by Jack Rylance
A third policeman entered the room and put a delicate hand on the Sergeant’s shoulder and drew him back to the doorway. Pete watched the two men conferring. Words were quietly exchanged and then the Sergeant finally nodded and the other policeman disappeared once more.
The Sergeant walked back to Pete and stood over him again. It seemed to Pete that he had in some way revised his original point of view, although nothing was said to this effect. He just kept staring down intently.
A minute later, the other officer returned with John by his side and together they entered the apartment. John was carrying the red sports bag in both arms, up against his chest, as if he was holding the answer to everyone’s prayers. He looked down at Pete and nodded at him gravely, and yet there was something victorious about his bearing as well, as if John had proven himself, to his own satisfaction, the equal of this hour.
Now John offered up the bag without a word and the Sergeant took it from him and proceeded to zip it open before withdrawing a single stack of twenty pound notes. He ran an index finger across their edges and flicked through the bundle of currency. Then he held it up to the light. “Shut the door,” he told his fellow officer.
The Sergeant continued regarding the bank notes in a state of silence. Pete expected John to break this silence with a comment, but he said nothing either, recognising this solemn occasion for what it was. Maybe he was growing up at long last.
Then the Sergeant looked briefly at his two colleagues and they give him the look he wanted in return. It told him that the decision was entirely his to make. He needed to find a way to bring this money into their safekeeping without any more questions being raised. All else was secondary to this consideration, including Pete and John’s lives. They might survive this equation or else they might not.
Closing the bag again, the Sergeant took firm hold of its handles. “You better get up,” he said to Pete.
They were all going for a ride. It was not clear where.
~END~
Onwards and Upwards
Dear Reader,
I’ve made this book free because it’s the weakest one I’ve written, although if I thought it was worthless I would have buried it in a deep dark hole somewhere.
Opinion seemed divided, when I published it a few years back, between those who enjoyed the noirish atmosphere, and richly evoked sense of place, and those who found fault with the pacing. If you do fall in the latter category then please accept my apologies for that.
Over the page, I’ve included chapters and details of those novels I’ve written since; all of which represent an improvement on Copacabana. If you did take any enjoyment from this modest novella, I’d encourage you to check out these other stories I’ve written under the name John Minx.
Many Thanks,
J.R / J.M
A Study In Revenge
No Expense Spared . . .
Available through Kindle & Kindle Unlimited HERE
After winning a lottery jackpot, Sally Clarke uses her newfound wealth to destroy the man who made her life a living nightmare, repaying his sickening emotional abuse with a shocking act of revenge.
With millions of pounds at her disposal, she creates an elaborate timeline which Mark Chambers is forced to comply with or else lose everything, and everybody, that he loves. And as the clock ticks down on his frantic attempts to escape the terrible fate scripted for him, the stage is set for a deadly game of cat and mouse . . .
For fans of hard-hitting domestic noir and gripping psychological thrillers comes this mind-bending tale of moral complexity full of dramatic twists and turns.
★★★★★ – “This book grabbed me on the first page with tension that was unbearable at times. The writing is amazing. The story is gripping. You’ll not want to put the book down until you’ve read every word!”
– Fran Coffey
★★★★★ – “John Minx’s A Study in Revenge is an intriguing combination of thriller, psychological case study, and conceptualized pain, payback, and human conscience. It explores not only the impact on the target of revenge, but also its perpetrator as well.”
– Jada Ryker, Author of Take The Body and Run
★★★★★ – Excellent thriller, omg full of twists and turns! – Sharon Featherston
★★★★★ – Wow! An incredibly stunning and thought provoking book.
– Amazon Reviewer
★★★★★ – Both characters are all too real – -neither one a complete sinner or saint. The writing is good, and the story keeps you engaged, chronicling the depths of despair humans put each other through. – R3
Bonus - A Study in Revenge - Chapter 1
Dawn in Piedmont. The sky a washed-out rose colour. Mist hanging low over the Langhe Valley in ragged wisps like something that had caught on the estate’s tall cedar trees. Standing at the full-length bay windows with a cup of strong, black coffee to hand, Sally Clarke took in the autumn landscape and admired the enormous quiet. It had crossed her mind to make an offer on the villa—one that would prove difficult to turn down—although that felt like a premature reward, far in advance of the work that needed to be done.
Having rented Casa Vitelli for the last six weeks, she’d mostly kept to one wing of the property, and except for a weekly shopping trip in the rental car, she’d been content to venture no farther than its twenty-acre grounds. It was, Sally realised, an almost ghostly existence. And as with a ghost, she’d found herself wandering the centuries-old hallways at strange times of the night, tangled up in the past, unable to shake off the curse of it. But there was to be no wailing, moaning, or dragging of chains from her. What she had in mind was a surgical haunting. A calm, collected revenge.
