Weeding out those writing opportunities!

Let me welcome our guest writer for November, with a blogpost about finding affordable opportunities for developing your craft. 

Written by Deborah Barry.

 The catalyst for rediscovering the craft 

2020 – lockdown year – I completed my Open University Modern Languages degree and rediscovered my love of writing along the way. Deprived of a graduation ceremony – the elation of seeing my short Spanish story entitled  Luna in print (Open University: A Multilingual Decameron) – was spine-tingling. Family and friends pestered – what was this traumatised child’s story about? So, the seeds of my debut novel Speak To Me were sewn. 

Arvon – offering equality 

 The Hurst 

A work colleague recommended the Arvon Organisation and I have nothing but praise, having  found their support invaluable as I navigated the world of writing as a fledging writer. A fully-inclusive charity that supports all writers – their only requirement is to love writing!  They offer a wealth of courses for writers at all stages of their development. There are both concession rates (around a third off the full course fee), grants (for those on low incomes) and occasionally fully-funded places for under-represented writers.  I applied and was very fortunate to secure a fully-funded place on a creative non-fiction tutored retreat at The Hurst in Shropshire.  The tutored retreat – offering a balance of structure and free time to write/rest – was ideal. Classes typically started at 10am with a coffee break and finished at 1pm.  All meals were provided, lunch is prepared by Arvon’s staff, all very healthy, using local ingredients. Supper is a team affair, with readings by one of the two tutors and a guest

speaker. Sharing our work on the last evening was daunting but so good for building your self-confidence as a writer. 

I have since returned to The Hurst for a Self-Editing course and Arvon

published my experience on their blogs: https://www.arvon.org/my-arvon-week-debi-barry/ One final point – the courses present an excellent networking opportunity – I am still in contact with a tutor who is a published author and her advice has been invaluable.  Also I’m still in touch with some of the writers I met.  It was both refreshing and soul-warming to know other writers suffer the same insecurities as you do!

 The Literary Consultancy is the main organisation behind the Free Reads scheme which is an Arts Council England funded initiative. Applications go through a regional writing partner, e.g. the National Centre for Writing, Arvon and Spread the Word. They offer a free initial manuscript appraisal they offer to talented writers from marginalised backgrounds  and under-represented groups.  If successful, an initial report on the first 15,000 words of your manuscript is provided.  They offer a 100% (and 2 at 50%) bursary on their 6-week Self Editing Fiction course, whichI found it hugely beneficial as I had my work assessed by an established crime writer who commented on all the key areas of writing a novel: theme(s), characterisation, plot (conflict, climax), voice, setting, POV (point of view) e.g. 1st, 2nd or 3rd person and dialogue.

I enjoyed working with Jon Barton, an award-winning author.  As well as 12 hours of live teaching online, I received a report ahead of my initial 1:1 session with Jon (based on a small sample of my writing). I was impressed with the level of detail Jon gave given the extract was small. His feedback was constructive and thought-provoking and will definitely help me in honing my manuscript to a submission standard.  A wealth of digital resources are available during and after the course has finished, which have proven extremely useful as I wrestle with my second draft.  The small group dynamic (maximum of 12 per course) also helped me work collaboratively with other writers which is sometimes difficult in the virtual world.  TLC offer a range of resources for writers – many of which are free to download; https://literaryconsultancy.co.uk/resources/. 

Calling female writers!

Mslexia magazine is a great resource, offering both support, courses as well as submission opportunities.  They offer bursary places on their on-line courses. I successfully applied for 

a place on an Editing Your Novel course a few years ago.  Although very intensive (9.00 – 5.00pm each day for a week) the quality of both the teaching and wealth of resources was very high. 

There is a quarterly magazine available – digital is available on a quarterly recurring subscription (£6.99) or one-year subscription (£22.99), the printed version is £32/year by DD on a recurring subscription or £42 as a one-off payment.

They offer membership to the Salon for an additional £10 which gives you free entry to specific submissions not available to ordinary members and a wealth of resources and writing tips. I’d definitely recommend subscribing!  https://mslexia.co.uk/

Be brave!

