Prologue to Sins of the Father novel

Hello I’m Harry Riley, of Nottingham England.

This is a prologue (830 words) to my forthcoming mystery thriller novel,

available in December 2009 called:

‘Sins of the Father’

(The haunted life of Doctor James Parker)

This tale concerns the lives of two young men whose paths were doomed to clash even before they were born, with devastating results for all concerned.

It is set in a small village in Northumberland, a village once considered to be the most dangerous place in England.

Now it is only the eerie call of the curlews and oystercatchers circling high above the river that pleasantly disturbs the clean air and tranquillity.

Nestling in a valley on the banks of a famous salmon fishing river…the River Tweed in the Scottish Borders, it is incidentally the village where I once owned a small cottage, I have simply made a few fictional additions such as a village pond and a Wesleyan Chapel to aid the storyline and changed the name of the village lightly, calling it Norbridge.

The ruined castle where John De Baliol, Lord of Barnard Castle was judged King of Scotland…swearing fealty to The English King Edward…the ancient church, still bearing the scars of Cromwell’s musket balls on its outer walls and where Robert the Bruce once sheltered…and the school in the village, really do exist, as does the old stone bridge across the Tweed…separating England from Scotland.

My story opens just after the end of the Second World War and progresses into the 1960’s; to a Britain still advocating the ‘hang-mans rope’ for the most wilful acts of murder.

For those who do not know this northerly clime it is a land where the smallest whisper of wind blowing quietly over the hills and glens awakens the sleeping ghosts of history, and where the mighty clash of battle from two ancient armies still rings loud and clear.

Ruined castles spring up abundantly around almost every bend in the road and large fortified stone houses with high towers bear witness to the protection once needed from the ‘Border Reivers’ those lawless bands of raiders who crossed the borders mounted on swift horses to hack and wreck and rob and plunder, showing no mercy to man or beast. It is a special land that has produced and inspired some of the world’s most gifted writers like Sir Walter Scott with his classic ‘Marmion’ James Hogg (the Ettrick Shepherd.) with his many plays, poems and novels, John Buchan, he of ‘The Thirty Nine Steps’ and latterly Nigel Tranter, with his brilliantly researched historical adventure novels, plus artists such as L.S. Lowry with his iconic paintings of Berwick Upon Tweed and the poet…the National Bard of Scotland; ‘Rabbie Burns’ who upon crossing the bridge at Coldstream in 1787, alighted from his horse and recited part of ‘The Cotter’s Tale’ before walking over to the English side. The bridge bears a plaque commemorating his visit.

I have chosen the beautiful Coldstream Bridge between England and Scotland for the cover of my novel as it spans the winding banks of the silver River Tweed and is evocative of that fabled land; now thankfully at peace with itself after centuries of violent turmoil.

In my story Billy Turpin is a big strong orphan with a secret hate that sits on his broad shoulders like an invisible monster screaming revenge into his tortured brain. By a stroke of good fortune and evil cunning he acquires great wealth and builds a successful business empire.

A long way from home and in a very bad place; the unadventurous James Parker tries to forget his troubles as he conveys the love of his home country to Carl Brandon, his new American friend in adversity. Such is James Parker’s passion for the fresh clean air and the small friendly communities of his native land that the sad and lonely American from The Bronx listens fascinated and becomes filled with a desire to see it all for himself. If only with his failing health he could survive the cruel treachery of the African Jungle.

I put James Parker, my main character, into life threatening situations. I also bring in a sub plot or two to create mischief and muddy the water. There is Billy Turpin, a powerful friend who is really a vicious enemy burning up with hate and eventually there is the underlying suggestion of strange spiritual activity going on in the background. Doctor James Parker has often suffered from depression and at times of extreme stress has been known to hallucinate. It is at these times that his mind seeks the comfort of the supernatural and conjures up visions of lost friends and family and in particular of Rosie, his beloved younger sister. They say every story needs a hero but James Parker is not cast in the heroic mould and if there is a hero to my story it has to be the awesome historical countryside of Northumberland and the Scottish Borders and in particular the silver, winding, River Tweed.

End.

