just always so down on himself. I could not reach him to drag him back up. He just preferred to always be in the background.

There wasn’t anything Barry would not do for you. I don’t mean just friends. I mean from the homeless man in the street to a bank president. Barry didn’t have a mean bone in his body. He never thought about himself. Barry always was thinking about others. In fact, the only time I saw him actually get angry, I mean sure fire bonifide angry was when I told him I slept a couple of nights in my truck after my divorce. He got mad at me for not letting him know I needed a place (although I had family begging me to stay with them). I just looked at him in shock…and smiled. Poor guy, he didn’t have much of anything. It was like that his entire life. But, he had a kind heart and gentle soul about him that few could ever match. And that proved to be his undoing in the world so many times. People would take advantage of his trusting nature. Barry always wanted to believe there was good in everybody. I am completely different.

I remarked to him sometimes how did we ever become friends being so different? Barry would always say, “Because you need Kiplings Thousandth Man.” I didn’t know what he meant the first time he said that to me. Hell, the first time he said it to me; I didn’t even know who Rudyard Kipling was. But, as the years rolled by and Barry was always there for me, I understood. I understood what it meant when it didn’t look like I was going to make it from a collapsed lung and internal bleeding from several broken ribs I suffered in an auto accident. In fact, the doctor told my family it didn’t look good for me. Barry immediately left that scene and came to my bedside ignoring the nurse that said he couldn’t be in there. Barry told her, “I’m his Thousandth Man. I have to be here.” She didn’t know what he meant. But, Kipling would have. Kipling would have understood. I already miss my old friend. I’m reminded of a line from “Shawshank Redemption” when Red said, “Still, the place you live in is that much more drab and empty that they're gone. I guess I just miss my friend.” I do too, Red, I do too.

We buried that kind, gentle soul today. It’s hard to believe that someone can be alive and then be buried just two days later. But, it has happened. I’m still in shock over it. I knew he had heart trouble. But, he told me himself just last week he was doing well and was starting back on his treadmill. I found out today he just told me that so I wouldn’t worry about him. That was so “Barry-like.” This loss…it seems to go through the heart and just penetrate your soul. It feels like when your leg goes to sleep and you stand up to get the blood circulating. Those little needle pricks you feel, in that situation, is what I feel in my heart of hearts today. I have seen too many friends and family die over the years. But, the loss of Barry hurts just as much or more. He was more than a friend. He was more than a brother. He was more than that big friendly guy who was always willing to help you and want nothing in return. He was more than that gentle soul that people would continually hurt. He was much more than all these things. I know now what he was and always has been. He is exactly what he claimed to be. Barry was the Thousandth Man.

His wrong's your wrong, and his right's your right,

In season or out of season.

Stand up and back it in all men's sight --

With that for your only reason!

Nine hundred and ninety-nine can't bide

The shame or mocking or laughter,

But the Thousandth Man will stand by your side

To the gallows-foot -- and after.

It is very common today to own a second home to go on vacation or to make a break in the routine looking for a little relaxation. However, to protect these houses is more essential, if possible, than to protect our habitual home, given that when they do not reside there they are usually more likely to be assaulted by criminals.

In this sense, as there is no one living in them, it is not essential to place as many security systems as in a regular home, in which not having adequate security measures can become detrimental to the lives of their loved ones. Therefore, and for you to know at all times the state of your house or chalet, we recommend below one of the products that can find in our catalog that will solve this problem.

Spy Wall Clock with Motion Detection

Placing a spy wall clock is one of the best ways to make sure at any time that no one is making a visit to your second home without your consent. It is absolutely undetectable, since its simple wall clock appearance keeps the camera inside completely camouflaged, while transmitting images at any time to any place in the world in which it is.

By installing a simple program or using an application, you can see live images of the camera of the spy wall clock, so that connecting the clock to the router becomes an IP Camera that incorporates features as novel as motion detection or Making of photographs at a distance.

Thus, if you discover that something in your country house is not as it should be, or that someone has accessed your home without your permission, you can quickly notify the state security forces that your camera is capturing images of a Assault or robbery that is taking place in his second home.

You can find three different models of spy wall clocks in our spy shop, do not hesitate to ask us any questions you may have regarding the installation or configuration of any of them, we will advise you with all discretion and professionalism.