Five years on, I’m on my second draft and hope to send it out in 2026.  I have  a huge sense of accomplishment at the opportunities I’ve managed to secure over this time as well as an extensive writer’s tool-kit. 

Grants, free places,  bursaries, concessionary rates

These writing events can be expensive, but there are hundreds of opportunities to get a reduction on the full price.  The ones I’ve selected are based solely on my experience, but you may find useful: 

• Sounds obvious, but check the criteria carefully before you apply. There is nothing more frustrating than discovering you’ve spent a few hours writing a letter for a place and you’re not eligible. Some are restricted to specific under-represented groups (e.g. working-class writers, those with a disability, BAHME writers) or aimed at young people, students, for example. Be mindful of this. Self-published writers take care - some opportunities do accept submissions whilst others don’t.
• Be transparent – especially for financially-related opportunities. Increasingly, organisations want evidence of low-income especially if you have limited income but do not qualify for state benefits.  
• Treat each application with the same care and consideration you would devote to a job application. Do exactly what they ask for e.g. if they stipulate 3,000 words don’t send 4,000. Swot up on the organisation and ensure you tailor the application to align with their ethos. Make it personal, show how the opportunity would benefit you in terms of self-development and/or how it will help your writing.  Show your enthusiasm and passion but be yourself. 
• If you’re serious about getting published by whichever means and entering competitions, consider buying The Writers’ & Artists’ Yearbook (published annually by Bloomsbury (https://www.writersandartists.co.uk/advice). It should be available in the Reference section of your local library or you can buy a good second-hand copy on one of the many online book providers. 
• Visit your local library – serendipity was smiling on me when I discovered a published writer Lynn Griffin was setting up a local writing group and the first meeting was on my birthday!  Two years later, our little group is still going strong, and I find a tremendous support. It has brought me both the trust and friendship of fellow writers as well as the expertise and life experience of an extremely modest writer.  Check out Lynn Griffin’s blog at https://www.wifeinthewest.com/
• Where competitions offer a response date, do check up once this has passed. I emailed about a bursary place I hadn’t heard back from. Although I wasn’t the winner, I was next in line because I’d been pro-active and chased. I was lucky enough to be offered the place when the initial winner had to withdraw due to personal circumstances.  From the course, I was able to submit a chapter of my novel which I was delighted to learn was accepted for publication in Dialect Writers’ 2022 anthology.  Dialect support writers in rural areas in particular and further details can be found at https://www.dialect.org.uk/
• 
  
• Writing Competitions

If you are an under-represented writer, some organisations offer a fixed number of free or heavily subsidised places – so do check, because the entry fees can mount up – £10 is pretty standard. The most expensive I’ve entered was Bath Novel Prize at £29.99. 

I’ve spent a lot of time and energy applying for competitions and have yet to win anything.  However, that’s not to say you won’t!  Competitions can be found either on-line or via the Writers’ & Artists’ Yearbook or Mslexia Indie Press Guide. 

It’s such a competitive business. It’s best to remember that even local competitions receive hundreds of entries.  A recent one I’d entered had over 2,000 entries!  It’s also highly subjective. My writing is more commercial fiction and perhaps doesn’t ‘stand out’ – yours might. 

Someone has to win!

The best of luck! 

 

My writing group buddies! 

HOW TO WIN THE BOOKER: Creation Lake by Rachel Kushner

A little hobby of mine is to try to read the shortlist of the Booker Prize and the Women's Prize.  It's fun comparng books and pretending for just a moment that I'm a judge. But to save pennies, I use my library a lot, and one novel on my Booker list was very, very, popular; I've only just received it, ages after the Prize Winning Date passed. 

left: Deccan chronicle---British writer Samantha Harvey's space-station novel 'Orbital' wins the Booker Prize for fiction

I'd already chosen my winner, and just for once, that was the actual winner––Samantha Harvey’s Orbital––an intergalactic story set on a space station, but definitely not a sci-fi, rather, it is almost a poem.

Would reading this mega-on-trend book change my mind?

Creation Lake by Rachel Kushner was the fattest (over 400 pages), and, like almost all the shortlist, responded to and interrogated current themes, particualry our varied human response to the climate crisis, but Kushner uses the thriller genre to stake her claim in this catagory. And in places, it really was quite thrilling, and in all places pretty un-put-downable. 