The author will be pleased to sign and dedicate books directly purchased through him-email: harryriley@gmx.co.uk

www.harrysjots.blogspot.com

Harryriley Nottingham on ‘facebook’

Sins of the Father: ISBN 978-1-905809-77-6

Pneuma Springs Publishing

www.pneumasprings.co.uk

Available from Publisher, Bookshops, Amazon and good online stores-search by ISBN from November 30^th. 2009

RRP: £9.99

‘The Beauty of Berwick Upon Tweed’

By Harry Riley

Over thirty years ago we took a family holiday in Northumberland and whilst there decided to spend a day on Lindisfarne (Holy Island)

On arrival at the causeway-crossing the tides were against us and there was to be a two-hour delay. We were only a twenty-minute drive from Berwick Upon Tweed so we thought we could wander around England’s most northerly town to fill up the time. Little did we know as we parked up in the centre of this fascinating coastal market town that it would be the start of a life-long journey of discovery. We had no idea what to expect as we popped into the tourist information centre to obtain a simple town map.

The air was bracing and the sky was a clear sunny blue as we sauntered along the wide footpaths of the grassy, Elizabethan Walls, now in the care of English Heritage…admiring ancient cannons (one from the Crimean War) and spectacular sea views over the cliffs.

The historic town of Berwick Upon Tweed is situated at the mouth of the River Tweed (a famous salmon river) where it joins the sea at the end of its winding path through the glorious Scottish Border Country. So absorbing was this rugged land with its ruined castles and troubled history hiding under every stone and grassy knoll that we would return annually for extended holidays, culminating in the purchase of a second home in a little village called Norham, nestling on the banks of the River Tweed and only eight miles from Berwick.

Berwick has three bridges spanning the river and has been fought over many times by the English and Scots including being taken by the great Scottish hero: William Wallace.

One of his limbs was gruesomely displayed, hanging from the old bridge after his execution…as a warning to all. Berwick remains an English town for the present at least.

Our walk around the outer perimeter of the town took us less than two hours but was surprisingly relaxing…quiet and invigorating with an indefinable atmosphere of welcoming peacefulness away from the hustle and bustle of the busy A1 motorway traffic which at that time ran through the town centre. We passed the Cromwellian Holy Trinity Church, said to be built from the stones of Berwick Castle, and the imposing Barracks of The Kings Own Scottish Borderers with its fine regimental museum and on towards the lighthouse, the Main Guard and the old Quay Walls. We were now approaching Palace Green wher the Military Governor one lived and we could see across the harbour to the golden holiday sands of Spittal…once famous for its health giving Spa Wells. On our right was the large decorative crest over the old Customs House, reminder of Berwick’s important maritime past.

The large colony of Berwick Swans with their distinctive patch of yellow above the beak was in evidence by the pink sandstone Berwick Old Bridge and then we were walking along the banks of the Tweed with the ancient settlement of Tweedmouth across the other side, towards the Royal Border Bridge built by Robert Stephenson and up the slope of Megs Mount, overlooking the wide river estuary. The town hall with its tall, sky-splitting clock tower comprises of a greyish-pink stone and was once the gaol from where men and women were taken to a place of execution, sometimes for seemingly trivial offences.

The majority of town buildings have cheerful red pan-tile roofs with some of grey slate and have been painted by many artists including L.S.Lowry. Eventually turning into the town we found the shopkeepers helpful and friendly. This completed our welcoming experience and created an abiding memory. Berwick upon Tweed became our base as we hunted out the wondrous gems of the Borders.

End.

'Return to Northumberland'

Hello I’m Harry Riley

Welcome to Harry’s Ten-Minute Tales

This story is called:

‘Return to Northumberland ’

This is a review of a recent event with the addition of one or two comments of a possible ghostly significance. I leave it to you to decide.

To set the scene I have to go back over forty years to a time when big new roads were the coming thing. In 1959 Ernest Marples (Transport Minister) inaugurated the new M1 motorway in a big fanfare of publicity and the railways were considered by the

Government of the day to be loss-making relics of a bygone Victorian era.

As a result many Railway Stations were closed in 1965 during the savage railway purges prescribed by ‘Doctor Richard Beeching’ as the cure for the Nation’s Railway System and thus blighting the lives of thousands of rural folk. Much of the country’s valuable line stock was viciously ripped up by uncaring hands and sold for scrap along with irreplaceable buildings and transportation links that had taken many years of dedicated work to build.

In Northumberland much of the line had been planned by George Stephenson (he of the Rocket Engine fame) and had been commissioned by the York, Newcastle and Berwick Railway Co. in 1849.