Happy Holidays from Indie Writers Support. We have some recommended reads for you from our authors. Please show them your support by buying/downloading their titles, reviewing their stories, and sharing their books with your social circles by clicking the (share) bylines.

• Author Alan Brenham - (SHARE)
• Author Allison Hobbs - (SHARE)
• Author Anita Philmar - (SHARE)
• Author Ann Everett - (SHARE)
• Author Annette Blair - (SHARE)
• Bella Forrest - (SHARE)
• Bob Kern - (SHARE)
• Boone Brux - (SHARE)
• Caroline Clemmons - (SHARE)
• Carolyn Brown - (SHARE)
• Chariss K. Walker - (SHARE)
• Chelle Cordero - (SHARE)
• Craig Faustus Buck - (SHARE)
• Cynthia Woolf - (SHARE)
• Dale Mayer - (SHARE)
• Dan Weatherington - (SHARE)
• David Coleman - (SHARE)
• David Donachie - (SHARE)
• David Kahn - (SHARE)
• David Kelley - (SHARE)
• Donna Fasano - (SHARE)
• Donna Fletcher Crow - (SHARE)
• Donna M. Zadunajsky - (SHARE)
• Glen Aaron - (SHARE)
• Glenn Langohr - (SHARE)
• Gloria Antypowich - (SHARE)
• Helen Osterman - (SHARE)
• Hugh Howey - (SHARE)
• Ian Miller - (SHARE)
• J. Hale Turner - (SHARE)
• James Todd Cochrane - (SHARE)
• Jason Aaron - (SHARE)
• Jean Joachim - (SHARE)
• Jen Talty - (SHARE)
• Joan Reeves - (SHARE)
• Joanna Campbell Slan - (SHARE)
• Joe Corso - (SHARE)
• John Everson - (SHARE)
• John Sykes - (SHARE)
• Julie Krantz - (SHARE)
• Karen Thomas - (SHARE)
• Kathryn B. Kemp - (SHARE)
• Kelly Moran - (SHARE)
• Kim Cresswell - (SHARE)
• Larry White - (SHARE)
• Laura Thomas - (SHARE)
• Lawrence Clark - (SHARE)
• Lawrence Gold - (SHARE)
• Leon Cooper - (SHARE)
• Leslie Wolfe - (SHARE)
• Libby Fischer Hellmann - (SHARE)
• Lori Roberts - (SHARE)
• Margaret Brownley - (SHARE)
• Maryann Miller - (SHARE)
• Meredith Blevins - (SHARE)
• Michael Haskins - (SHARE)
• Michael Meyer - (SHARE)
• Michael Sims - (SHARE)
• Mike Hartner - (SHARE)
• Mimi Barbour - (SHARE)
• Muffy Wilson - (SHARE)
• Pattimari Cacciolfi - (SHARE)
• R. Barri Flowers - (SHARE)
• Rebecca York - (SHARE)
• Renee Field - (SHARE)
• Richard Paolinelli - (SHARE)
• Richard Taylor - (SHARE)
• Robert Kanehl - (SHARE)
• Robert Thornhill - (SHARE)
• Rodney Page - (SHARE)
• Ronald M. James - (SHARE)
• Ronald Yarosh - (SHARE)
• Sarah Jane Butfield - (SHARE)
• Sky Ashton - (SHARE)
• Stephanie Hurt - (SHARE)
• Stuart Allison - (SHARE)
• Susan Wingate - (SHARE)
• Suzanne Collins - (SHARE)
• Tamara Ferguson - (SHARE)
• Tina Gayle - (SHARE)
• Todd M. Thiede - (SHARE)
• Traci Hall - (SHARE)
• Tracy Krauss - (SHARE)
• Travis Luedke - (SHARE)
• Uvi Poznansky - (SHARE)
• Valerie Douglas - (SHARE)
• Win Blevins - (SHARE)

We are sending out some recommended reads to all of our combined members this New Year holiday via emailing and other means. We would like to make the promotion service affordable for every writer and include your book titles as well. Apply at http://bit.ly/1t9eAbO.

• Reach 500,000+ readers.
• Get Promoted to Amazon Book Reviewers.
• Get feature on 100s of Review sites.
• Receive your own beautifully designed Author's Page.
• Get introduced to 100s of Book Clubs.
• Receive a One-on-One assistance for your book's SEO keyword & metatags.
• Get promoted through our social-media-networks of 270,000+ combined members.