Rachel Kushner

A jobbing agent with the cover name of Sadie takes a contract with a mysterious employer. She is deliciousy free of moral considerations––she'll sleeping around to get a job done and promises us she'll kill anyone who gets in her way.  She is sent to infiltrate Le Moulin, a group of green eco-activists in Guyenne, south-west France, who almost worship an ageing guru called Bruno who lives in cave and believes we should adopt the lifestyle of his favourite of our great ancestors, the Neanderthals. 

Sadie is acerbic in her mocking of these people, especially Bruno. Shame, she suggests, that the Neanderthals didn't have a mobile link, as Bruno so obviously has when sending his epistle-like emails. As she hacks his emails, she becomes drawn in, enticed by his ideas of simplicity.

But her mind's still on the job. A farming co-op is staging a protest against a local scheme to turn local fields into a corn-based monoculture and Le Moulin is planning to help them. Sadie secrets a gun to one of the more thuggish members, hoping the death of a Paris polititian will fullfil her brief.

Anthony Cummins in The Guardian loved this book, describing it as hugely enjoyable…espionage drama pulsating with twisty revelation and drip-fed backstory, dealing with anarchy, agriculture and prehistory, it adds a killer plot and expert pacing to the reach and sophistication of her previous work, as well as vital fun. 

On the other hand, reviewing all the Bookers in the i Paper, Anna Bonnet's enthusiasm is more muted; Creation Lake was the biggest disappointment on the shortlist for me. It isn’t that it’s a bad book, but though I went in to it prepared to have a lot of fun, overly long passages about the Neanderthals somewhat got in the way. However, it has got some brilliantly dark humour, isn’t short on plot, and has some thoughtful things to say about activism and corporate land grabs. I don’t think it should win, but you can see why Kushner is one of the few women often referred to as a Great American Novelist.

Weirdly, I can see both perspectives, having read the book. While reading, I could not put it down; no wonder the library version was so popular. The final 100 pages, which Cummins describes as…pinballing between peril and farce, are amazingly tense: wall-to-wall entertainment, and a real treat...were a delight to read; hilarious and dramatic, just as he suggests. 

But once I'd put the book down, and mused over the length of it, I began to see its flaws. 

The final excitments of the last chapters felt over-plotted and a little too slapstick for me. 

The idea that Sadie was influenced by Bruno as she sails away into a James Bond type deserted tropical sunset, is slightly fogged by the amount of money she's extracted from her employer and her continued  self-interested stance. 

I always feel mean talking about the flaws in other people's novels. What about all those gaping holes in mine? What about the fact I'm never, never, going to be shortlisted for these big prizes? How dare I criticise a Great American Novelist? 

I'm going to let Christina Sanders have the last word; her blog describes Creation Lake as a …nearly excellent book, but...Where is the follow through? I am left feeling there was so much excellently laid build up for so little reward. The dirty kitchen doesn’t get another mention, the entrapped men fade away. Not sure what happens to the guy in the cave, who really could be interesting but this is not his story and if you want a story about Neanderthals among us I suggest you read Seventh Son instead. 

Well, I'm just reading that, so watch this space for the review!

The other Booker shortlist reviews are here;

https://kitchentablewriters.blogspot.com/2024/12/how-to-win-booker-everett-and-wood.html

https://kitchentablewriters.blogspot.com/2024/11/how-to-win-booker-prize-held-by-anne.html

https://kitchentablewriters.blogspot.com/2024/11/how-to-win-booker-safekeep-by-yael-van.html

https://kitchentablewriters.blogspot.com/2024/11/how-to-win-booker-prize-orbital-by.html

HOW TO WIN THE BOOKER: EVERETT AND WOOD.

Although the  Booker shortlist is revered, and always anticipated, it has, in the past, been sometimes a bit of a let-down, often featuring books that are filled with 21st century angst, that are just too long or obscure or unnecessarily dense. Quite often they offer nothing but a bleakness that surely we can do without. This year, though, I've loved them all and can't wait to tell you what each book is about.  So far, in three posts, I've looked at the winner, which has  greener-than-green credentials...Orbital by Samantha Harvey, the deepest and most poetic, Held by Anne Michaels, and the raunchiest, The Safekeep byYael Van Der Wouden. In this post I'm going to look at two more before I finally turn my attention to the only 'quite long' novel on the list. 