It was his son Robert who was later to complete the magnificent Royal Border Bridge at Berwick Upon Tweed with its 28 elegant stone arches spanning the salmon-rich River Tweed.

On a recent October night we had the good fortune to attend an evening performance at a disused Northumberland Station, of a ghost story about a haunted railwayman who is tormented by the prospect of imminent tragedy along the line.

This was only one of a number of events taking place as part of the 150^th. Stephenson Celebrations.

It was fitting that as we set off at dusk a thick autumn mist should descend, swirling over the hills and across the Scottish Borders (the direction we were travelling from) making driving more difficult as we crossed the River Tweed into England.

Fortunately we arrived at our destination on time and saw the large banner proclaiming the ‘150^th. Stephenson Anniversary Celebrations.’

Coming towards us as the mist waxed and waned was a tall man carrying a torch and looking for the world like a Funeral Director in his long black frock coat and top hat..

Tim Kirton (the Stephenson Project Officer) introduced Chris Green (the man in the Frock Coat and Top Hat) and the performance of the ghost story began. It was inspired and all credit to the Organisers. The show made for an enjoyable and unforgettable experience in a perfect railway setting, the murky darkness being broken only by the yellow light from a few Victorian station lamps. We even heard an owl hooting in the background.

Taking our leave afterwards with heads still full of ghostly images from the drama and with the car’s main lights cutting a swathe through the foggy night we drove towards the exit and just for a fleeting moment caught sight of a man standing alone on the platform. He appeared to be an old-fashioned railway employee, wearing a bowler hat, short jacket and kerchief round his neck. He was carrying a guard’s lantern and had a confused look on his countenance, as if he was waiting for his train.

We wondered as we drove home if we had imagined it…if this was part of the stage-managed production…or if it could have been just another lost soul waiting for a train that would never come.

End.

Sins of the Father

The haunted life of Doctor James Parker

ISBN 978-1-905809-77-6

Pneuma Springs Publishing

W: www.pneumasprings.co.uk

E: admin@pneumasprings.co.uk

Available from Publisher, Bookshops, Wholesalers and good

Online stores - search by ISBN

RRP - £9.99

About the Book

Harry Riley releases a gripping and suspenseful page-turner

that will defy your efforts to put it down.

Ruthlessly manipulated for most of his adult life by a cunning enemy

posing as his friend, Doctor James Parker slides into a deep pit of

depression. He is past listening to reason and believes he has every

reason to kill his generous benefactor, the man he blames for all his

misfortunes. But the gallows await!

After a cruel start in life, abandoned outside an orphanage as a baby, Billy

Turpin grows up to be a handsome and successful entrepreneur running

several companies. Many are hypnotized by his wealth and charismatic

charm. But one person suspects he is also a psychopathic killer.

Two people whose paths were doomed to cross even before they were

born, with the most tragic consequences imaginable for all concerned.

…Find out more…visit book web page @

http://www.pneumasprings.co.uk/SinsoftheFather.htm

This thrilling fictional novel will intrigue and shock you in equal measure.

‘God’s Waiting Room’

by Harry Riley.

Authors note: I wrote this article whilst the memory was still fresh in my mind and within a few hours of visiting a nursing home. It was my first visit to such a place and made me wonder; ‘is this the best we can do?’

Here, in this big room they sit in rows, hour after hour, mainly women, two-dozen lonely patients, waiting for death, just a small assortment of the nations geriatrics. There is no conversation. Some appear to be asleep with their eyes and mouths wide-open, sad eyes that are glazed over.

The eyes, they say, are the windows to the soul, but these eyes are empty and soulless. Any sign of real life has long since flown. A few of these tired old faces though, with skin that has turned to dried up, powdery and yellowed parchment, look up with vague interest as the three visitors walk into the room. One tries to force a weak smile but mostly their dejected expressions reflect the hopeless abandonment of a busy society.

Blotchy, blue swollen legs are moved with difficulty and wasted arms twitch uncontrollably.

They each wear clothing that was hurriedly thrown over frail bones by someone else and which quite possibly belonged to someone else.

Once these sad creatures were mothers, wives and daughters, cared for, loved and admired. Now they are the unwanted detritus of uncaring society - shut away out of sight and out of mind. Here is the distinct smell of the faeces and urinal, hardly disguised by chemical intervention. Suddenly a clear and articulate voice cuts through the silence, rising hysterically high. ‘Somebody, will somebody please help me?’ There is a tragic desperation about the request as if the speaker is appealing directly to the newcomers.

