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About the author:
Still working with trikes and custom bikes, Nick now rides a customised Harley Davidson 1450 Dyna-glide sport.
What inspired you to write your book?
The youngest of 3 children, I was always the ‘baby’. Dad worked nights a lot and I would curl up in bed with mum, and she would read to me the latest ‘Mills and Boone’s’ or ‘Barbara Cartland’ novel. Dad didn’t read a great deal, so the books around the house were mostly comics or mum’s ‘wishful thinking’ novels. As I started to read with a voracious appetite, my elder brothers book collection began to be devoured. With a combination of my mothers slushy romantic stories and my brothers sadistic thrillers, I started wondering what it would be like to create real romantic fiction, but with all the warts and horror left in. My writing is essentially Romance, but with a huge dollop of real life thrown in. No swashbuckling pirates here; real gritty characters who make mistakes and sometimes pay the ultimate price.
Here is a short sample from the book:
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
After the first day in the stinking dark room, Natasha had soiled herself. Corinne telephoned Dixie’s errand boy.
“She’s bloody gone and shit herself. It’s no good Michael, you can’t go stoking her up like that so she can’t even take herself for a coodle. I’m not her bloody mummy. She’s gone and shit up a good little skirt and a pair of stockings, let alone the bedclothes!”
The errand boy laughed. “I’m sure the Russians will pay good money for that.”
“It’s not funny Michael. I’m not washing these girls’ bottoms. You’ll have to stop dosing her up so much. Let the poor wee cow use a few of her remaining brain cells!”
“I’ll see what the boss says Corinne.” The line went dead.
Eventually, they managed to fine tune the medication to the point where Natasha was just about able to control her bodily functions and at the same time satisfy the carnal needs of a steady flow of scum who were willing to pay to use the body of an attractive ‘zombie’.
Such was the level of her stupefaction that the passing of days and the coming and goings of her clients meant little to Natasha. All that registered was the increase of pain before fixes and the euphoria afterward.
On about the tenth day, she awoke from a trance-like state. Desperately needing her next fix, she was aware of her surroundings, aware of hunger and thirst, aware of pain.
The heavy set man was lying between her legs, energetically pumping in and out. He was her tenth ‘client’ of the day.
Her arms hurt where he had them pinned down. The muscles in her thighs ached. A fire burned between her legs.
The Soviet was the size of a house. He fell onto her with all the finesse and subtlety of a rutting rhino. Three quarters of a bottle of neat vodka had done nothing to dampen his ardour and his massive weapon of assault was functioning just as nature had intended.
Despite the absence of energy in her muscles, Natasha was feeling every wave of pain inflicted on her. The cocktail of drugs made her tongue and throat feel swollen, blocked, robbing her of coherent speech, leaving guttural moans her only means of communication.
The Russian was thoroughly enjoying himself. With the tools nature had endowed him even working girls felt tight. This one was no exception!
He was obsessed with her breasts, squeezing them so hard with his massive hands until his fingers met, leaving them purple with bruising. The nipples grotesquely protruded, puffed out to the size and shape of ripe strawberries. He sought out the fruit and hungrily sucked it into his mouth, chewing and drawing on it as if it were a fine cigar.
Well into her third month of pregnancy, Natasha’s tortured body was going about the business of creating a sustainable life. The glands in her breasts were readying themselves for the task of producing nutrients for a healthy new-born. Colostrum was being produced, waiting for the suckling of a hungry baby to demand fulfillment. Thinking that moment had arrived, the little miracle factory released the nectar into the lips of the suckling offspring.
The Russian disembarked as though he had been shot through the jaw. First incomprehension, then pure unadulterated fury registered on his hate distorted face.
He shouted in his mother tongue, “You damn dirty bitch.”
Throwing Natasha off the bed as if she were a sack of potatoes, he rained blows down upon her with his massive fists.
By the time his rage was spent, Natasha lay in a bloodied heap on the floor.
Her next ‘client’ came into the room just after the big man left. He took one look at the broken body on the floor and ran from the room shouting, “It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it! I’m fucked if I’m copping for that!”
Corinne ran in, alarmed by all the commotion. She saw Natasha lying there and in genuine shock, exclaimed, “Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Oh what the fuck have you gone and done girl? Oh no, just look at yourself… JANINE!” she shouted. “JANINE! Get yourself in here girl.”
“Corinne, what is it? Oh Jesus God. Is she alive?” the girl asked.
“I don’t know, I don’t know, I think so… barely. Get that fecking eejit Michael on the phone, get him over here now!” Corinne was crying through her cursing. “Oh God Natasha. C’mon girl, don’t you dare die on me now!”
Natasha came to, clutched at her belly and staggered to the filthy porcelain lavatory in the corner of the room. She retched, vomiting blood and teeth into the bowl. She clutched her belly again as a spasm of pain gripped her into a doubled up squat over the filthy bowl.
A further massive spasm gripped her abdomen and the little miracle, created some three short months before to a promise of a lifetime of love and devotion, was extinguished.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
“Oh Jesus! Oh Jesus God forgive us! Oh God, we’ll burn in the pit of Hell for this, so we will! Oh the poor little mite!” She stared at the human remains in the bowl. “Oh God, Jesus, Mary please forgive me my sins! Oh God, oh the poor wee mite!” She sobbed out her guilt and shame.