Turning away from the windows, Sally approached a low table and set her cup down. Then she lifted the lid on her laptop and brought up iPlayer to continue streaming yesterday’s lunchtime concert from Wigmore Hall: Biber’s Mystery Sonatas, now culminating in the last of the series. As with the earlier pieces, this one expressed a strangely meticulous passion. The tone of the violin capturing an emotion that was both feverish and yet somehow exact. The music also recalled Sally’s regular attendance at this venue during her happiest days in London, when the city had shown every sign of repaying her love for it with the life of which she’d long dreamed.
Next to the laptop stood a tarnished candlestick and a box of matches. After lighting three white candles from a single flame, Sally picked the ornament up by its base and carried it across the floor, scattering the gloom ahead of her. She held it before that large, ominous installation of documents tacked to the far wall: names, faces, data points, body scans, bank accounts. Aspects of finance, health, career, social existence. Taken together, it represented the dark cloud hanging over one man’s life without his knowledge. A devastating paper trail that she had built from scratch, intent on ensuring his fall from grace.
Sally took another step closer to stand inches from the wall’s surface with the air of an expert studying brushstrokes, but artistry was not the issue, only whether or not the design was fit for use. All these burning hoops she would have him jump through.
At the moment the man’s good fortune was intact, but that would change soon enough. She was in a position to make it so. It was time for him to learn what doom meant and struggle with the burden as she had once done. Sally did not know if her act of vengeance amounted to a moral good, but it was not a question that concerned her any longer. She’d stopped caring about such distinctions. What it came down to was the debt that he owed.
It was a last chance to consider the plan’s outward appearance before packing up and leaving later in the day. They would all need to come down, these telling documents, and become fuel for the great stone fireplace in the neighbouring room. Not that they represented a memory aid. Having sunk thousands of hours into the plan’s creation, Sally had already committed its entire structure to mind, to the point where she could summon any part of it at will. Now it was time to put the whole i
nto effect. Today, finally, it moved out of the speculative realm and began reaching for its target.
After examining the wall, she put the candlestick on the floor, returned to the large bay windows, and opened them as wide as they would go, letting the morning air in. And with it, a severe chill. Then, stripping bare, she stepped outside onto the damp morning grass, advancing into the cold almost as if to challenge it. The balls of her feet soaked in an instant. Her ears registering the half-hearted bark of a neighbour’s wolfhound, somewhere out of view. Sally’s eyes trained on the swimming pool a short way down and to her right―its placid, unbroken surface.
As her wet feet struck the stone flagging, she broke into a run, geared up for the dive, and gave herself over to it. Making a blade of her body. Narrowing its point of entry, the better to slip clean below. Then, as always, the abrupt shock to the system, her vital signs alarmed by the plunge. The splash sounding in her ears, somewhere above, like a delayed explosion. In answer, she kicked out at these same icy sensations, her body fighting clear of them with deft, practised movements, propelling Sally forward, methodical as a wave. The whole act symbolic; a way of testifying. A far cry from that moment when she’d surrendered to another body of water, asking that it swallow her up once and for all.
Bonus - A Study in Revenge - Chapter 2
Mark Chambers steered his mountain bike into the room and leaned it against a large antique radiator, the only place in his office where it could conceivably go. He unstrapped his helmet below the chin, placed it on the edge of the cluttered desk. Without taking off his jacket, he ducked down and cranked the cast iron valve that turned on the heating. In response, the pipes laboured into action, gurgling dramatically, as if the age-old plumbing in the building had been struck down with a gastric complaint. But for all these protests the radiator was efficient once it got started, and warmth soon flooded the space. The heat more welcome than usual now that the weather had turned, with a cold October wind seeping through the loose window frames to rattle their glass.
Mark’s room belonged to a small suite of offices that took up the ground floor of an old building, untouched by regeneration and tucked away down a side street on the edge of Clerkenwell. From out of his window there was nothing to see except a dismal courtyard, a huddle of grimy wheelie bins, and little evidence of any natural light. And yet the view had never disheartened him. Nor the fact that he worked out of a glorified broom cupboard. It was another way for Mark to keep his ego in check. There was now enough money in the operational budget for bigger, shinier premises if they were deemed necessary, although the twelve employees that made up the core staff had recently chosen to stay put after a vote. That money had found its way instead to the intended beneficiaries of the trust. In total, 94 percent of the organisation’s annual income had been spent on charitable activities this last year. A figure they could all rightly be proud of.
Mark’s role was that of Funding Strategist, a position he had created for himself after pitching it at his interview, promising rapid results. And the fact he’d offered to work on a pro bono basis for the first six months had encouraged them to let him prove it, any scepticism fading fast as Mark drastically overhauled the charity’s fortunes. Here, he was able to put his prior experience to excellent use, bringing to bear all that private-sector know-how on behalf of the greater good: structuring tax-efficient donations instead of strictly lucrative deals. The fact that Mark had added value to the homelessness charity also meant he hadn’t taken anybody’s place there. Which was also important, because he’d had his fill of a dog-eat-dog environment where the workforce was strongly encouraged to cannibalize one anothers’ roles. Here, on the contrary, teamwork was the norm, selflessness a key component, and that sharp contrast had also put a spring in his step.
