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Bridge 194

The working title of my latest novel. I'm about three chapters in and it's flowing well. My "stab" at a supernatural horror.

Got the characters and plot, just need to crack on master the words! I will post a few sneaky peaks soon.

Comments

Hello everyone,

This is the opening prologue. Any feedback or critique is welcome as it`s only in the draft stage. The novel is set in Yorkshire at the time of the Tour De France. Tom is a detective about to retire in less than a week, but a group of Americans are brutally murdered over a three day period. The case is so called "solved", but he`s not involved. Six months later he`s drawn back to the village where it all happened by his finance and her research for her new novel.

This first half moves quickly, introducing characters and the murders are quite brutal. But the second half has a dark, supernatural element to it and focuses more on the main characters.

Hope you enjoy, will post the first chapter later.






Prologue

Wednesday, July 2[SUP]nd[/SUP] 2014.

It was a warm summer`s evening with little cloud and no breeze. Music and laughter could be heard in the village as drinks and conversation flowed from the pubs. Boy racers drove at speed up and down the by-pass and the loud noise of the exhausts echoed down the valley; police sirens added to the commotion with the bonus of flashing blue lights. Couples held hands whilst enjoying an evening walk and wine was enjoyed by the glass as individuals lazily stretched out on the roofs of canal barges and immersed themselves in books.

The wooden handle of the axe was well worn, but the blade was sharp. A size twelve boot stood on the back of the victim`s neck, whilst powerful blood stained hands pulled the axe`s head free of the dead man`s skull. Wiping the blood on the grass, the murder weapon was leant against a tree so that the arms and legs could be picked up and rammed in to a large rucksack.

Detective Tom Black turned off his computer and smiled. He finished his Kit Kat, swallowed the last mouthful of tea, stood and put on his jacket. Looking around the office, he smiled again; they were all young and enthusiastic or old and still paying a mortgage or some high purchase on a flash car. The force wasn`t the same, not like when he`d started out as an eighteen year old lad. That was thirty five years ago, he`d “done his bit” and in five days time he`d be retired.

Jack Evans was a very happy man, a happy farmer. He was about to make a tidy a sum of money, just like Charlie Plunkett. All Charlie`s rooms were fully booked at the pub and the guests would be wanting breakfasts and evening meals. Jack had tents all over two of his fields and cars neatly parked in another; he`d provided a few chemical toilets and cold water.

Yorkshire was on the brink of showcasing to the world. God`s own county would be broadcast all over the globe. Crowds including enthusiastic school kids, battle hardened club veterans, wannabe amateur photographers, good old Yorkshire folk, any excuse for a pint people and fans from all countries were soon to line the streets. The bunting was out and shelves had run out of yellow spray aerosol cans; but tea bags were plentiful. The Tour De France was only a few days away.
 

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Arthur G. Mustard
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