Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘guns’

 


“The man turned, his jacket opened, plainly visible a .32 in a shoulder holster the message screamed out ‘I can walk around London tooled up without any worries. It was time to go home….’

Peddling along to the first pickup, Stanley stopped and looked at the list. Here he comes looking around he looked twitchy no smiles today. In he goes, a few minutes, head down off he goes, go to the third one, wait he will be a while yet, here he is eyes everywhere looking around, very nervous, this is different it is on today. Miss a couple pick him up again, yes most definitely let’s get back to his flat. Now round the back there’s a small alleyway doesn’t go anywhere put the bike here chain on to many thieves about. Gloves, gun out of the saddlebag into jacket pocket, silencer in the other. Walk round to the front hand through the letterbox, people do what they have grown up doing, step inside pull the key through close the door. Stand still listen all quiet, up the stairs check the kitchen, toilet, bedroom, living room, suitcase feels heavy, whats the time? not much preparation fit silencer and wait. Time is a funny thing, if you have two minutes before you die it goes in a flash, when you have an hour and a half to pass it seems to last forever. A scrabble downstairs, make sure the safety catch is off, sit still, footsteps running up the stairs the door opened a man burst in put the briefcase on the coffee table and reached for the suit case, Stanley pulled the hammer back and the man turned.

NO!!!

Phht…phht

Blood splattered the back wall as the body was thrown across the room wait, silence, pick up the briefcase walk out slowly downstairs, wait listen. Open door step outside pull door shut. Walk round the back there is the bike at least it hasn’t been stolen.

Stanley sat in a park shelter the briefcase beside him. Tuesday morning very quiet, he looked at his watch five minutes, not many people around.  He looked through the missing plank at the back of his shelter, there’s the man walking along the path towards the opposite shelter. He reached it looked at his watch and sat down inside.  Stanley opened the briefcase, assembled the rifle, scope, silencer he looked around all clear. He put the rifle through the opening the stock firmly against his shoulder.  Look through the scope line it up, cross hairs  he’s looking at his watch again, nice and gently, control the breathing steady keep still, the rifle jerked against his shoulder and the man slipped down on the seat.  Stanley started taking the gun apart, scope, silencer, barrel, breach, stock all put away, close the case push the clips in stand up, pick up the case and slowly walk out. Down the path out of the gate along the road, no taxis about better get a bus….”

Michael Douglas Bosc – Author

Read Full Post »

 If Stanley were real he would now be in his 80’s, and probably unhappy about not being able to `work’. So when he came to ask why I have not finished telling his story, I had to admit that although the last book has been started people did not seem interested in his story, as it did not contain werewolves, vampires, ghosts, etc., or modern technology and police work;  just sex, gangs, murder and mayhem, in other words good old-fashioned crime.  All the things that were actually happening in London after WW2. The things people did to survive and make money. 

It was not all Mills and Bloom, it was more rackets, murder, gangs and bent coppers (police).  West-end Central was the most notorious police station going. Coppers on the make and take, turning and looking the other way unless things got too bad then grabbing someone to show they were doing something.  There was the odd government agency operating, nothing like Jame Bond, more like removal men, assisting others or their own governments when needed. Well-trained and ruthless killers, assassins if you prefer, but killers all the same.  As Stanley said it was a job, it had to be done and he was paid well, and governments interfering in other countries is no newer than back scratching.  I had to agree with this statement.

Anyway I digress. Stanley is somewhat at a loss as to why the story of a boy’s love for his mum and his protection of her does not appeal, after all it is normal, isn’t it? As for the Escort Agency nothing wrong there and the girls were beautiful, healthy and well looked after.  His reputation saw to that.

So I have told Stanley that the second book is being proofread, and I will be back with him and the others soon.   He did agree about one thing though, Russell is the right choice.

Read Full Post »

When you think of a forest  you picture tall trees, sun dappled glades, leafy paths, bramble patches, carpets of bluebells, swaths of primroses dotted with wood anemones. Flat tracks wending their way through the forest, perhaps a house here and there nestling in the arms of the trees, birds, deer, rabbits, foxes, badgers and other wild animals.