James, by the long-acclaimed American author Percival Everett, who is back on the Booker shortlist after being there two years ago with The Trees, has written what I think is the funniest and most powerful novel on this list. 

Stone Yard Devotional, by Australian writer Charlotte Wood, is also a book that made me smile. Maybe Wood didn't want her book to be thought of as  'comic' but  it features, quite heavily, an infestation of mice in an isolated community of nuns, which decidedly raises more than one chuckle.

Percival Everett

Before I began James, I did wonder if the world needed yet another retelling of Huckleberry Finn. But James is a hilariously dark, beautifully compassionate yet deeply corrective, perfect for the 21st Century reader. The titular James, as he'd rather be called, is nothing like the 'Yessum' Jim of the original. In fact, he, and his fellow Mississipi slaves only use such language when the white masters are around. In their heads, in the narrative of this book, and when they talk together, their English is perfectly received. This device allows Everett to present James as  a fully-rounded character, enabling his voice to be heard properly  and giving him the agency to direct his own life, even under threat of the whip.

 

Here's James teaching his children how to speak to slave owners. 

    "Let's try some situational translations. You're walking down the street and you see Mrs Holiday's kitchen is on fire. She's standing in her yard, her back to the house, unaware. How do you tell her?"   

     "Fire, Fire," January said.

    "Direct. And that's almost correct," I say.

    "The youngest of them, lean and tall five-year-old Rachel, said, "Lawdy, missum. Looky dere."

    "Perfect," I said. "Why is that correct?"

    Lizzie raised her hand, "Because we must let the whites be the ones who name the trouble." 

The reviewer Anna Bonet also loved this book; “Powerful” is an overused adjective when it comes to describing books, but it feels right here. In fact, James is more than that. At times, it is brutal to read – necessarily so, given that slavery is one of its primary subject matters – but it also manages to be light and funny and completely gripping. I could barely put it down.

When he realises he is going to be sold away from his beloved wife and children, he runs, falling in with Huck in much the same way as in the original Mark Twain, but in this story, he's the one who cares for the lad, leads their escape and engineers the happy ending. 

Charlotte Wood

Stone Yard Devotional has an unnamed narrator, who constantly surprises us. At the start of the novel she has abandoned her job and husband and, although not religious, decides to spend a short time in a rural Australian nunnery. The convent's routine of bells and service turns out to be just what she needs and she stays; a decision she never fully explains. As she moves through each day as a secular member of a convent, she reveals that she has uncomfortable memories of a girl in her class at school. This woman is now a famous nun, and is about to visit, bringing with her a corps the nuns wish to bury in their grounds. 

The story quickly becomes surreal, almost oppressive, as we watch, fascinated, a dance of manners between  the narrator, the charismatic Helen and the society of nuns. it takes a long time to get permission to give the corps a Christian burial, but meanwhile we witness the infestations of millions of mice being unceremoniously dumped into a deep hole in the ground. 

Orlando Bird, in the Telegraph, says this of the book;  Our narrator’s world is one of “dormant” truths waiting to be “released into the open at last”. Yet Stone Yard Devotional is all the more accomplished for resisting neat conclusions – “I don’t know why” is a familiar refrain – and recognising that even the examined life sits only “on the edge of comprehension”. Wood may not be the first artist to embrace uncertainties, mysteries and doubts, but at its best her novel does it beautifully.

It's a good read, but of the two, I will never forget James' journey up and down the Mississippi. 

An Interview with Author Ali Bacon

I met Ali Bacon when she joined Bristol Women's Writers and began her her first contemporary novel, A Kettle of Fish, set in Scotland. She followed this with In the Blink of an Eye which reimagines the life of an early Edinburgh photographer and was listed in the ASLS best Scottish books of 2018. Her writing is still strongly influenced by her Scottish roots and Linen Press has just shaped up The Absent Heart. I interviewed her about her continued success and her ability to keep writing over many years.