Sitting down at his desk, Mark heard Liz Wheeler’s customary rap at the door—even though it was always open to her—and looked up to see his colleague sticking her head around the jamb.
“The meeting with Jake Myers confirmed, then?” she asked, referring to his scheduled sit-down with the Premier league footballer.
“Yep, all set for Wednesday morning,” Mark answered.
“Oh, good. And you will try and get an autograph for Tom?”
“It’s my first order of business,” he smiled.
Liz’s relief was genuine. “Great. That should earn me some serious parenting points with my eldest born.”
“You can never have too many of those,” Mark acknowledged.
“No. And yet Molly strikes me as a lot less demanding.”
“She’s older. That has a lot to do with it.”
“I certainly hope so,” Liz answered. “Because that means I’m going to wake up one fine morning to find myself living with a young adult.”
“It’ll happen,” Mark said. “Give it time.”
Turning her attention to his overflowing desk, Liz nodded at the mountain of paperwork. “Is there anything I can do to lighten your load this morning?”
Mark hesitated to enlist her support, but then pushed on. “There is one thing. The baroness. She’s suddenly dropped off the radar. I can’t seem to get an answer from her cell phone.”
“You know what she’s like. Nobody could be more pressed for time. It’s not so much a social calendar she keeps as a tour of duty.”
“I know. But usually I get a quick response all the same, and this can’t wait much longer,” he said.
“OK. I hear you. Let me see what I can do.”
“Thanks.”
Liz hesitated for one moment, and Mark guessed what was coming. It was a style of diplomacy he was ever more aware of, and sensitive to, these days. “How’s Annette doing?” she said.
“Good. With a bit of luck she’ll be back in the next month.”
“That’s great to hear. Do send her my love.”
“Of course,” he answered. “I will.” Then Mark gave a nod in conclusion, wanting nothing more than to bring this conversation to an end. Sensing as much, Liz complied with his wish, backing away with a small wave of the hand until she’d retreated from view.
Sitting back in his chair, Mark swivelled on it distractedly for half a minute, and then caught himself in the act of wasting time he did not have to waste. Instead he leaned forward and switched on the PC, Liz’s mention of Jake Myers reminding him to track down the result of that match the footballer had played in last night. It had been a much-publicised clash between two London giants, for which reason it was important to learn the score and know whether to commiserate or applaud the result. Also, to see if Myers’s involvement merited a particular mention. Anything that might smooth out their provisional agreement and bring them that much closer to a signed contract.
After Googling the names of the clubs, he clicked on the first option, belonging to a website called Goal. And as he scoured its front page, a banner started flashing at the top of it, immediately catching Mark’s attention. It was for a luxury hotel and accompanied by two further adverts hanging down both margins.
When Loves comes to Barbados, We give it a Home
The Petiole ― A Perfect Hideaway
Mark found himself doing a double take at the sight of them, before zoning in on the attached image of the hotel’s facade. Confirming, after a few seconds, it was that one he knew well. The same five-star complex he’d visited the year before last, although that felt like another century already. It had been a wonderful week in and of itself, but not something he wished to dwell upon, looking back. And so, as was normal for him, he began bringing down the mental shutters on that time in his life.
When Love comes to Barbados. . .
The advertisement seemed geared toward honeymooners, but whoever it was meant for, Mark did not think much of it finding him. He wondered whether he’d simply chanced upon it or been targeted in some high-tech way. Probably the latter. God knows what diabolic routes these targeted ads took, or what information they were able to draw upon. All his spending patterns and vie
wing habits exhaustively compiled and freely available to marketers.
Mark tried remembering which credit card he’d used to pay for the holiday, and whether or not he’d given out his e-mail address to the travel firm. No sooner did you correspond with a vendor than you ended up on their mailing lists, and from there it was a small step to that same information falling into less reputable hands. Without doubt, there were few lengths companies wouldn’t go to in order to insert themselves into a person’s day-to-day affairs. Normally, none of this would have bothered Mark so much, but the hotel’s reappearance had disquieted him, loath as he was to have those memories dredged up.
Closing the browser down, he decided to restart Windows 10, as if the act of resetting his computer might wash away all that intrusiveness. Not content with these actions, he went searching for and then downloaded the latest ad-blocking software available. And it was only then that he returned to the task at hand, choosing the second search result relating to the football game, courtesy of another sporting portal, this one called Spot Kick.
Clicking on the home page’s front headline, he was led directly to the relevant match report. But just as he started studying the first line of the piece, the same insistent message appeared again.
When Loves comes to Barbados, We give it a Home