We must not to make eye contact, there is nothing we can do and it only encourages them to false hope.

Another old lady starts crying pitiably, fidgeting painfully in her chair and then she screams out repeatedly for a nurse. Now there is coughing and choking as half dead bodies are disturbed by the noise and start to writhe about. Wheel chairs begin to spin around aimlessly as their occupant’s frantically jerk into furniture. This is harrowing stuff, a vision of purgatory. Two hard-pressed young nurses run in wearing full body plastic aprons, and their stressed out voices try to quell the uprising. It’s a while before some sort of temporary peace is restored. Unwanted and unobserved, a television has been left switched on in a corner but the sound is turned right down.

The person we have come to see is a woman in her seventieth year. She has dementia and the doctors can do no more for her. We spot her vacant face and empty eyes, among the other women as she sits there, fully dressed, silently enduring and upright in her chair, arms out stretched and resting on her knee’s…starring straight ahead in passive acceptance of her miserable fate. I wonder how long she has been sitting there. She is a close relative and until a year ago we thought she had another ten or fifteen years ahead of her. We help her into a wheelchair, take her up to her room and sit with her as she tries to tell us how she hates this place.

Her bedroom is ‘L’ shaped, with a bed and a wardrobe, two plastic chairs and a commode. The room has flowered wallpaper, the fitted beige carpet is badly stained and this is her home! She was once a schoolteacher with a sharp brain, and she deserves better than this. From somewhere deep in her mind she summons up a few sensible words and appeals for help, ‘Oh, come on…please take me home?’ We know this is impossible.

She has to stay here until the doctors say otherwise. We’ve been told her condition is terminal, a few more weeks or possibly months if her constitution proves stubborn.

She asks to be lifted up so we try and accommodate her by providing her walking frame. She makes a Herculean attempt to rise as I support her weight.

Then we ask where she is going. Eventually she mutters; ‘we are going home” but she cannot move. Her ankles are swollen and there is no strength left in her feeble body to take her anywhere, so we assist her to settle down again in her wheelchair.

We know it’s hopeless but does she? I think not. A fit and healthy person for most of her life: the weight has fallen off her and she has no strength to lift herself up. She’s frustrated and confused, and asks why her mother and father didn’t come with us. They couldn’t come today or any other day for they have been dead for over twenty years. The poisons have gone to her brain. The tears start to come and we have to leave her husband to comfort her. She drinks a lot but cannot eat and just wants to get back in bed and shut out the misery. We must wait for the inevitable end and hope it is not too prolonged.

I am glad to be outside, breathing in the fresh clean air again, away from such misery. This is not some vile Victorian Bedlam but a purpose built nursing home in a modern, civilised country in 2009.

This is one of the better nursing homes, with caring staff that do the best for their patients and she is lucky to have a bed here. I don’t know how the nurses handle this abominable torture day after day. If this is God’s waiting room then where the devil has he gone? harryriley@gmx.co.uk

Hello I’m Harry Riley

Welcome to Harry’s Five-Minute Ponder: ‘What if and When.’

This is called:

‘Pilgrim County’

You know one of the great things about getting older is that you have something to look back on. Thirty or even twenty years ago we had an occasional news item from the States. Not so now.

Now we get to know what President Obama has for breakfast even before he knows it himself! Don’t get me wrong I’m not complaining; communication just got so much better now we are all part of the Global Village.

As regards politics in the UK a Federal Europe has been given a big thumbs down. It seems we…the general public, just do not want to be a part of it. Trading is fine and the European Community has given us some big benefits… like…er…like…well you know…let me think?

Anyway pondering on some of the big issues, as I am wont to do, I began to wonder what if and when?

What if Great Britain ever did become a part of the USA, you know-the Fifty First State of the Union.

Our kids play American games on their computers. They are dressed in American style gear with baseball caps stuck on sideways; dissing all and sundry as they skateboard along to the Academy Campus.

Our lives get handed down second hand from America. This is not the country I grew up in! Things have changed so much since we, as children proudly waved our Union Flags and knew the sun would never set on a glorious British Empire.

So I got out the old crystal ball and asked it to show me the future in say a hundred years time…

The picture came out bright and clear. Old television programmes showed how Britain had become just another state of the union.

