Rock'n'Roll Suicide (Jack Lockwood Mystery Series Book 1)

by Geoffrey West

  It was easy to get my agent’s contact details from my website, but not my personal numbers. Yet somehow, Boyd had got hold of my private mobile number and personal email, and was constantly sending threatening texts and emails, warning me off writing the book. I’d discussed things with the police, who’d admitted there was nothing they could do about it. “Until,” the officer had cheerfully said, “they actually attack you.”

  There was no alternative but to carry on and try to forget about it. And, of course, keep my wits about me.

  * * * *

  I woke up in the early hours, sweating with terror. It was the nightmare I hadn’t had for years now, that I’d hoped had gone forever. The one that always left me trembling for the several still-terrifying moments after I sprang awake.

  It’s always daytime. The sun is shining in a beautiful clear blue sky. Suddenly someone much taller than me stops and looks down, blocking out the sunlight. I look up at them but I can’t clearly see their face, just a dark shadow where it should be. And then I feel pressure on my neck. The blind panic that follows is the worst part. The time when I can’t breathe, when I’m fighting for breath and everything begins to go dark…

  I hadn’t had that dream since long before my experience with Van Meer, or my terrifying stay in St Michael’s. I had no idea where it came from, could barely remember when I’d first had it. All I could remember was the flavour of the fear. And I hated it.

  As I lay there, my heartbeat gradually easing back to normality, I tried to think back to how long ago it was since I’d had that wretched dream. I couldn’t remember, but it had first happened in my early childhood, and come back periodically ever since, usually once every few years. Obviously the shock of finding poor Caroline on top of everything that had happened in the past few days had had an adverse effect on my subconscious, giving rise to that terrible, terrible dream that I’d hoped was buried once and for all. The funny thing about the dream is, that as a rule I’ve always found that with even the worst nightmare, there’s always one tiny corner of my mind that stays apart, allowing me to know, deep down, that it isn’t really happening, that it is only a dream. But with this particular night adventure I could never do that. Every time, it’s as real as if I’m wide awake, and doubly terrifying. I’m powerless, I’m dying, and there’s nothing in the world I can do to fight back.

  Rubbing my eyes, I wondered whether to get up and walk around, or just lie back and hope for a sweeter dream to cleanse away my terror. Eventually I lay back and drifted off again, thankfully to enjoy oblivion for several more hours.

  I overslept, so that it wasn’t until 10.30 in the morning that I heard the crash from downstairs. At first I thought it was a dream.

  But the sound of tinkling glass and the thudding footsteps on the stairs were real.

  I leapt out of bed, in time to see the door slam back and bounce against the wall, and a tall figure wearing a Coco-the-Clown mask. There were others behind him, moving fast, filling the room. Before I’d worked out what to do, two of them were holding my arms, pulling me up against the wall, while the others were systematically beating my body with baseball bats. As I stopped struggling, they slackened their hold, allowing me to slide to my knees. Then they really went to town.

  I had a close-up views of heavy boots against my face, hard steel-capped toes, smashing into my chest and arms and legs. It went on for what seemed like hours, but was in reality probably more like minutes.

  When they’d finished, I was cowered on the floor, my hands up to protect my face. Between my fingers I had a surreal image of Donald Duck’s face floating down to my level.

  “Listen mate,” he rasped. “This is your one and only warning. You stop writing Sean Boyd’s biography or we’ll come back and bury you. That’s not a threat, it’s a promise. It’ll be quick and clean. And you won’t know where or when.”

  As he said it, one of the others handed him what looked like a plumber’s blowlamp.

  There was a pop as the blue flame sprung alive, then the roar of the burning gas.

  # # # #

  The remainder of Doppelganger will be available to upload shortly, do follow me on Twitter, ( @GeoffreyDWest) where you will get immediate updates, or look at my website: http://www.geoffreydavidwest.com or blog http://geoffreywestdotcom.wordpress.com