What is your forthcoming novel about?
The Absent Heart is about Robert Louis Stevenson’s relationship with his muse Frances Sitwell. 

Could you outline the story for us, without giving anything away? 

Frances Sitwell is relying on faithful but diffident Sidney Colvin to help her escape an abusive marriage when she meets the young Robert Louis Stevenson. Colvin becomes his mentor while she allows Louis to pour out his heart to her in letters. When Stevenson dies and those letters come to light, she is accused by Colvin of having been his friend’s mistress as well as his muse. As her ill-fated attempts at discretion come back to haunt her, she risks losing her reputation, her forthcoming marriage and her long-standing friendship with Stevenson’s wife.

That sounds absorbing and compelling! 

Yes, the book unpicks a complex Victorian love triangle while exploring themes of love, desire, romance and bromance. 

This is your second novel with Linen Press and both have included historic detail. What drives you to write novels about real people who had some fame in their time?

First of all, I had no real intention to write historical fiction which I thought would be way too hard (research research!) but while writing my very first (contemporary) novel A Kettle of Fish, I stumbled across the story of early photographers Hill and Adamson. I found their story, especially that of David Octavius Hill, utterly compelling and wanted to bring it to a wider audience. I even considered non-fiction, but as a novelist at heart, a novel is what I had to write. In the end, In the Blink of an Eye was a big challenge but also highly satisfying, so I thought I should have another go!

What made you choose your current heroine?

Our family always had a sentimental attachment to Robert Louis Stevenson (one of my ancestors knew him) and when I heard a radio drama in which he played a part, I considered him as a subject, but of course there is very little about him that hasn’t been explored, and I preferred to write what is in effect an ‘untold story’ about one of those thousands of women whom history has neglected up to now. Frances (Fanny) Sitwell appears in every R.L.S. biography but is mostly dismissed as a brief episode in his early life. In fact, they remained in touch, and in my eyes their early encounter reverberated throughout their lives and their other relationships. As the victim of an abusive marriage, Frances Sitwell is also a fascinating subject in terms of how she negotiated the difficulties and restrictions imposed by Victorian society. 

How have your Scottish roots influenced your writing?

Although I look back on my childhood with great happiness, when I first started writing (in the early 2000s) I didn’t see this as a particular source of inspiration.  It was only after a holiday to my home county of Fife that I realised my deep attachment to the places I frequented as a child and decided I should celebrate them in A Kettle of Fish. It was a happy coincidence that the characters in In the Blink of an Eye also had strong connections to Fife, albeit in a different age. It was a delight to revisit (mentally and physically!) my home town of Dunfermline and also St Andrews, where I spent four wonderful years. I think my instinct was also to convey not just the places but the voices I recalled from my youth. The Absent Heart, apart from the character of RLS himself, is actually my least Scottish novel so far!  However, it probably helped that I have a personal connection (through my sister) to the location in Suffolk where R.L.S. and Fanny Sitwell first met.

Frances Sitwell

What’s your favourite part of the writing process?

If I’m honest, apart from brief periods of the first draft when I feel I am in the zone, I really enjoy editing – taking those rough sentences and smoothing them out, removing the cliches or sloppy bits of writing ( we all do it!) and cutting out needless verbiage.  I firmly believe that however good the story, this process makes a massive difference to the end product. The reader won’t be consciously aware, but getting small things right is what makes reading a pleasure.  

Least favourite?
I do struggle with getting the plot in shape – or structural editing as it’s usually known. As a ‘pantser’  I write without a lot of detailed planning, so I always have to rewrite and restructure. You could call it reverse engineering! I don’t mind the rewriting, just the anguished moments in which I have to work out what the final shape is going to be. 

Tell us more about Linen Press, and when is publication day? 