View the sample promo tactic (picture) below, promoting via emails to 305,000+ readers.

Apply at http://bit.ly/1t9eAbO.

Imagine your books displaying next to New York Times bestselling books on amazon.com, instantly recommending them to hordes of readers during their book searches. It is possible, with amazon-advertising. The following image below was extracted and cropped from an amazon page, and can be fully viewed online at https://www.amazon.com/Kindle-eBooks/b?ie=UTF8&node=154606011.

This service is open to everyone willing to apply at amazon.com, https://advertising.amazon.com/products-self-serve.

Sign into your account at http://indiewritersupport.com/main/authorization/signIn. And then submit your books to us at http://indiewritersupport.com/page/indie-writers-support-authors-list.

The Illustration: image background is meant to Illustrate by degree the dense obstructive tree branches a variant of radiant sunlight by the transparent defined leaf mass. Whereas, the incandescent light bulb filament, representative of a brain synergy inflating the proper atmospheric body enveloped in a bubble – comparative synthesis to skeleton density, stripped in an evanescent sunlight energy, jelly organs, vanishing in a latex strength and elasticity membranes. Off which, physique devoid living tissues, leaves behind iridescent gelatinous figures, and physics in counterpart, against architectural transparency of dead matter.

I can’t express too often the zeal of originality as my mind sources those esoteric perceptions from resolute concrete established realities. The diachronic volition, which discrete mirrors a conspicuous bird’s-eye consciousness, waxing moon like in the azure sky. Emanating through eons of laborious life testing organ – the mind revert the material process dissolving synthetic bathing in a crystallizing ocean – breaking the energy of dead matter along living substances, at discovering the iridescent tinted kinetic to apprehend the unimaginable saga ghosting a range of simple physic expressions.

For the full text:

I'm new. Hoping to help others and to promote my new book.

In order for any independent author to make it to the best-sellers list, he or she will need at least five professionally written reviews of the published book. And nothing is more pleasing to an author than he or she reading the published reviews of their readers.

“Do you know that a succinct review of your book can boost your book-sales dramatically? In fact, that very review could be the reason you make it to the best-sellers’ list.”

If your book receives more than 20 positive reviews on Amazon, the book title would be automatically recommended to others browsing through the same category of titles your book belong to. And if the book receives more than 50 positive reviews, Amazon would list the title in its daily newsletter and recommend it to new readers who just completed a similar read.

Amazon has its own leaderboard of reviewers that receives credit for every book that they review, and you can view all of them from this link, https://www.amazon.com/review/top-reviewers. You may even write them directly and ask them to review your book via the email address that they provide you on their profile page.

The best way to have your book quickly review is to approach these reviewers via their email addresses and propose your book(s) to them for free in exchange for their honest review(s). It is important that you approach the right reviewer that would be interested in your book's genre, as others (who are not a fan of your genre) may consider your approach as an abuse.

We know how critical it is for authors to get their book reviewed, so we have stepped up to help our Indie Writers Support members with the quest. And with our compiled list of 1000s of reviewers, any one of our AUTHORS can receive up to 10 new reviews within the next month.

List of Amazon Book Reviewers by Genres

• Children's Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/children-s-book-reviewers
• Sci-fi Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/sci-fi-amazon-book-reviewers
• Christian's Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/christian-s-book-reviewers
• Horror Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/horror-book-reviewers
• Literary Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/literary-book-reviewers
• Mythical Adventure Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/mythical-book-reviewers
• Parenting Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/parenting-book-reviewers
• Mystery - Thrillers Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/mystery-book-reviewers
• Paranormal Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/paranormal-book-reviewers
• Suspense Book Thrillers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/suspense-book-reviewers
• African American Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/african-american-book-reviewers
• Professional - Technical Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/technical-book-reviewers
• Bestsellers Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/bestsellers-book-reviewers

Audible audiobook Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/audible-audiobook-reviewers

Barnes & Noble Book Reviewers; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/barnes-noble-book-reviewers

A full list of Independent Bookstores in the U.S.A Selling eReaders and eBooks; http://indiewritersupport.com/page/independent-bookstores-in-the-u-s-a-selling-ereaders-and-ebooks.

Good luck. These lists are accessible by logging into the Indie Writers Support network (www.indiewritersupport.com). Sign in at http://indiewritersupport.com/?xgi=5L8oWKMvg5p6f5.