When?

Well it had happened so gradually that we’d hardly noticed it. Our computers had American software that spat out American words and spellings. Our troops had joined forces in Iraq and Afghanistan and stood together over terrorist threats…and following a succession of British lacklustre political leaders with their un-lacklustre liking for self aggrandizement and get-rich-quickedness (rhyme it with wickedness) we had not rejected our powerful suitor, but like the hapless turkey, had voted for Christmas!

A cash-strapped, near bankrupt Britain had opted for the bed-pan-warmth of Wall Street. London had been discredited as a financial institution.

After a furious national debate to see which town in Britain had most in common with America and the right to be our new capital city,

a surprising winner was the tropical city of Nottingham. Not because of the beauty of Nottingham Lace or Kevin Cosner’s portrayal of Robin Hood in ‘The Prince of Thieves’ or even Notts County Football Club (consecutive winners of the Premier League for the past three years) but for Nottinghamshire’s unrivalled position as birthplace of the Separatists, founders of the most powerful democracy in the modern world. Believe it or not, the Pilgrim Fathers came from Nottinghamshire, South Yorkshire and Lincolnshire, East Midlands!

From villages such as Austerfield, Bawtry, Sturton le-steeple, Scrooby and Babworth came free-thinkers; Richard Clyfton, William Brewster, John Smith, William Bradford and John Robinson, principle leaders of the Puritan Movement.

As Separatists they had rejected Kings James’s command to worship the Sabbath in High Church (the law put anyone on pain of death for preaching sedition) they could not support a form of religion they believed to be corrupt and in sixteen hundred and twenty the Founding Fathers had set off on a perilous journey to America in the good ship Mayflower, eventually to set up camp at Plymouth Rock, Cape Cod; there to create the Mayflower Compact. This document, enshrined in the history of the American Constitution and accepted in all states became the symbol of democratic freedom.

Now in my futuristic crystal ball, Nottinghamians were thrust to the forefront of world affairs.

With new-found wealth and investment, Nottingham Castle had been rebuilt in its original medieval style, a British ‘Thanksgiving’ holiday had been approved for the fourth Thursday of November and the world and his wife wanted to live at Babworth and Austerfield and Scrooby villages…We had all become citizens instead of subjects and the cosy American greeting of ‘Have a nice day!’ had been suitably adapted to ‘Have a nice day Me Duck!’

What if and When. End.

Afghanistan and the British people’

There must be many ordinary people like me who are beginning to question our government’s policy on Afghanistan.

Mr. Brown informs us our troop’s presence in Afghanistan is essential to protect us from terrorism.

The media constantly refers to the unacceptable cost in human lives.

I believe our soldiers are the best in the world but I also think they are being sacrificed by this government for a flawed ideal. I know we are not alone but we are too small a country to try and police the world: and assuming we defeat the Taliban, will that mean the end of terrorism? Not on this earth it won’t! The argument just doesn’t wash!

Imagine I am an ordinary Afghan civilian and I hear the British Prime Minister speaking on the wireless. He says foreign troops are necessary in Afghanistan to keep terrorism off the streets of Britain: So what? Do I care? Not a jot! I am only interested in protecting my own family from any sort of violence; foreign troops with their noisy tanks and guns keep me awake at night and threaten my peace of mind. And I am still living in the dark ages after years of promises and foreign intrusion.

We the British have had other failed adventures in Afghanistan over centuries past; do our politicians never learn from history?

Thirty years ago I saw a plaque in York Minster commemorating a young officer who died over there, in a battle by the Kyber pass, strangely enough I had been reading about this battle in a John Masters novel and this is why it caught my attention. It had been a long forgotten battle from another day and age…the mention on the plaque of this young officer’s lost life was one too many but we still keep on sacrificing brave young soldiers for what? If the recent elections in Helmand Province were anything to go by all we were defending were a few dusty fields! Soldiers need real battle experience or it is no use keeping an army but you do not throw away young lives for nothing. Have we learned nothing over the years?

Surely there must be a better way to defend our shores. What about tighter border controls, sharper intelligence and tougher surveillance? We could spend the money in other ways without this horrendous loss of life. I am sure he means well but the sooner Mr. Brown resigns the better it will be for us all. We desperately need a more inspired hand on the tiller.

Harry Riley email: harryriley@gmx.co.uk