Linen Press is a small indie publisher for quality fiction ‘by women, for women’. Since the demise of Virago I believe they are the only exclusively female publisher. I met director Lynn Michel some years ago and was absolutely delighted when she accepted In the Blink of an Eye especially as Avril Joy, one of my favourite writers, (check her out!)  is on their list. It was a single book deal so her accepting The Absent Heart was not a foregone conclusion. In fact Lynn did ask for some tweaks and changes of emphasis with which I was happy to comply as I trust her publisher’s instinct. Now we are down to our favourite task of close editing in which small changes are suggested and discussed. See above! We’re working towards publication in the early spring and I’m already exploring people, places and events who might help promote it. 

You've won short story prizes in the past, are you working on these now?

I have a historical short story in the forthcoming Linen Press anthology Skeins.

Anything longer in the pipeline?

I have an idea for a novel set in the 1970s, but so far it’s just an idea!

How can people keep in touch with you? 

I’m on Facebook, Twitter (@AliBacon) and Instagram (@alibwriter) but for sneak previews of the book and bonus material, readers can sign up to my Absent Heart newsletter which will run up to publication day and beyond. There’s a link on my website https://alibacon.com or use this one http://eepurl.com/iTCrNc

Don’t forget Ali’s other books are also available.

In the Blink of an Eye (ebook or paperback) from Linen Press Books. https://www.linen-press.com/shop/in-the-blink-of-an-eye/

or Amazon UK https://www.amazon.co.uk/Blink-Eye-Ali-Bacon/dp/0993599729

A Kettle of Fish, (Kindle or paperback) https://www.amazon.co.uk/Kettle-Fish-Ali-Bacon/dp/1781768625/.(Both are also available from WOB)

Read about Ali here; https://www.linen-press.com/authors/ali-bacon/

Thank you so much Ali Bacon and huge good luck with your new book!

Read the first Chapter of the latest Shaman Mystery here!

The 4th Shaman Mystery by Nina Milton

THROUGH THE FLOODGATE 

Chapter One

Boiling Blood in his Brain

John Spicer was already waiting, when Larry drove down into Harper’s Coombe.

It was like a lover’s tryst – a lung-drying desire.

Larry pulled the old pickup to a halt behind John’s Audi and jumped out the cab. The ground was so soft he felt his wellingtons sink by inches.  Across the coombe there were patches of shining water, the start of little lakes.

Bloody rain. It was never-ending. Even down here in the coombe, the wind behind it was throwing water into his face.

He pulled the fur of his trapper hat down around his ears and went to the back of the pickup. Water pooled on the tarp, trickling down to the metal base as he shifted it, wetting the random items he carried. His fingers were slippy as he spun the combination lock. It was an old-fashioned document case, but it did the job. Empty, of course, because the previous money he’d carried home was now in a Second World War tin box, which had belonged to his father’s father and had previously held old documents and his sister’s first baby shoes. 

Soon, he would buy a soft leather case with a laptop inside, slender as a slate tile.

He left the briefcase ready and waiting to be filled, and splashed over the wet grass towards the Audi, obscenely large, less than a year old and glowing gold-brown with its metallic finish.

He’d told people he’d been getting migraines since the disaster, but it wasn’t actual pain. It felt more like boiling blood. Eighteen months of acid thoughts rolling in his brain, steam pushing at the lid.

At first, he had blamed God for his ruin. Then, with the promise of compensation, he had blamed the government. But one afternoon, standing in his own yard, a chance remark lit the gas beneath his stew pan of resentment, and the truth rose in the steam.

John Spicer was to blame.

Spicer had taken
everything away from Larry, taken more than his livelihood, taken the man he was. He could afford to pay for his mistake and Larry saw it as his duty to suck at the man until he was hollow inside.

The window of the Audi rolled down, but Spicer didn’t look at him. 'This is the last time I come here. You’re getting no more, Larry.' 

Spicer’s voice had a softness about it, as if he’d just eaten ice cream. Through that gentleness came the final trace of Somerset accent that going to posh schools couldn’t get rid of. Listening to John’s soft voice made his own speech sound unnaturally rough, hoarse, and littered with swear words, like his tongue was a lash.

'If you think this is the last time, you’re a stupider fuckhead than I thought you were.' 

'I only came here to say it to your face.'

Yet he was not saying it to his face; he was still staring though the windscreen as if there was a football match being played on the far side of the coombe, rather than the damp drip of willows, green with moss and pale with age, stubby things that rose almost vertically out of the steep sides.