What you do not think of is war. Death, fighting, guns with bullets flying around, men fighting and dying on the terraces amongst the trees. A bloody time in Spanish history, when men fought their own people, even their own families, fighting for freedom and their rights – Civil War. This is the story of such a forest the one I live in and love.

The Bombed Church at Garcia

From 1936 to 1938  the Spanish Civil War  centered around this area, the river, train line, and mountains.  The village of Garcia was bombed by the Germans who used the civil war to practice their skills for when they took on England and the rest of Europe.  There the church was badly damaged, it has been left untouched, a memorial, and a new one was built in the village.

The rail bridge that crossed the Ebro was also bombed and destroyed  in an attempt to cut off supplies to the Republicans. It was later re-built in its present form providing a service to Barcelona one way and Llieda the other. Although passenger trains still run it is mostly freight that uses it now.

Memorial at Mora de Ebre

Every year the town of  Mora de Ebro re-enacts the crossing of the river and street fighting between the Republicans and Franco’s troops.  The town has erected a steel boat in commemoration of the event and planted a shrub at each corner.  On Catalan Day, the various organisations the Petanca Club included, lay flowers there.

The Republicans fought Franco and forced him back as far as Corbera de Ebro. The Russians, who had been supplying the Republicans with arms, stopped the supply, and the last battle in this area was fought at Corbera de Ebro. The village being raised, has been left as it was, their memorial to those who died both soldiers and civilians. A new village has grown up around the ruins and a thriving wine industry has developed. Amongst the fighting men of the International Brigade was George Orwell whilst Ernest Hemingway wrote for the North America papers, keeping people informed of the struggle

Since we have lived here I have dug up bullets and machine gun ammunition, some of it still live. We took a batch to the  History museum at Gandessa, here they have a pictorial history of the war as well as artifacts. Here we found out the just what the fighting had meant and saw a photograph of the railway bridge at Garcia destroyed by the Germans.

At peace

But that was then.  Today the forest is a place of quiet, with a sense of peace and safety. The only disturbance is the odd vehicle or bicycle going up or down the valley.  The track that wanders towards our farm, twists and turns its way through it, crossing the baranca then upwards and onwards. It is rough and stony, kept as natural as possible allowing nature to repair and heal its scars.

Parts are in dappled shade others in full sunlight, tall pine trees line the way whilst the natural oak trees, more like bushes than trees, dotted here and there, fight for their place in the ecological way of things. Today that is the only type of battle here, takeing a walk along the track reveals birds and flowers of  various types, some already known others new and interesting.

           

At this time of year the forest comes alive. Grape hyacinths, minature daff0dils, asters, poppies and much more flora than I can name. These are followed by wild Jasmin and Honeysuckle their perfume filling the evening air. The one flower we look forward to seeing is the little Orchid that grows under one of the olive trees. It’s small but perfect blooms are the highlight of the season, small purple slippers on green stems.

On a logging trip

I forage for fallen trees to stock up the winter log pile, noting where the squirrel drays and the misletoe balls are.  There are all sorts of shrubs and trees to be seen if you look between the pines. We have the odd Carib tree, Witch Hazel its stems corkscrewing skywards. There is one bush which spreads and covers a wide area, green with a reddish tinge in winter, which in spring is covered with red berries a birds delight.

To one side of the house is a terraced hill from where the views are spectacular, the local hunters  hunt there during the season on Sunday mornings.  Sometimes they shoot a wild boar but more often than not they leave as they arrived empty-handed.

A Squirrels Dray

The squirrels here are dark red almost black in colour. Thin furry sticks of mischief with pointed ears and a thick bushy tail, they dart along the branches of the firs playing games of run and jump.  It is later in the year we notice them more, when they are hunting for their winter stores. There is a Dray near the small house which is refurbished from time to time.

I have tried not to disturb my surroundings in the years I have been here.  Because I do not use chemicals on the land, the birds and insects have gradually returned to their habitat.   The olive trees, some hundreds of years old are doing well and with selective pruning, provide enough oil for the year.

Considering what has happened here over the years we feel safe. It is as if the forest envelops us in a healing of souls, just us and nature. This then is my forest valley, my home.

Read Full Post »

%d bloggers like this: