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About the author:
As well as my poetry, I am currently revising two other novels: one an original take on the theme of time-travel, with a good many stings in the ‘tale’; and the other recounting a story of obsessive, near-pathological love. Watch this space.
What inspired you to write your book?
I wondered what happened to the characters in boys’ adventure books when they grew up…or came into contact with the real, adult world, when, basically, they discovered, or didn’t discover sex. That was the genesis for the idea of a story whose hero and heroine are like two children in adult bodies, forced to confront an evil world of corruption, sexual deviancy, pretence and horror.
Here is a short sample from the book:
In the dim light of this nefarious place he noticed a figure detach itself from the background and wend its way towards his table. The form materialised into a plumpish woman wearing a long, tight skirt and a lacy top he had the impression he could see through. Large shapes he associated, oddly, with images of his mother, and warm flesh he could nestle in, could be glimpsed through her flimsy blouse. Her black hair was cropped short.
“Hello, Captain,” breathed the apparition, sitting down beside him. “You are a friend of Major Mullen?”
“Yes,” Wriggles said, unable to meet her big, blue eyes staring fearlessly at him and reaching deep down into his soul.
She drew in smoke from a cigarette in a long black holder, exhaling her hot, smoky breath over his reddening face. She put her hand on his chest, and he winced. She giggled cruelly. She ran her fingers over his body.
“What is this bulge?” she asked, her fingers pausing at his trouser-pocket, her finger-nails scratching its fibres.
“Just documents for HQ. Nothing for a lady to concern herself with,” he mumbled. “Excuse my manners, but with whom am I having the pleasure of–”
She interrupted him with a deep-throated, mocking drawl of a laugh.
“Watahuri is my stage name,” she intoned, giving a mischievous squeeze to his documents, “but you can call me Yvette.” She paused, staring languidly at him. “Would you like to have a cocktail in my dressing-room?” She uncrossed her legs, slowly and itchingly, and Wriggles heard the rustle of fabric on flesh occasioned by her skirt’s tightness. She took the cigarette out of its holder and dropped it into the ash-tray on the table, leaving it to smoulder, the smoke curling into Wriggles’s eyes. She stood up. She looked down on him…
…Wriggles found himself half-sitting, half-reclining on the chaise longue in her room. He looked round at its strange sights: a screen with various frilly garments flung over its top; a dressing-table with innumerable containers imbuing the air with languorous, decadent odours; a cocktail-cabinet with glasses and bottles; and a table with papers, a bottle of ink and a paper-knife.
The painted Jezebel was beside him, leering at him, pawing at his lap with her chubby fingers. He felt repelled by the grotesque, almost inhuman wretch before him. She must have been the victim of some mania, some regression into an animal-like, primitive state of being.
“Surely if you went to see your mummy and daddy, they would be able to help you?” he asked.
“My mummy and daddy? What do you mean?”
She was emitting strange sounds, little moans escaping from her lips, beads of sweat collecting above them, as she caressed his legs and his bulges nearby.
Suddenly her head was buried in his lap, writhing about like a pig in a trough working grub into its mouth, irritating him and his posture. He shifted about awkwardly.
“Oh, I say!” he said when he could take no more, jumping up and inadvertently kneeing Watahuri in the face. Her head jerked back to reveal her teeth clamped tight over a white envelope. “By Jove, what’s that? Are those the documents for HQ? I’m afraid they’re top-secret. Not for the eyes of a woman.”
But Watahuri was not open to reasonable arguments. She was enraged. Possessed. She ripped off her blouse to reveal massive wobbly bits that made him think of the gigantic blobs of jelly he and Britt used to be given at birthday-parties. She unzipped her skirt, and shoved it halfway-down her legs with feverish hands. She grabbed something from the table and rushed at him; with her skirt stuck over her fat thighs, she almost tripped over.
“Give me back my documents!” insisted Wriggles, grabbing at the envelope in her mouth.
She wrenched her head backwards away from his grasp, saliva dripping from her fangs on to the paper, which was turning soggier and soggier. She drew in her breath and saliva, sucking at the envelope, fastening her teeth tightly over it. He lunged at her and she toppled over. He landed on top of her; it felt as if she were sucking him and his documents deep into her. He could half-see the paper-knife held high in her hand above him descending towards the back of his neck, which was positioned directly above the envelope clenched between her huge ravenous teeth. He suddenly knew, as if in the midst of an aerial combat where a split-second decision to turn or dive or swivel could mean the difference between life and death, that if he didn’t act now, this could be the end. This could mean the loss of his secret documents, the ripping open and revealing of the contents of his envelope to her eyes, or this could even be his own physical demise, his neck slashed open by cold steel. Or the loss of something else even more vital, the loss of his honour and his purity. The image of Britt, and her pale and haunted features, came to his mind. With a superhuman manoeuvre of body, akin to a Sopwith Camel flipping over on its back, he flung his body round to meet her descending arm, wrenched the knife out of her sweaty palm, and, as she, snarling fury, raised her body to meet his, pushing her torso roughly into his midriff as he twisted round again, he brought down the knife and thrust it into her naked body, pulling it out and inserting it again and again in a mad, mad frenzy. Watahuri screamed and screamed and yelled and yelled, gasping and gasping for breath. Her body raised itself even more, then stayed motionless a moment. A word escaped from her lips. “NEEDY!” She repeated it. “NEEDY!” And then, with a sigh and a shudder, her body fell back, lifeless. Defeated. Overwhelmed. Repulsed. Wriggles felt as he felt whenever he managed to withstand an onslaught from a wave of Fokkers and eventually, straining every muscle in his body and spitting lead at them, had turned them back. The tension, the harsh breathing after the climax.
He stood up, glancing down at the body of the foul fiend whose claws, thank God, he had escaped from. He bent down and prized the envelope out of her filthy fangs. He shuddered as the dampness of the sodden paper she had been licking and sucking grazed his finger. Her body was naked but for the lower part of her legs where the skirt had got caught. Her thighs were held tight, squeezed together. Images of classical statues in museums came into his mind. He looked around. He took the cover off the chaise longue and hurriedly draped it over her unmoving body. As he did so, he caught vivid glimpses of the blood oozing from and about her. He held up his red hands close to his face. His own body was shaking. He had killed this vile snake. This evil abomination. This heartless German agent who had wanted to get her hands on his documents. He shuddered at the depths to which the evil Hun and their godless, shameless servants would stoop. He would dedicate himself to the eradication of the Germans and their threat to everything he held dear. He would annihilate them and their hussies. The evil bitches who did their bidding. He would keep himself pure and untainted. He would save England, and what he held dear, from the dirty, sweaty grasp of its enemies.
Everyone knew there was a feared secret ring of German spies operating in France. Some people said it numbered ten, others five. One of their number was rumoured to be called The Red Baroness. Well, one thing was certain. There was now one fewer of their repulsive, degenerate number to contend with. It had been a good day’s work.