From the start of this, Spicer had rarely done him the courtesy of glancing his way, and it made his brain boil harder, the knowledge that he couldn’t stand the sight of Larry.

It had been late July, the first time they’d met in Harpers Coombe. Midday, the sun warm on the balding crown of his head. The dell had been full of colour – meadowsweet and marsh marigolds and huge clumps of loosestrife, as if someone had thrown a quilt, ready for a picnic. He’d asked for a grand. He hadn’t expected Spicer to agree, but as the pack emerged from the half-open window, a flexible wodge wrapped in plastic, still warm from Spicer’s touch, he’d realised he should have asked for more.

Once the money was in Larry’s hand, the Audi shot forward by a couple of feet then reversed skilfully around the Land Rover pickup, whining as it sped up the track.

He’d had a flash of panic, ripping open the plastic there in Harper’s Coombe. Bank notes spilt into the briefcase, crisp from a bank clerk’s count. For the first time since the flood, his head felt cool, rested…atoned. He had scared John Spicer, a man not easily frightened.

In August, he’d put a zero on the end –  ten grand, you fucker, or I go to the police. 

It was chilly and damp when they met in September, with sedge growing at the soggy edges of the coombe. 

By October it felt like he was amassing a small fortune. 

End of November, John had not turned up.

He’d gone to his house, under cover of darkness. The windows glowed against the storm outside. The Christmas decorations were already up. They were playing music and their voices rose, fell, cheerful and relaxed. He heard John chuckle and Alison was chattering to her granddaughter in that baby voice people did.

He’d turned his collar up against the storm and slunk away.

He’d taken too long to think what to do, finally scribbling something down, sealing the envelope and stuffing it into the postbox at the end of the Spicer’s half-mile driveway.

The run-up to Christmas was in full swing when the brief reply, unsigned, had fallen through his letterbox. Capital letters exploded across the page;

WE SHOULD TALK.

TOMORROW.

Well, yeah, John. We should. You’re a month behind. That’s what we should talk about.

Rain dripped into his collar from the back of the trapper hat and he sensed that his right sock was getting damp; there was a small hole at the heel of his boot that only let in water when he was actually standing in it. He shifted, trying to find a dryer spot and saw how the Audi’s wheels were sinking into the boggy turf. John would probably be bleating for a tow, when they left.

'I’ve had enough,' Spicer was saying. 'It’s taken me this long to realise that I should never have started it.'

'You’d like to forget what you did,' Larry hollered back. 'Sabotage! You put people in clear danger!'

'I never meant to! But blackmail? That’s what you are doing, Larry Waish, damn you!'

He’d never heard the man let out an oath. 'Okay. You’ve had your little rant. Now it’s time to pay. You missed last month. I need the money. It’s fucking Christmas.'

John shifted in the seat, until, finally they were staring at each other. 'It’s over, mate. No more money. I’m going straight to Bridgwater to make a police statement. Tell them what I did; tell them what you are doing.'

The look on the man’s face. Pity. Larry stepped away from what was in those eyes, forgetting the boggy ground, and suddenly, his butt was in the mud.

John did not laugh. As if Larry Waish, and his pathetic life – never married, living with his weirdo sister, scraping a living from a barn full of poultry – was not a matter for mirth or taunts, but for compassion. The knowing chaffed the bottom of his stomach. All this time, John Spicer had felt sorry for him.

He sucked his boots free of the marshy ground and scraped himself up. He was mired. Shat upon. 'Fuckhead,' he hissed. 'Fuckhead, fuckhead.'

Spicer looked away, like he hadn’t seen the fool he’d become, and dropped the stick into drive. The fat, black tyres flew round with a high whining sound, splattering further mud over Larry’s jeans. The engine screamed. His foot must have been on the floor. He punched at the wheel and the horn burped out.

‘All right,' said Larry. His heart was pounding, he could hear the rhythm of it in his voice. 'All right. Make this the last time. Give me your payment and we’ll call it  a day.'

Perhaps John Spicer’s lips twitched, in and out of a smile. 'You’re too late. Because, Larry, blackmail is the bigger crime.'