Natasha slumped to the floor. Mercifully, her tortured body had shut down and she had slipped into unconsciousness.
Janine ran into the room, looked into the toilet bowl, screamed and pressed the flush repeatedly until the obstruction was gone.
“No Janine. No!” Corinne shouted as she realised what the younger woman had done. “Oh Janine what have we done? The poor wee mite. Oh, we’ll burn in Hell so we will, for sure.”
Suddenly thinking clearly Corinne said, “Janine, get a pillow between her legs to stop the bleeding. I’m going to get my car. We need to get her to a hospital before she dies.”
“Michael’s on his way, we should wait for him,” Janine protested.
“She’ll die if we don’t get her to hospital now Janine. I’m not going to meet my maker with the blood of both of them on my hands. Please, help me get her downstairs then watch her while I get the car.”
Between them they managed to drag the inert Natasha onto the back seats. Corinne jumped into the driver’s seat as Brian Dix slammed the passenger door shut.
“Drive Corinne,” he snapped, his voice devoid of emotion.
“Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph Mr Dix, the wee baby. Oh Lord, we’ll surely burn in Hell so we will. I’m taking the poor lass to hospital; she’s just about all done in.”
Brian wound the passenger window down a crack. “Well done Janine, you did good, I won’t forget.” He turned his gaze back to Corinne, a pistol pressed into her ribs. “Now Corinne, I said drive. I’ll tell you where to go!” Brian was furious. Everything hung in the balance. He had plans for Natasha with her spectacular looks. She was to have been a big earner in the brothel; he was confident she would have pulled in the punters, given him some ammunition to use with his superiors if he was called upon to justify the risks he had taken to bring her in. If she died now, without having seen a positive return, it would go down as another one of his fuck ups. Worse still, they would discover that he was working on an outside commission and his last ditch negotiating card, the ransom demand, would die with her.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
The barn where she had been held captive was about half an hour away. Natasha did not regain consciousness during the drive.
“Get out,” Brian commanded Corinne. “Grab her arms and drag her out of the car, into the barn.”
Corinne did as she was told. A wiry woman, used to living on her wits, she could summon a great deal of strength when she needed to.
“Mr Dix… Brian, we need to take the poor girl to hospital; she’s just lost her wee baby, she’ll die if they don’t treat her.”
“Maybe she will, maybe she won’t,” he said, callously. He put the muzzle of the gun to Corinne’s temple and said, “You, on the other hand, definitely will!”
He pulled the trigger. In the confines of the barn the retort was deafening. Mercifully, Corinne didn’t hear it. She stood still for a while, somewhat puzzled by the fountain of crimson flowing over the hay bales in front of her, and then her world went dark for ever.
“Clear up this mess Michael,” he commanded. “Then call the vet over here to make sure this mare survives. I want her fit to go back to work as soon as possible.”
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
They shoot horses, don’t they?
Natasha was laid out on a cold stone table in the corner. Made from the same concrete screed as the floor of the barn it was easy to sluice down with the pressure hose, which was handy as in the normal day to day running of the farm it would be used for occasionally operating on livestock, or for illegal slaughter.
The ‘vet’ was up to his shirt sleeves inside the belly of his first human patient in some time. Things were not going well.
By the time he had crudely sewn up the untidy incision in Natasha’s belly, the small pile of discarded human tissue he had amassed in the filthy porcelain sink did not hint of an encouraging prognosis.
He held his bloodied instruments under the stream of water from the single cold tap and mopped the sweat from his brow.
With the tools packed away inside his bag, he turned his attention to washing the human remains down the waste pipe.
“Is it sorted?” Brian asked.
“Aye, after a fashion,” the vet answered.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Brian enquired.
“Hell, I’m used to fixing up bullet wounds. I’ve no clue about the human female anatomy. ’Tis fecking complicated. She was a bloody mess in there too, all screwed up. She lost a lot of blood. I’ve had to cut off all the busted bits and sew everything up. Not my tidiest work!”
Brian raised an eyebrow. “So will she live?”
“Oh aye… Possibly, most probably… I’ve stuck a drip in her arm and given her some strong antibiotics. She won’t need to worry about birth control anymore though, that’s a dead cert!”
Brian laughed. “In her profession, that’s a bonus.” Greatly relieved, he slapped the vet on the back and walked out of the barn, singing, “Everyone’s a winner baby that’s the truth!”
He got back into the car belonging to the recently demised Corinne, and was about to start the engine.
“Before you bugger off,” the vet shouted after him, “I’m not staying here with her. You will need to keep her warm now, and see to it she stays clean. Keep the wounds clean at least; that is, if you want her to survive the night. I’ve used soluble stitches inside and out so you won’t need me again, but you will need to give her some basic nursing care to make sure she survives.” He could see the exasperated look on Brian Dix’s face. “Feck it, your call, I’ve done my best.” The vet gathered his things, got into his car and drove away.
Brian cursed and turned to his lackey, who was getting into the car beside him. “Jeezus, isn’t this whole incident becoming fecking tedious? Michael, get her into the farmhouse, feed her up with some broth or something, look after her; no more shit until she comes around fully, and then make sure to keep her stoked. We don’t want her getting it into her head to try a runner now do we?”