'I call it fair payment. I lost two-thirds of my living.'

'You got compensation. I heard in the village.' Spicer tried to reverse, taking it steady, but the wheels dug deeper into the furrow he’d already made. The engine hollered for mercy. He stuck his head out of the window. 'Could you pull back up the lane?' As if they’d only stopped here to exchange pleasantries. 'Give me a bit of room, please?'

'You’ll need a tow,' Larry grunted. 'You’re in too deep.'

He mashed his way to the pickup, his jeans stuck to his backside. Somewhere in the back was a bit of good rope they could use to get the Audi out of its predicament. He shifted the briefcase to one side. It was still wide open, like a dog waiting for a treat.

The bastard owes. 

A double payment.

Fucking feels sorry. 

For me.

Fuckhead.

He’s in too deep.

Bloody fluid fizzed inside his brain until it felt like it was oozing out of his eye sockets. He wiped them and looked at his hands. Nothing but mud and rain and hot, invisible tears.

Blackmail is the bigger crime.

The back of the pickup was littered with his stuff. Bits from the farm, bits for the car, a spare sack of layer’s pellets. He spotted the fat coil of blue rope towards the bottom and reached down for it. His hand knocked against his shotgun. 

How did this happen? How did that sod turn his one bit of luck around like this?

He picked up his gun so he could pull the rope out. His shotgun. It felt good in his hand, like a friendship.

  As he walked along the side of the Audi, he drew his right hand behind him, the shotgun nestling against his back. The rope dangled from his left arm, almost tripping him.

'Look, Larry…I’m sorry, mate,' said John.

And he really was; sorry he couldn’t pay him any more money, as if the Waishes were a charity case.

Had he only agreed to pay him because he was a fucking charity case?

'You will be sorry.' 

He dropped the rope in the mud and poked the barrel of the shotgun through the window. It crashed against John’s teeth. The man veered away as best he could within the confines of the seat belt he’d never undone, his hands clutching at the barrel, struggling with the gun. The fucker had not been expecting this.

He couldn’t think. Couldn’t control his head anymore.

He fired. His eyes slapped shut with the recoil. When he cracked them open, he couldn’t make out where John’s face had gone. 

For a few further seconds, everything was motionless. 'Mate?' 

He went to wipe away the blood. His hand touched bone, and the slippery stickiness of innards. Like the entrails of a drawn chicken. He tried to help John up. The body moved. There was no sound as it gained momentum, just a single soft, squelch as Spicer collapsed towards the steering wheel.

He couldn’t take it in. He had no idea his shotgun could do this damage. It could kill a fox, from across a field, but he’d never used it on anything close up before.

He couldn’t recall what had gone through his mind before he pulled the trigger, or even if he had pulled it. All he remembered was the look of pity in John’s eyes, the mud on his jeans. The stew boiling bloody in his head. The friendly gun in his hands.

And then, a soul-saving moment of clarity as he realised no one knew they were here. No one knew they had ever met here.

He walked back to the car and threw in the tow rope. He pulled on a pair of chainsaw gloves and polished his gun with an old rag, burnishing it as if for a game show.

It was quiet in the glade. Even the crows had been scared away. Was Spicer dead? 

He had left Spicer’s brain splattered over the Audi. Of course the man was dead.

He stood in front of the car for a long time, thinking about positions. How a man might kill himself with a shotgun in a car. He rested the stock of the gun on the open window, so the trigger was just inside. Yes, that seemed to work. He let go of it and it fell into the driver’s well, where blood was pooling.

It wasn’t Spicer’s gun, but luckily, it wasn’t his, either. He’d picked it up somewhere, probably in some pub for a good price.

Sinking into the wet ground was the discharged cartridge. He nudged it towards the car with his foot. 

As he did so, the clarity left. As if the last of his luck had turned and walked away.

He was on his knees before he knew he’d fallen. A thin trail of bile ran from his mouth into the grass and was dissipated by the rain. He’d only had whisky for breakfast. His eyes stung. He ran his fingers over them and this time, yes, blood came away, smearing the bright colours of the chainsaw gloves. 

But it wasn’t his blood.

It was John Spicer’s.

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